Topless

by Relentless Aaron

  “Okay, Wade. Let’s do this fast. There’s one out, man on first with two strikes on the batter.”

  “Yep.”

  “Go straight, as if you were headed for the Marriot Hotel. There’s a long strip. It should be dark with no street lights, right?”

  “Right. What, do you have a photographic memory? Wait . . . don’t answer that. You’re doing good . . . okay. I’m near a circle near the . . . I can see the Marriot.” Wade was excited.

  “Okay. Make a quick right turn.”

  “Halfway into the circle?”

  “Yeah. Before the hotel. There’s only one turn to make.”

  “A short hill?”

  “Yep . . . go up about three blocks.” Wade could hear a crack sound behind Ken’s voice. “Yeah!” Ken yelled away from the phone’s mouthpiece.

  “What happened?”

  “A double. Man on first and third. Still one out.”

  “Okay, I made a left.”

  “Alright. Go one block . . .” Behind Ken’s voice, Wade could hear Ken being summoned. Ken was soon to be on deck to bat. “And make another left. Hey—I gotta hurry”

  “Okay . . .” Wade pushed the accelerator, speeding down the residential street to challenge a stop sign. After the brief pause, he hooked a quick left turn at the intersection. “I made the left. How far down?”

  “Not far. There are a few houses, maybe three of ’em on your right. It’s the brick house. One level, in the center of the block. There’s a beat-up van in the driveway.”

  “I see it. A gate out front? Black?” Wade’s heart was beating . . . thumping inside his chest as though he was the one to step up to bat.

  “Yeah. And the grass—”

  CRACK! (The crowd put up a load roar.)

  “—is unkempt. Hey, I gotta go. Good luck.” The line went dead. Wade pulled the car to the right and then hooked a U-turn so that he was across from 99-01 95th Street. He rolled up further and parked. The street was infrequent with passing cars going in either direction every few minutes. A pedestrian was just passing the house, nobody else in sight.

  It was 7pm when Wade popped out of his sedan, an unmarked car he grabbed from the station. He approached the gate, a waist-high division between the sidewalk and the property line. No lock or bolt. He pushed it open and made his way up the path, to the stoop and up to the front door of the house. There was a large bay window to the right of the front door. Some distinguished, African sculptures could be seen set on the window sill inside. Wade pressed the buzzer. The light inside of its small, plastic housing blinked off and then back on when it was released. He could hear a chime inside the door, and he leaned over to look over towards the window, expecting to see a head emerge. When there was no sign of life, he looked over to the van in the driveway. It had flat tires at the front and rear. There was visible rust about the edges, and dirt had accumulated next to the wheels. Wade guessed that it hadn’t been driven in 18 months. Again he pressed the buzzer. And again the chimes sounded. Another moment passed. No answer. He looked up to the dark blue sky for some answer, and when it didn’t respond, the detective followed Mr. and Mrs. Two Feet around towards the van and the rear of the house. He felt for his nickel-plated .45, pulling it out under the darkening sky. He checked the chamber and the magazine, then he replaced it carefully in its nylon holster. Further into the rear of the residence, Wade could see beyond the property line. Just over the fence there was a schoolyard. To his left, a screen door was propped open by a chair on the back porch. Surprisingly, the back door was also open, leaving a clear view of the kitchen. Wade announced himself.

  “Hello . . . hello?” He stepped into the doorway, half curious and half expecting trouble. Door opened and nobody home? That would spell trouble in most areas of New York’s innercity. Wade gave the situation the benefit of the doubt and let his sixth sense guide him. He patted his weapon for security and stepped partway into the kitchen, blending into the eerie silence. A few more steps brought him into a hallway. And at the end of the hallway, Wade could see the front door. The home was a small one. A door was left open, partially blocking Wade’s view of the rest of the hallway. His next step caught a cat’s tail.

