Showtime. I draw a deep breath and climb from behind the wheel. By the time I shut my door, I’m completely surrounded by reporters from the big three news stations.
“Excuse me. Let me through, please,” I say with my game face firmly in place.
They shout questions but because they choose to shout different ones at the same time, they sound like Charlie Brown’s marble-mouthed teacher. I can’t make out what they’re saying. Finally, an officer rushes to my aid and uses his body to shield me from their cameras. Once I’m inside the perimeter of the crime scene, the reporters are blocked off. That doesn’t stop them from shouting their questions at my back.
“Where’s Deputy Chief Collins?” I ask.
“He’s up at the address 4550. It’s . . .” The officer struggles for the right words. “Well, I’ll let you see for yourself.”
That bad. I pull another deep breath and then maneuver around a forensic team snapping pictures of bodies. “What is our body count?”
He sighs. “I’m not sure that we have a final number yet. Can I check around and get back to you?”
“Do that.”
“Yes, Chief. Right away.” The officer peels away as I keep marching forward. As I near the house marked 4550, Deputy Chief Collins steps out, shaking his lowered head. Another bad sign.
Collins spots me and swipes the despair from his face and places his police cap onto his head. “Chief Brown, I’m glad you made it out here so fast.”
We clasp hands for an official handshake before he launches into his assessment of the situation. At the mention of a survivor inside, I turn away from the conversation and walk into the house. I find her in the living room, still lying in a pool of blood—but with a surrounding team of EMTs stabilizing her.
“Is she talking?” I ask, hovering.
“A little,” one EMT answers.
The young girl’s lashes flutter open and for a second our eyes connect—but I can’t discern what she’s thinking. If I was to guess, she’s someone who has seen a lot in her young life. They all have on this side of town.
“Have any of my guys talked to her?”
“I did.” An officer cuts into our conversation from across the room.
I turn my attention toward the eager cop as he rushes forward. “Well? What did she say?”
“Sorry, Chief, but not much. She claims that she doesn’t know who leveled the attack.”
“Of course not.” I don’t bother hiding my disappointment. Same shit, different day.
“But we believe that she was one of the first ones to place a call to 9-1-1. They are cuing up a copy for the department right now.”
“Anything else?”
My bluntness erases the hopeful eagerness from his face.
“Uh—no, Chief.”
I step back and allow the EMTs to do their jobs.
Disappointed, I turn my attention back to the young girl. This time, she refuses to look at me. She knows who did this. I take several deep breaths to lower my blood pressure and then scan the destruction lying all around. “Any other home hit like this one?”
“No, Chief. Other than the bodies lying outside, this is the only house that was attacked.”
“So that makes this house the target,” I conclude. “So the next question is why.”
The eager cop speaks up again. “You might want to take a look upstairs.”
My heart drops and my exhaustion deepens. “More bodies?”
Everyone in the room pauses, making me dread the answer.
“Just one. And . . . it’s pretty gruesome,” the young cop answers, then turns his attention to the young girl with the EMTs. “According to dispatch, our survivor claimed to be the one who shot her—before the entire house was attacked.”
“Before?”
“That’s what dispatch said regarding the 9-1-1 call. The girl now claims that she doesn’t remember placing the call.”
My gaze sweeps over the girl’s face again and she’s still avoiding my gaze. Another lie. “Where’s Lieutenant Fowler?” I glance around, expecting to see him.
“He still hasn’t answered any of our calls or texts,” Collins says in a lower voice, like everyone isn’t already listening to our conversation. “I even sent a squad car over to his place to drag him out of bed. He never answered the door.”
Fuck. My blood pressure shoots up and my temples hammer against my skull. Where in the hell is he?
“So what do you want to do?” Collins asks, then stares me dead in my face while he waits for an answer. I know one thing: I’m not going to be the only one dragged in front of the news cameras on this one. “Call her.”
“Chief?”
“Call Captain Hawkins. At least we know that she always answers her damn phone.”
8
Lucifer
Pain.
