“Is that right?” I ask as if I believe her. “And where were you when everything went down?”
“I was backstage—getting ready to leave.”
“Did you get a good look at any of the shooters?”
“No.” She spits out the answer before I finished asking the question. It’s another reason for me to doubt her honesty.
“Notice anything odd about them?”
“No.”
“No special colors, tats, or strange accents?”
“No.”
“Did they say anything—take anything?”
“No—well. They said a few things, but honestly I didn’t pay any attention to it. I was focused on making myself as small as possible.”
I frown.
“You know, so I wouldn’t draw any attention to myself. I didn’t want to get shot.”
“Uh-huh.” A few awkward seconds lapse. I want her to know that I’m not buying everything.
“You’ve been to a fair number of shootings lately, haven’t you?”
Her smile craters. “What do you mean?”
“What do I mean?” I laugh. “Are you serious?”
She shifts on her feet while agitation causes a few muscles to twitch. “Look, Captain. I don’t know what you’re implying, but I’m from the hood. Shootings are a part of life. Keeping the streets safe is your job.”
“Stay calm, Ms. Blackmon. I wasn’t implying anything. I’m just asking questions.”
“Uh-huh.” She folds her arms and lifts her chin. Our camaraderie is over.
“You’re free to go, Ms. Blackmon.”
That perks her up. “I am?”
“Sure. But, uh”—I fiddle around in my pocket until I locate a card—“if you remember anything that you think will help, please give us a call.”
Cleo hesitates. “Sure. Why not.” She takes the card. “I’m free to go?”
“Yes, ma’am. Have a good night.”
She flashes another smile, leaves.
Officer Clemmons steps up beside me. “Do you believe her?”
“Not a single fucking word.” I return my attention to the destruction around me.
Clemmons asks another question. “Do you think this was retaliation for the Ruby Cove massacre? They didn’t leave a graveyard of bodies, but they made it clear that they were looking for the owner. Could he be involved?”
I nod. “Of course he’s involved. The Gangster Disciples and the Vice Lords are turned all the way up. The question is whether we can smash this beef before they drag the whole damn city down to hell with them.”
The answer at the moment is no.
47
Nefertiti
Diesel is pissed. It’s not the first time that I’ve seen him this way. He usually takes his hits cool and reserved. But every once in a while a dumb muthafucka presses the wrong damn buttons and sets shit off to the wrong muthafuckin’ level. I’m woman enough to admit that I’ve been more than afraid of him when he gets like this. Mercy isn’t a dish that he serves often, if ever.
The moment that we arrive at Club Diesel, along with the multitude of news reporters and cameras, I witness the change in Diesel’s demeanor. Bouncers G-Mill and B-Locc spot their boss as he strides toward the yellow tape in front of his club and give him an apologetic look while the paramedics attend to their bloody wounds.
A cop races after Diesel when he breaches the crime scene. “Sir! Sir! I can’t let you through here.”
“This is my joint.” Diesel challenges him.
Instinctively, the height-disadvantaged cop steps back before remembering that he is the one with the badge and the authority to keep Diesel from contaminating the scene.
“Sir, don’t make me have to tell you again.” The cop places his hand on his holstered weapon. “Step back behind the yellow tape. This is an official crime scene.” The added bass in his voice catches a few of his fellow officers’ attention and they come to their colleague’s aid.
“Is there a problem?” An African-American cop with a waist size that suggests he’s no danger to any criminal that he would have to chase, waddles in between Diesel and the other cop.
“The only problem I have is this asshole who’s not letting me into my own property,” Diesel says menacingly—and yet coolly.
I reach out and touch Diesel’s arm, hoping to defuse a situation before it actually becomes one. “D, let’s just go back behind the line.”
He’s not hearing that shit though. He pulls his arm away and confronts the officers in front of him.
I don’t take it personally. I know that it’s not the current situation that has him hot. He’s struggling from the verbal spanking and blatant disrespect that he suffered from King Isaac, and he’s ready to take it out on the first muthafuckas to challenge him.
“Terrance, I got this.” A woman, likely another cop, emerges from the club and squashes the beef.
Diesel turns his attention toward the woman, and if anything his defenses rise even higher. “Captain Hawkins.”
“Diesel Carver.” She tugs in a breath. “Our paths keep crossing.”
“I’m noticing that myself.”
Silence stretches between the two of them, which gets me wondering if there’s something more than what meets the eye here. The prospect of yet another woman vying for Diesel’s affection has me all up in my feelings. These bitches always come out of the woodwork.
“So. Do you want to tell me what the fuck is going on here?” Diesel asks, checking his attitude.
“My best guess is that someone is sending you a message.” Captain Hawkins’s gaze trains on him. “Do you have any idea who that might be?”
“None,” Diesel lies. “I’m new to this town, remember?”
Hawkins lifts a single brow while an amused smile tugs her lips. She knows that this is a dance. The question is, which one of them is going to take the lead?
Grudgingly, I develop a kernel of respect for the cop.
“New or not, it appears that you’ve pissed somebody off. One of the gunmen made it clear that they were looking for you. Mentioned you by name—and even insinuated that you had something to do with the Ruby Cove massacre.”