  Screech! The cat clung to Wade’s ankle until its claws dug into the nylon holster that secured a 9-millimeter under his trousers, just below his calf. Wade instantly lifted his foot to shake the cat off. The cat pulled away, running down the hallway like a doped-up rabbit. Just as Wade placed his foot back to the carpet, happy just to have escaped imminent pain, two arms reached from around the door; one of them reached behind Wade’s neck, the other extended like a steel barricade across his waist. Before Wade could see the body that mastered the movements, he was tumbling through the air, flipping headfirst, until he completed a 270-degree turn, landing flat on his back. A man was suddenly standing over him with a firm grip on his Adam’s apple and his foot on his right arm. Another arm was cocked, ready to deliver a lullaby blow.

  “P-police.” Wade managed to breathe the word with the little air left in his system and a dizzied state of mind.

  “Lemme see a badge. And you’d better not make any sudden moves, either!” The man in control was grinding the words through tightened lips and chin, drenched in a sweaty tank top and shorts. Ready for action. Wade cautiously . . . slowly . . . pulled his wallet out with his free hand. The man was satisfied to see a badge and gave Wade a hand to help him up.

  “Is this Giuliani’s new program for quality of life or something? You guys just come in without being invited?” The homeowner asked this while wiping away beads of perspiration.

  “Well . . . ungh . . .” Wade was still trying to catch his composure, stretching the knots out of his neck and back. “Actually, not too far from it,” he said with his humor still very much intact. “I’m Detective Wade from the four-five—a little out of my jurisdiction, but NYPD, nonetheless . . . and you? I already know your last name is Lee!”

  “Name’s Danni. And I . . . ah, live here? Own the house. Pay the taxes. Head of security . . . you see?” Danni escorted Wade as if the detective was a nursing home out-patient. They entered the living room, where the bay window was built in. A bevy of African artifacts and furniture also set a strong theme in the room. Wade could see the cat he recently assaulted hiding under the couch. Her eyes were cutting through Wade like he was soft lunch meat.

  “Can I get you a drink, Detective?”

  “Sure. Do you have, uh . . . rubbing alcohol?” Both men laughed while Danni went to the kitchen for some orange juice. Danni accommodated Wade while acknowledging that yes, Debbie had lived there at one time. He talked about the relationship between Debbie and Jackie, Jackie’s mom and himself. But the relations between Jackie and Debbie somehow hit a dead end when Debbie disappeared with her belongings one day. No note. No calls. No nothing. Danni explained that Jackie and her mom were off on a mother-daughter retreat in the Poconos. Danni became as helpful as possible, feeling that there was some serious business at hand. He eventually went into Jackie’s room to fetch a personal address book.

  “Jackie didn’t appreciate Debbie’s desertion at all,” Danni explained. “So she’s been on a silent trip for the past eight months or so. She hasn’t tried to contact her—in a hussy about her just up and leaving after Jackie extended every hospitality to her. Oh . . . here’s the number, and even the address in Chicago.” Danni was somewhat apprehensive about just handing the book over.

  “May I ask you what Debbie’s into?”

  “Can’t really say yet. But she’s wrapped tight into the center of a murder investigation. My murder investigation. I just want to ask her some questions.”

  “Is there something I can do to help?” Danni was pulling his tank top up to wipe his face dry from hours of training in his basement.

  “Well, for one thing, you can teach me that move you did on me a moment ago. But as for the case, I sure would appreciate you calling Debbie for me. You know, to break the ice a bit. Warm her up so I can
talk to her.”

  “Sure. Now?” Danni looked over at the phone on the couch.

  The cat braced herself and kept an eye on the detective.

  “That’d be nice. There’s no time like the present.” Danni went to sit beside the phone, picked up the receiver and poked at the black buttons on the inner panel while Wade sipped at the juice, still standing and stretching. He listened intently while Danni was diplomatic on the phone.

  “Her mother.” Danni whispered with his palm over the mouthpiece. A moment later, Danni was re-acquainting with Debbie, getting deeper into a conversation.

  “. . . I just had to go, Danni. There were some problems that I didn’t want to bring back to your home . . .”

  “Nonsense, Debbie. You could have talked to us about anything. You’re one of the family—you know that.” Danni gave a thumbs-up sign to Wade; even if he could hear most of the conversation. Wade returned the gesture. That motion alone pushed a button for Kissy the cat, and she raced away from the couch and frantically around the corner onto the linoleum tile in the kitchen. Wade could see how the cat almost slid into a wall on the way.

