A second set of handcuffs is latched onto his wrists.
I roll off of him, battered and bruised. I hear something rustle beneath me. I glance down and see Momma Peaches’s rumpled letter. I grab it and shove it into my back pocket. Guilt twists my stomach into a tight knot.
The other officers struggle to wrangle Mason back onto his feet. More than a few really want to have a go at him and don’t bother hiding their contempt. Everyone turns their attention toward me, their faces asking what I want them to do with Mason now.
Mason’s eye patch is missing, and his milky white eye and his black one glare back at me. Rage rolls off of him in waves.
“Take him back to holding,” I tell them. I glance down and spot his eye patch. “Wait.” I go and retrieve it and then shove the patch into his jeans pocket. His chest heaves as he gulps air after his recent exertion. I don’t want to think about what he’d actually do to me if he wasn’t handcuffed and subdued right now. You shouldn’t have given him the letter. “Now you can take him.”
The men jerk Mason forward toward the door.
I remain behind to survey the damage of the broken table and chairs. So much for handcuffing a suspect to an unbolted object.
“Are you all right?”
I glance back up at the door to Fowler’s inquisitive face. In a snap, Mason is forgotten and Fowler’s betrayal is back to the forefront of my mind. “Don’t,” I warn.
Playing dumb, he scrunches up his face as if confused.
“I’m not in the mood for your mind games right now. You need to find yourself something else to do and get out of my face,” I tell him.
Fowler chugs in a deep breath. “Please, don’t take what I said back in Chief Brown’s office personally.”
“Not take it personally? Have you fallen and bumped your muthafuckin’ . . .” I stop myself and count to ten. The shit doesn’t work, so I march over to the door, grab him by the collar, and jerk him into the room and slam the door. “How in the fuck do I not take your trying to pin all this shit on my father personally?”
“Your father?” he asks. “You’re claiming him now?”
“What?”
“Exactly,” he snaps back. “All the years that I’ve known you, Isaac Goodson was nothing more than a sperm donor. You told me plenty of times that you despised the man. And whether you like it or not, he is and should be the department’s prime suspect. He has the perfect motive to blast Ruby Cove off the fuckin’ map and you damn well know it. But because he’s your father, I’m supposed to sit on my hands and not say shit—do I understand that right?”
“You’re supposed to let me handle it.”
“Why is that? King Isaac is a known gang leader. His wife—and your husband—were killed by the Vice Lords.”
“We don’t know that.”
“There were plenty of witnesses who claimed the gangsters were flagging black and gold. So Ruby Cove, a well-known Vice Lord territory, is then leveled by people, albeit off the record, are saying their attackers flagged Gangster Disciple colors, and shouting, ‘six poppin’, five droppin’,’ and you still don’t think we should drag your father in here? Did you fall and bump your head? Whether we’re friends or colleagues, I’m still expected to do a job here.”
“No. You were brown-nosing your way back onto the chief’s good side. You want to impress people with your job skills? Try learning to keep up with your phone.”
Fowler’s shoulders slump. There is no point in arguing with me and he knows it. “Got it, Captain.”
“Good.” Desperate to get away from this muthafucka before I catch a damn case myself, I snatch open the door and march out of the room.
25
Ta’Shara
Baptist Memorial Hospital
All too soon, someone calls my name and tells me that it’s time for me to wake up. I groan at the voice, hoping that whoever it is will take the hint and go away.
They don’t.
Once again my eyelids are peeled open and another prick of light is shone into my eyes. Logic says that it is a small flashlight, but my current mental state has no problem believing that the light is attached to a runaway train.
Pain explodes inside my head. I whine and whimper.
A voice apologizes and then turns off the light. I ask a few questions, but I’m too annoyed to answer. One thing for sure, my mouth is as dry as the desert. “W-water,” I croak.
“I can give you a couple of ice chips, but that’s it for right now. Okay?”
I nod and drop my mouth open but the few chips he sprinkles on my tongue evaporate almost as soon as they land. “M-more.”
He hesitates, but then sprinkles a few more into my mouth.
It’s not enough, but I’m grateful.
I drift back off to my cherished princess room where I’m greeted by more spearmint kisses, soft caresses, and tender lovemaking. The next time my name is called, the voice is familiar.
“T, baby? Can you hear me?” Profit’s warm breath drifts across the shell of my ear.
I smile without opening my eyes. The sound of his voice is like home.
“Ta’Shara, honey. It’s me, Profit. If you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”
His hand? Am I holding his hand? I attempt to find out, but my limbs are heavy as hell. Alarmed, I pull in a breath and try again.
“Good. That’s my girl.”
Did I do it? I didn’t think that I did. I attempt to open my eyes, but I’ll be damned if they don’t feel as if they’ve been superglued shut.
After great effort I get them open, but my vision is cloudy.
“Hey, baby.” Profit’s blurry face cracks a sad smile.
“H-hey.” The one word sends me into a coughing fit, causing bright spots to form in front of my eyes. Shifting into caregiver mode, Profit produces a plastic cup with water. The instant relief to my inflamed throat makes me greedy for more. I down too much too fast. Before I know it, I’m choking and spilling it all over my chest.