Every inch of my body is racked with pain, but I’m a big fucking girl and I’m determined to take this shit if I have to. Better that than to let these grimy bastards get the best of me. Around me, the men bark at each other. With this strange ringing in my ear, it’s difficult to tell whether they are angry or excited. By the seat’s gentle but steady rocking, I can tell that I’m still in an SUV. Slowly, I peek from underneath my long lashes and zoom in on Python’s hard profile.
“I still say that you should’ve put a cap in the bitch’s head,” King Isaac says from the front seat. “That nigga Fat Ace is going to come after us regardless. We don’t need her to ensure that shit.”
Python grumbles and then cuts a look in my direction.
Anger sweeps through me like a brush fire, but I have self-discipline if I have nothing else. I remain still and keep my breathing even. I want them to believe that I’m still out cold, so I can assess this situation.
“What? Don’t tell me that your ass has gotten soft since I’ve been on lockdown.”
“It ain’t nothing like that, Isaac.” Python’s gaze cuts away from me to glare up into the front seat.
“No? Then what’s it like?”
Python’s jawline stiffens, and when Isaac presses him for an answer, he barks out, “Fuck, man. Every nigga gotta have a fuckin’ code—a fuckin’ line that even they won’t cross. For me that’s murkin’ innocent babies.”
Isaac lets that confession hang between them in the car for about a full minute before responding. “Then we should’ve left the bitch back there. We left a hell of a calling card, blasting his turf for him to come gunning.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty. We got her now. We’re just going to have to make the best of a bad situation.”
King Isaac’s rumbling laugh fills the whole vehicle. “What’s this we shit? If that girl gets ready to burst, don’t think my ass is playing doctor or midwife with your ass.”
“Hopefully her nigga will come gunning for her before any of that shit happens.” Python’s black gaze slithers back to me. “But as a backup, I’ll have LeShelle and some of her girls sit on her.”
King Isaac tsks and shakes his head. “Are you sure that your woman can handle her? From what I’ve heard, Lucifer is as dangerous as her man.”
Python snickers and then boasts, “Clearly you don’t know much about LeShelle. She’s just as bad as they come, too. She can more than handle this one.”
I lower my eyelids and roll my eyes to the back of my head. This muthafucka must be trippin’ if he thinks LeShelle is anywhere near my league. However, before I continue my Oscar-worthy performance in the corner of this seat, I’m hit with another mind-blowing contraction. Screaming, I clutch at my rolling belly.
Python and Isaac jump.
The driver does, too, swerving out of his car lane. A series of car horns blare and the SUV is quickly jerked back into the right lane. “What the fuck?”
Still screaming with my lungs burning, warm fluid gushes out between my thighs.
Python jumps again. “AHHHH SHIT!”
“What? What is it?” Isaac looks over his right shoulder to c
heck shit out for himself.
“Her water broke.” Python scrambles out of the way.
“What? You fuckin’ shitting me,” Isaac groans, twisting around again for another look.
Automatically, I spread my legs east and west before bearing down to push this baby out.
“Awww.Fuck. Stop that shit! Stop it,” Python shouts.
Is this nigga serious? I’d love to stop this horror show, but this situation is out of my control. My baby is determined to make his grand entrance tonight and there ain’t shit that anybody can do about it.
The contractions wane for a few seconds and I steal several sips of air. All too soon, I’m hit with another, equally body-splitting contraction that has me pushing as if my life depends on it.
“We got to pull over or something,” Python shouts.
“It ain’t too fucking late to just put a bullet in the girl’s head,” Isaac tells him. “At least that will cut out all that damn hollering that she’s doing.”
“I’m serious, man. Pull over!”
The vehicle lunges.
“And then do what?” Isaac thunders. “Do you know how to deliver a fucking baby?”
Python’s eyes triple in size—but he doesn’t have a solution.
I growl at them through my teeth, “You muthafuckas make a goddamn decision. This baby is coming whether we want him to or not.”
Python’s and my glares clash.
“Maybe we should pull over and toss her ass out on the side of the road. She can spit that baby out by her damn self.”