  “Listen, Debbie, can we—can I come out to see you? Talk to you?” Wade with another thumbs-up signal.

  “I don’t know, Danni. Everything is so complicated. I really don’t want you to get caught up in this stuff.”

  “I don’t have a choice in the matter, Deb. You’re caught up in it, so I’m caught up in it, too. Remember . . . family. Okay? Family?”

  “Family.” Debbie conceded and the two made plans to meet. Wade looked on, realizing that he’d just deputized Danni, now part of his one-man crew. Danni set down the cordless and relayed the details of the call to Wade. They spoke about schedules, flights and the sudden, sensitive need to travel to Chicago.

  David

  As far as David was concerned, the night was a success. He didn’t need to stretch his chances with Valerie any more than necessary. In the sequence of the boy-gets-girl-back phase of their relationship, Valerie was taking more time (this time) to find out more about David before she committed her body to him. She’d already been there once, and because of her whims, she got tied up with Richard, the obsessed Canadian. This time, she needed to know where David was coming from. Where was he going with this. And did he plan on taking her, or dropping her off along the way.

  The two had three other dates after his jeep was vandalized outside of her crib. There was the Denzel Washington movie which got them talking about future and family over dinner at Dallas BBQ. Then there was the 4th of July rendezvous at Playland Amusement Park in upstate New York. That was when the boy-loses-girl phase set in—some silly argument over how many unused ride tickets Valerie wasted. On one other occasion, David took Valerie out to Manhattan Proper Café in Cambria Heights, Queens. The comedy show was hosted by comedian and radio personality, Talent, who smacked his tongue and gums to make his trademark CLUCK! sound.

  “Ohhh, he gets me all hot when he does that!” said Valerie. And now (weeks later) after an intimate jazz experience at Londell’s Restaurant in Harlem, along with their filling southern fried chicken dinner, the two were satisfied and sleepy.

  David kissed Valerie proper against the lips; he walked her to her door and cruised off into the midnight hour towards his loft in Brooklyn. Along the Grand Central Parkway and onto the Interborough, David picked up speed, wanting desperately to beat his sleepy eyes in a race to his soft bed. The exits passed by him in blurs. Cypress Hills; the cemetery alerted him that he was close and also reminded him to keep his eyes open for the last stretch home, or else. Then Bushwick; he had reached the end of the highway. Bright lights from another vehicle stayed in his rearview mirror for the entire trip. But David never noticed. At best, he overlooked it, not in the mood for road rage. Down Atlantic Avenue, over to Eastern Parkway, David finally pulled up to his building. David parked with the lip of his jeep reaching partially into the driveway and the rear of his vehicle still on the sidewalk.

  Speaking out loud about his landlady, David said, “She could’ve parked her damned Fiat in the street. She had to know I wasn’t home yet. Bitch.” David was too bushed to do what he wanted to—to wake her black ass up so he could get in the driveway. But he was too frustrated and drowsy to do that, much less find a space on the street. Too damned tired to even move his body, to hear him tell it. So he killed the motor and let his seat recline a little. Smooth jazz from 101.9 serenaded David into a much-deserved nap. The last thing David heard was George Duke’s “No Rhyme, No Reason.” The last thing he felt was his own limbs growing cold and hard. But somewhere, between the music and the cold limbs, a bullet entered the center of his face at point-blank range.

  “There’s a delay. See if you can get a change on the tickets. I’m gonna need another day. If you have problems, call me on my cell and I can try and use my clout with the airline.”

  “Ten-four, good buddy. Hope all is well.” Danni heard the line go dead and wondered if Wade heard him.

  Wade grabbed his windbreaker and fought the drizzle on his way to Brooklyn. Meanwhile, he and Chief Washington shared information about Wade’s progress on the case. The first issue was Chicago, which he was on the way to addressing himself. The other was the death of Bobby the fisherman. It seemed probable that some sabotage was done to provoke an accident that sent him slamming into a wall before he and his vehicle took the dive into the East River. Wade was not so surprised to find that Bobby had an apartment on the side, up on 96th and York. Certain things he was already aware of—part of the ole wheels of classic detective thinking. Still, Wade fixed his focus on other elements of the puzzle.