“Careful, baby. Careful.” Profit pulls away the cup and then leans me forward so that I don’t drown. Once the coughing ends, he settles me back and smiles. “Better?”
I nod and smile. After that, silence stretches between us. A laundry list of things I want to say scrolls too fast in my head that I can’t get the words out.
He appears to have the same issue.
“I can’t tell you how scared I was the other night,” he begins.
The other night? I glance to the right and notice the bright sunlight, pooling into the room. How many nights has it been?
“When I saw you lying on that gurney bleeding like that, I thought . . .” He drops his head and takes a few seconds to gather himself. “It terrified me, especially after how we left things between us. The things that we said to each other.” He shakes his head and thumbs away something from his eyes before I get a chance to see what it is.
“I know that I hurt you. I’ll spend the rest of my life being sorry for that. I’m just hoping, praying that you can find some way within your heart to forgive, and give us another chance. I promise that I’ll do whatever it takes to make you happy again.” Another hand squeeze. I can feel the strength and warmth of his touch radiate through me.
However, before I can open my mouth, a sound jars me awake. Confused, I blink several times.
I force open my eyes again but this time I see that I’m not alone in the room. “Tracee.” I whisper the name even though I know what I’m saying isn’t possible. Tracee, my foster mother, is dead—killed by my evil sister, LeShelle.
“How are you feeling, Ta’Shara?”
Warm tears crest and blur the kind, smiling face. It’s not Tracee, but Tracee’s mother, Olivia. She was always kind to me. The dull ache in my shoulder fades, but the one in my heart grows.
Profit was never here. It was just a dream.
Still smiling, Olivia brushes hair away from my face. “When the police called and told the family that you were here, we were scared to de
ath. We have been looking all over for you.”
We?
My gaze drifts over her shoulder to the ring of older, familiar faces of the Douglases and the Sullivans. They are my foster grandparents, Reggie’s and Tracee’s parents.
“Are you comfortable, sweetheart? Is there anything that we can do or get for you?”
More tears leak from the corners of my eyes while her soft hands caress my face.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, sweetie. We know that you had nothing to do with Tracee and Reggie’s death. We’ve talked to the police and they’ve told us that they are dropping the charges.”
But I am responsible. They are dead because of me. If I had simply followed the rules of the street, I’d be in high school, probably prepping for college. Essence and I would still be best friends. Reggie and Tracee would have gone through with the adoption to become my real parents. The enormity of it all crushes me. The sobs that rack my body draw everyone in the room closer to the bed.
Soon there is more than one set of arms looping around my neck. My tears must be contagious because there isn’t a dry eye in the room.
We cry for a long time. It’s hard to believe that they are treating me like I’m still a member of their family. It’s more than I deserve.
“Okay,” Olivia says. “Enough crying. What’s important now is that we have you back. We are going to help you get through this, then you are more than welcome to come and live with me in Houston.”
Houston?
“That’s only if you want to,” she amends, as if picking up on my surprise.
“Or you’re more than welcome to live with us here,” Reggie Douglas Senior cuts in. “We’d also be happy to have you.” Everyone’s sincerity makes me cry harder.
One thing I know for sure is that it can’t go on this way. I don’t want to be one of those girls with a rap sheet that is as thick as the Lord of the Rings tomes. I don’t want to be married to the streets and play the game where I collect as many bullet scars as possible without dying. Though I love him with every beat of my heart, I don’t want to be Profit’s ride-or-die chick. I deserve more than what the streets offer.
My hospital room door opens.
“Well now. Look who is awake today.” A doctor beams an unnatural smile. “How are you feeling?”
“Sore.”
“That’s to be expected.” She nods and smiles as if I haven’t voiced a compliant.
“Can you give her something for the pain?” Olivia asks as if reading my mind.
“Sure. Sure. I’ll put in an order for that. But let’s see if we can at least isolate where you’re feeling the pain.”
I watch her as she approaches the bed. A series of flashing lights as she performs random tests are more of a nuisance than anything. However, I catch the looks passed between the Douglases and the Sullivans, and that nips at my curiosity.
There’s something that they’re not telling me.
“Now Ta’Shara, tell me if you feel this,” the doctor says, pulling back the sheet on the bed and placing her pen against the bottom of my foot. I only know that it’s there because I’m watching her. But when she moves the pen up and down, I don’t feel anything.
“How about this?” She moves the pen to the top of my leg and rubs it up and down.
Nothing.
“Why don’t I feel that?” My confusion gives way to panic.
The doctor gives me another smile. “Don’t worry. There’s a chance that it’s just temporary.”
Soft whimpering cries sneak out around me while I get my brain to accept the thing that the doctor is not saying.
“Tell me the truth. Am I paralyzed?”
She hesitates. “For the moment, from the waist down, that may be the case. I’m sorry.”
26
Hydeya
Another day, and another dead body has been discovered in one of the murder capitals of America. I just don’t understand why I’m getting the call. There are plenty of detectives who are more than capable of handling a simple murder case. But then the name Qiana Barrett clears my mental fog and I’m climbing out of bed and rushing into some clean-ish clothes before jetting out of the house. I don’t bother heading to the Mississippi River where the body was discovered, but instead catch up with the body down at the city morgue.