Python bites his bottom lip as he chews the situation over.
Isaac gets antsy with my wailing behind him. “Whatcha want to do, Terrell? Say the word and I’ll pull the fuck over.”
Python scopes out our surroundings. “We ain’t going to make it back to the crib,” he deduces. “And we sure as hell can’t take her to a hospital.”
While they argue, my gaze falls on the weapon that’s casually lying on Python’s lap. He, meanwhile, keeps closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to get a thought to rise from his ass.
“If you can’t do it, I can,” Isaac says.
With no time to spare I lunge for Python’s weapon. Before he can react, it’s in my hands. He goes to wrestle it back when I fire.
The window behind him explodes and Python reels back.
“Holy shit!” Isaac twists around in his seat, gun at the ready, but I’m already aiming for the back of the driver’s head and don’t think twice before pulling the trigger.
Isaac and I fire at the same time. He missed.
I don’t.
Pow!
The driver’s head explodes. The SUV careens all over the road.
Isaac dives for the wheel.
Python lunges again. Before anyone knows it, we’re airborne. When we land, it’s roof first, and then we tumble around like clothes inside a dryer.
By the time the chaos stops, there’s not a soul stirring.
9
Hydeya
Shotgun Row
Sitting on the cold floor in a spare room in Maybelline Carver-Goodson’s old shotgun house, I’m having trouble understanding the words I’m reading. “I have a brother?” My grip on the letter I’m holding tightens. I shake my head because that Jack Daniel’s I downed before storming over here to Shotgun Row to give Isaac a piece of my mind is still fucking with me—so I read the letter again:
Mason,
I don’t know where to begin. The reason I sat down to write this letter is because I fear that tomorrow when we meet I’ll be too overcome with emotion to get out everything that I want to say. But I want you to know that you are loved and you have been sorely missed. Not just by me, but by your brother Terrell as well. Of course most people in the streets know him as Python. It is some cruel twist of fate that the two of you have grown up as enemies in rival gangs. Hopefully, tomorrow will be a new beginning for the Carver family. There’s been so much pain and hurt already that I have to believe that a change is coming.
Barbara, the woman who’s raised you all these years, and I have sat down and exchanged information on what happened to you so long ago. Your real mother, Alice, had her demons. A few of them, I’ll admit, may have been my doing. She wasn’t perfect and she was unable to kick her drug habit on her own. I don’t know what happened in that apartment—or why Barbara found you where she did. But what I can tell you is that we did everything that we could to find you. When the days turned into weeks and then months, we believed the worst.
That was a mistake.
We should have never stopped looking. Maybe if we hadn’t, this family could’ve been spared a lot of the pain that we’ve endured.
I’ve been told that you’ve known who you truly are for a long time. I can’t imagine what you must think of us. The scenarios of what happened and how it happened must be endless in your mind. I hope that I’ll be calm enough to answer all your questions tomorrow. That’s if you agree to show up. If not, I’ll give this letter to Barbara to give you. Maybe you’ll change your mind.
I can’t give you your mother back. She’s not here to answer any questions or defend anything. But I can give you the name of your father. He’s still alive. And I’m married to him: Isaac Goodson. You know him as King Isaac.
With all my love,
Your Aunt Maybelline
It doesn’t matter how many times I read this damn thing, the words aren’t computing. The fact that my father has another child shouldn’t be all that shocking. Men put babies on women all the time—and according to my mother, Isaac was a bona fide sex addict. There’s a likelihood that he has a dozen kids running around from here to Chicago, for all we know.
Mason Carver is my brother. Ain’t that about a bitch?
I lower the letter and take a deep breath. It’s amazing how shock can clear the mind. This shit is the last thing I need to deal with right now. I’m dealing with the loss of my husband, Drake. Days ago, he was gunned down at, of all places, Maybelline Carver’s funeral. The shooting was just another chapter in the long, endless street war between the Gangster Disciples and the Vice Lords.