  When he arrived at the 136th Street murder scene, there was the typical yellow police line to welcome him along with a crowd of bystanders; all of them lobbying for a view, irrespective of the officers on post. Naturally, Wade trooped around the crowd and under the yellow line. The officer nearest Wade stepped aside when he noticed the badge appearing from under his shirt. Wade let it hang so that it could be respected by these Brooklyn officers, none of which he knew. Wade approached the platinum jeep with white-walled tires. A photographer was slowly circling the truck, snapping and flashing at different intervals. Chief Washington was at the front of the jeep, speaking with another detective.

  Finally, someone Wade knew. He could see the detectives were having a deep-rooted discussion about the scene. Wade made his introduction, and the chief introduced Brooklyn’s Detective Minor. Most other officers were scattered along the driveway, at the front and back of the residential complex. Wade diverted his interest from the victim, not wanting to seem ghoulish, but eventually navigating his eyes towards the windshield. There was a hole in the windshield at eye level, a web of shattered glass, and a sheet draped over the body of the victim. A spot of dark red made it obvious that the victim had a devastating head wound. Wade got the idea.

  “Let me show you something.” Detective Minor led the way as Washington and Wade followed. The three climbed a short stairway at the rear of the building and then traveled a series of hallways. The ceilings in the hall were towering with skylights situated here and there. The floor was all polished wood with a finish so brilliant it reflected the daylight that blasted from above. There was a series of doors to other lofts leading the way to studio 4. With ceilings as high as those in the hallway and a captivating scent of flowers, walking into the room felt like walking into a vacuum of freshness. On the walls were dozens of photos. All women; many nude, sensual poses and girl-on-girl scenes. Lots of outdoor takes. Many studio shots. A corner of the studio was sectioned off, designated for photo shoots. A lawn of red fabric was draped from high on the wall and sloping down in soft folds, wrinkles and heaps to the wood floor. There were pillows of gold, silver and black piled on the floor around a stool. A camera was positioned just right, with umbrella lights to the sides and rear of the central area.

  More accommodations in the loft included a two-door refrigerator, a couple of 19” t
elevisions, a sofa bed, roundtable with chairs and an executive desk. A giant picture window offered an abundant view, but only of the sky and driveway.

  “Everything’s so modern. The guy must have some dough,” assumed Detective Minor as he led the men to a table where a photo album was displayed. Page by page, photo by photo was filled with candid photos of women. They weren’t women who were expecting to pose for photos, but pictures that were obviously taken from inside a car, close to a tree and from inconspicuous positions. The targets were unsuspecting. For the three public servants, David Turner quickly earned the title of Peeping Tom.

  “This is why I called Chief Washington. I know about the FBI and how they took your case . . . it was the talk of the seventy-first precinct for weeks. We all felt for you. Hopefully, this will help you. We’re on your side. You’re one of us.”

  “Does the FBI know about this yet?” Wade wondered.

  “The book? No. The homicide? Some rookie-tryin’-to-play detective called. He totally jumped protocol. They’re on their way here.”

  “Can I take this?” Wade asked respectfully.

  “Take what? Did you see anything, Chief?” Minor’s eyebrows shifted conspiratorially.

  “Actually . . .” Washington addressed the officer at the doorway.

  “. . . Can you tell me where the bathroom is, Officer?” And Washington escorted the officer from the area.

  “Let me know about the bullet.” Wade made some notes to conclude his visit. Then he surveyed their surroundings before stashing the photo album in his jacket. Back in his sedan, he pulled the book from his windbreaker, he drove for a few blocks and then pulled over onto the service road of Eastern Parkway. Content that the cavalry of suits would not stumble upon him, identifying him in the neighborhood of the homicide, Wade reviewed the photos. Part curiosity, part duty, Wade looked for faces that he might recognize.