The medical examiner is expecting me and leads me to the body in question. The bloated body in no way, shape, or form looks like the mouthy teenager I met months ago. But despite the bloat and the massive burns to the body, the two jagged scars on each side of her face tell me that this is indeed Qiana Barrett.
Despite my having been once eager to slap handcuffs on this teenager for the murder of Yolanda Terry and Tyneisha Gibson, I’m disturbed about how this girl’s short life ended. After all, I was once her: lost and confused, thinking that I could find validation in the streets, too dumb to know that the street can never and will never love anyone. Its power is seductive, but it’s an illusion. A powerful illusion, but still just an illusion. The Terry-Gibson case is officially closed, but now Qiana’s name will be added to a growing pile of cases that will likely never be solved.
When I return home, I don’t bother climbing back into my cold and empty California king-size bed. Instead, I crash for a couple of minutes on the pleather couch that I’ve always hated. Drake bought the piece of cheap furniture at a flea market without checking with me, and then refused to get rid of it. He always loved the art of getting a good deal. I smile warmly and shake my head at how bitterly we fought over this damn thing.
And now . . . I love it because I loved him. I feel guilty about there not being a funeral for him, but Drake told me and the rest of his family that he never wanted us to go through a pointless and ridiculous sad ceremony just to say goodbye. How ironic that he ended up dying at someone else’s burial.
Hours glide by in a few blinks of the eye, and I remain sitting in the middle of this sofa chugging one beer after another and staring at the large silver urn sitting over the living room’s fireplace. I loved my husband, but I feel some type of way about his ashes remaining in the house like this.
By the time I arrive back to the station, it’s considered the booty-crack of dawn and it feels as if my ass just left this place. On the murder board there are more names scribbled underneath Qiana Barrett: Georgina Smith, Avonte Chambers, Myeisha Bach, Erika Waters and . . . LeShelle Murphy?
I stop cold and stare at the last name.
When Officer Wendi Hendrix strolls by me, I grab her by the arm. “When—where did this happen?”
Hendrix looks up at the name I’m pointing to. “I’m not sure. I think Officer Reid picked up those cases.”
I spin and go in search of Officer Reid. Along the way, I see Fowler strutting through the doors. I ignore him. We’ve been through a lot over the years, but I doubt I’ll ever be able to forgive him for that stunt that he pulled with Chief Brown so that he could get back in her good graces.
“Hawkins!” Fowler shouts.
I find Reid, a seventeen-year veteran on the force, at his desk. He looks away from the mug shots on his computer screen and pulls the phone away from his ear. “Hey, boss.What can I do for you?”
“LeShelle Murphy—tell me about it.”
Surprise colors his dull brown face as he returns the phone to its cradle. “She was on your radar?”
“Oh yeah. She happens to be Terrell Carver’s wife or wifey, depending on who you ask in the streets.” I fold my arms and lean against the cubicle.
“Her body was recovered from a shallow grave out off Mudville Road. Whoever dumped it there gave zero fucks. At first the coroner couldn’t tell whether the body was male or female, but the dental records came back as a match about an hour ago. It’s her.”
“You got dental records back that fast?”
A smile creeps across Reid’s face. “I have a few people who owe me a number of favors.”
“I bet you
do.” I give him a conspiratorial wink. “Any suspects?”
“I’ll take a wild guess and say it could be any one of a number of rival gang members, including the Vice Lords.”
I straighten up. “You have a time of death?”
“That’s proving to be more difficult. I should have an answer in a couple of hours. I do know that smoke inhalation indicates that she was alive at the time she was set on fire and that the accelerant was gasoline.”
“Set on fire?” The same way as Qiana Barrett.
“That’s what it looks like,” Officer Reid confirms and then pulls in a weary breath. He appears to have aged ten years since our conversation started. “You know, you can never get used to this bullshit going on out here. It’s like these young folks don’t give a damn about nothing and nobody.”
“They’re responding to a system that’s designed to keep them in iron cages. If you have nothing to live for—no buy-in to the American dream . . .” I shrug.
Reid leans back in his chair and reassesses me. “You’re talking from experience?”
“Aren’t we all?”
He nods and we share looks that say there is so much that we will never reveal about ourselves—and how high the gang violence really is in this city. According to the Tennessee Gang Investigators Associates, there are over ninety-one hundred documented gang members and one hundred and seventy documented gangs and subsets in the area. That shit doesn’t count the undocumented members. There’s no way that we’ll ever win the war on drugs, the main driver behind the gang violence, and it looks like we’ll never reach the number of kids that we need to to prove to them that there is a better way out here for them. The fast money, girls, and cars are too seductive for people who have never had much. Add in the human need to connect to something or someone and it makes joining a gang to be a part of a family—any family—irresistible. We cops out here are fighting something that we have no chance of winning.
“Keep me posted on any updates,” I tell Reid before exiting his cubicle so he can get back to work.
Queen Divas Page 13