“That’s fucking ridiculous,” Diesel barks.
“Because you’re not a gangbanger like your cousin Terrell?” Hawkins challenges without missing a beat.
“Exactly.” Diesel smiles, not taking the bait. “I’m a businessman. You should know that one can’t help who their family members are.”
I don’t know what he means by that, but it certainly wipes the smugness off of the captain’s face.
“Where were you the night of the Ruby Cove massacre?”
“Right here. Entertaining a record executive for my newest artist. I can pull the security tapes—once you let me into my own establishment—and prove it to you. Hell, I can even pull them for your investigation tonight, if you ask nicely.”
“That would be much appreciated,” Hawkins says tightly. She then steps back and gestures for him to take the lead into his own nightclub. Her gaze falls on me, and when it does, Diesel cuts her off before she even gets started on some bullshit.
“She’s with me.”
That’s not enough to get me through.
“And you are?”
When Hawkins levels her hard gaze on me, I’ll admit that I’m intimidated—and I’m not a woman who is easily intimidated. “Nefertiti, the club’s general manager.”
“Nefertiti?” she repeats with the same amused smugness I’ve received most of my life when people learn my name, but then she tosses out an unexpected compliment. “Beautiful name.”
“Thank you.”
The captain steps back, allowing me to enter with Diesel. The craziness outside is nothing compared to the wrecked disaster that is inside. With the house lights turned up, we see the overturned chairs, broken tables, and shattered glasses, and I can’t help but start calculating the total damage. I can tell that Diesel is doing the same thing. All the
money he’s invested in propping up the Gangster Disciples and now this club, he could’ve just set those stacks of benjamins on fire. At least that way he would’ve enjoyed the heat. Angry men and hysterical women recount their stories to various officers spread throughout the club.
And when Diesel spots a shaken Cleo, he veers off course to his office to go check on his precious songbird. I’m stunned. Out of all the girls that filter in and out of our lives, this one is really giving me pause. When Diesel first moved down here, I had to hold my tongue while he head-fucked that stupid teenage Flower, Qiana. I dismissed her, even though the bitch shot at me. But Cleo; she has a different kind of hold on my man and I’m not feeling it.
I hang back with the captain and watch as Diesel tosses all his personal rules out the window to comfort this bitch.
“I take it that you don’t care for her,” Hawkins says after reading me like an open book.
“I have no opinion,” I lie.
“Riiiight.”
My respect for the astute cop goes up in smoke. I don’t know this bitch and I don’t appreciate her ass acting as if she knows me.
Hawkins gives Diesel and Cleo about a minute alone before she waltzes over and reminds him about the security footage. Minutes later, we enter Diesel’s office and he cues up the time frame Captain Hawkins gives him.
There’s no question that the men who charged in here tonight were Vice Lord soldiers. Their black and gold flags hung proudly from their back pockets and around their mouths.
“Can you zero in on any of their faces?” Hawkins asks.
Without answering, Diesel types commands into the computer and the camera zooms in on two who appear to do most of the talking.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Captain Hawkins mutters. “I know that guy.”
Diesel nods, letting me know that he, too, recognizes the man’s face.
“Charlie ‘Tombstone’ Barrett,” the cop says. “I got you, you asshole.”
48
Cleo
It’s late and cold as shit by the time I pile into my car. My damn heater died like two winters ago. I pull out of the employees’ parking lot and note that the streets are like the Club Diesel right now: dead. As luck would have it, every traffic light is green as I breeze away from Beale Street.
During the twenty-minute drive out to Kalief’s crib, the band’s lecture about letting Kalief go plays in my mind. Every word they said was true. In fact, it wasn’t anything that I haven’t said myself. There’s so much to hate about my ex and our relationship: the drugs, the drinking, the gambling, the cheating, the stealing, and the lying. However, like so many other times, after the dust settles from one of our blowups, there’s a bond still linking us together.
I’m not a dumb bitch—but I keep doing dumb shit when it comes to Kalief. Maybe it’s because at the end of the day, we’re truly soul mates. We’ve been riding together since high school. Back when girls giggled about how much he looked like the actor Morris Chestnut and about him having a knot of cash in his pocket. I made his ass sweat for a long time before I agreed to go out with him. When we finally went out, we discovered that we shared a love for music. We would spend hours listening to old-school albums that my grandmother kept up in the attic. Back then, falling in love was easy.
He was everything that he isn’t now.
A tear skips down my face. I miss the good ol’ days. I wish that he could be the rock that I’ve needed since Essence’s death, but the truth is he doesn’t have what it takes.
My heart sinks when I pull up into the driveway. Kalief’s car isn’t here. Where the fuck is he? I park while this bad feeling creeps into the pit of my stomach. No matter how many times I tell myself to calm down or even remind myself that Kalief has disappeared plenty of times before, I can’t help but feel that this time, it’s different.
Shutting off the engine, I stare at the dark, brick ranch home while reviewing my options. Stay or go home. I mean, eventually he’ll show up. Right?