Maybelline, or rather Momma Peaches, as she was known in her community and every police precinct in the city, was an icon with the Gangster Disciples. A lot of it had to do with her being married to my father, the ex-chief of the deadly gang. Ex-chief. I roll my eyes. Why the fuck am I pretending to believe his lies?
I climb up from the floor of this cold spare room and place Maybelline’s Bible back onto the nightstand. The letter I slide into my pocket before heading toward the door. Not until after I try to turn the knob do I remember that Isaac locked my ass in here. When I arrived here I caught my fresh-out-the-joint father in the house full of Gangster Disciples and crates of military-grade weapons. Out of the game, my ass.
I should hardly be surprised that Isaac lied to my face about his ass turning over a new leaf and staying out of Memphis’s growing gang wars. Of course, those promises were before his wife, Maybelline Carver aka Momma Peaches, was murdered in the Power of Prayer Baptist Church.
Without Momma Peaches around, there’s no reason for the old chief to stay on the right side of the law. Well, other than me—Captain Hydeya Hawkins of the Memphis Gang Unit. Unfortunately or fortunately, I’ve been placed on temporary—or indefinite—leave. Their excuse is to force me to grieve my husband’s death.
I don’t need to grieve. I need to work.
But my working on certain cases is the last thing the department wants. My predecessor, Captain Melvin Johnson, a long-heralded supercop in the city, was as dirty as they come before Johnson and his wife were slaughtered by none other than Momma Peaches’ younger sister, Alice.
Johnson was another dirty dog with a tribe of children who clearly had no idea of their being related, because two of them, his cop daughter Melanie and his son with Alice, Terrell Carver, were fucking, and had even produced a child, Christopher.
Melanie Johnson’
s murder is what landed Terrell aka Python on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. That is until he was believed to have been killed on the Old Memphis Bridge. Him and his supposed brother, Mason. At least the blood work back from the lab says that they’re brothers. Maybelline’s letter from beyond the grave is further proof of that. And that wasn’t all. The amount of money and weapons found on Johnson’s property raised all kinds of red flags with me. With the rest of the department? Crickets.
Seriously. Crickets.
Even when a copy of a surveillance video, found at Captain Johnson’s home, captured his daughter assassinating her partner, Officer O’Malley. Crickets.
My ex-partner and now rival for my job, Lieutenant John Fowler, explained the higher-ups’ decision to shut my investigation down as self-preservation. Captain Johnson had been a hero to the city for so long, there are simply too many powerful people who’d hitched their political careers to his wagon. Taking him down postmortem wasn’t going to do anybody any good.
Fowler is right. He’s right about a lot of things.
But the case keeps fucking with me. Whenever you find one dirty cop, he’s attached to a whole network.
I twist the locked doorknob again and then rattle the door. “Hey, let me out of here!” My father left, but I’m sure that he’s left a soldier or two to babysit this locked door. “Hey! I know someone is out there! Let me out!” I pound on the door until my hand aches—then I give it a good kick out of frustration. “Fuck you then!” Spinning away from the door, I eye the lone window where the moon’s full beam is slicing through the venetian blinds. In no time at all, I get the sucker unlatched, knock out the screen, and then climb out.
A dog barks from the next-door neighbor’s backyard, but I flash the mean-looking Doberman the bird before racing to my car parked out front on the curb. However, to my surprise, the steering wheel is missing. “The fuck?” Frustrated, I rake my hands through my hair, ripping out a couple of strands. I’m a cop, standing on the wrong side of town without any sort of backup.
Still, I climb into the car, lean over to the passenger side to reach beneath the seat for my spare Glock. Chief Brown may have taken my badge and service weapon, but I’m like a ghetto Girl Scout: always prepared. Hell, I wasn’t always on the right side of the law. In my young and wild days, I followed my father into the Gangster Disciples. I’m a Queen G by way of South Chicago. I’ve robbed, stolen, and I’m even responsible for a couple of cold cases in what they now call Chiraq. If that wasn’t enough, my stint in Afghanistan and years on the police force have taught me a thing or two about expecting the unexpected.
Queen Divas Page 5