The cold helps me make my decision. “Fuck. I’m already here. May as well go inside and wait.” I climb out of the car and rush up to the house. It would be great if I still had a key to the place, but a couple of years ago during another heated argument, I’d thrown the key at him. We made up, but Kalief never gave it back. Doesn’t matter. A locked door don’t mean shit to a Queen G. I’m inside the house in less than a minute, but once I’m in, the bad feeling spreads.
“What’s that smell?” I don’t know why I bothered to ask the question because I know that smell. On cue my eyes water and my legs threaten to drop me where I stand. I have to know. Somehow, I get my legs to move. It’s at a slow creep, but I follow my nose through the dark house, not bothering to hit a light switch. However, at the closed master bedroom door, I hesitate. Maybe I shouldn’t go inside. If I don’t go in then I won’t know . . . and I’m not sure I’m ready to know.
More tears spring from my eyes while I stand there a full minute with my hand on the doorknob. Things like you’re being silly and he’s probably fine don’t ring true in my gut. Then with one burst of courage, I open the door.
Oh, Kalief, no.
I crumble to the floor in the doorway with my eyes glued to the distended body lying across the bloody white sheets. With the shimmering moonlight splashed across Kalief’s bloated face, the macabre scene looks like something out of a horror film. Whatever happened here was ugly and violent.
I remain on the floor until my shock dissolves into grief, but when it happens, the hole in my heart grows so big that it swallows me whole. Kalief’s face blurs behind my tears. How long has he been like this? I don’t want to believe that it’s been the entire time since I last heard from him. That would be too cruel.
I want to scream and throw things, but that would require energy that I don’t have—and what would it solve? Hell. I don’t even have enough energy to pick myself up off this floor. I’ll have to do it eventually, but what is the rush? At the moment, I need to get this cry out of my system. So I have at it. But it isn’t long before questions tumble through my mind. Why? Who? When?
With Kalief, the why could have been for any number of reasons. Kalief had accrued more enemies than friends. That was because he always had some hustle going on that required him to rob Peter to pay Paul. He had the robbing part down to a science, but that paying part didn’t happen too often. The when? Clearly it’s been at least a few days, if not the entire two weeks since I last spoke to him.
The who—my mind circles back to that enemies list. There’s only one name and one face that keeps cropping up: Diesel Carver.
“No. No. No.” I drop my head into my hands and scrub those thoughts out of my mind. I went out on that date. It erased Kalief’s debt. Why would he kill him? Would a man like Diesel really wipe out a six-figure debt for a date? There’s no point in my answering that question because anybody with the slightest lick of sense knows the answer.
“That lying, sneaky son of a bitch,” I hiss under my breath. I should kick my own ass for not realizing this shit sooner. That bastard played me—played us. The longer I sit here on this floor thinking about it, the angrier I get. It’s the anger that gives me the energy to climb up off the floor and storm out of the house.
49
Hydeya
A train of police cars races across the city. My heart hammers inside of my chest. We’re going to put something on the scoreboard for the good guys. While we can’t identify everyone on the club’s surveillance tape, I’m hoping against hope that once I get Charles “Tombstone” Barrett into the interrogation room, I can get the names of his crew. The odds are slim. But there’s a chance.
I press the accelerator all the way to the floorboard, but it seems I’m not going fast enough. “C’mon. C’mon.” I jerk in and out of lanes, drum my fingers on the steering wheel. By the time we blaze onto Ruby Cove, my car’s clock tells me the long haul only took eight minutes.
A sea of blue and white lights surrounds the Barret
ts’ residence, and to our surprise, Tombstone is already outside mobbin’ twenty deep.
“Charles Barrett, put your hands up.”
Tombstone’s shock dissolves. Steely determination is reflected in his eyes and stiff jawline. I’m not surprised when he whips out a gun.
Bad move.
All officers go into combat mode.
I grab the megaphone. “Drop the weapon!”
“Fuck you!” Tombstone puffs his chest. “Y’all niggas want a piece of me? Then come and get me, you fuckin’ pigs!”
“This is your last warning,” I yell. “You don’t have to do this!”
Tombstone cocks his head. “I know you! You’re that fucking pig that was out here looking for my sister.” He coughs up a sad laugh. “Well, bitch. If you’re still looking for her, she’s down at the cemetery. She’s down there with my girl GG. But you probably had a hand in that shit!”
I shake my head. He’s wrong. I’m more concerned about the number of cell phones being held up to capture this unraveling fiasco. The last thing this department needs is a potential fuckup to go viral.
“Charles, you don’t want to do this! Lower the weapon, and we can take you in and talk about whatever questions you may have about your sister.”
“And what about GG? Huh? I was gonna marry that girl.” He bites his lower lip and sticks his chin up even higher.
I draw a blank at the name. There’s no doubt about the naked hurt etched in his face. “We can talk about whatever you want to talk about,” I assure him, “but you’re going to have to put the weapon down!”
More people creep out from their homes to bear witness to what happens next. The night’s chill numbs my face and hands while I calculate the odds of our bringing Charles Barrett in alive—let alone getting the names of his accomplices.
Every cop’s weapon is drawn on Tombstone. We’re sitting on top of a lit powder keg.
“Lower your weapon,” I plead. I don’t want to send another body to the morgue.
Queen Divas Page 21
