The smell of sweat was so strong that James wanted to gag, but he thought it would’ve been unmanly. Guys were supposed to be used to the smell of jock sweat. He peeled himself out of the navy blue suit he’d worn on Monday, planned to take to the dry cleaners on Wednesday, but had instead run an iron over this morning and thrown back on. It had shiny spots on the sleeves and pants legs from the steam iron. James didn’t care. He wasn’t trying to win any fashion awards.
His thick wooly hair had begun to grow into an Afro and his goatee was growing into a full beard. As he looked in the mirror, even he had to admit he looked like shit. He decided to shave the beard before going out into the gym. Captain Kelly was probably trying to find the right time to comment on his grooming. James decided to save the Captain the trouble. He watched his ragged beard disappear down the sink as he ran the electric shaver across his cheeks.
As his moustache and beard fell away, a face emerged that was almost handsome. James allowed himself a brief moment of vanity when he looked at his smooth chocolate skin, bow-shaped lips, high cheekbones, and dark, almond-shaped eyes. He tried to see what CC saw in him and, for a moment, he could see a man who was at least mildly attractive. He checked to make sure he was alone before he flexed his powerfully muscled chest and arms in the mirror. They were his finest assets. If he could only get rid of his gut he might even manage to be sexy. He laughed at the idea of himself as a sex symbol. He knew what had always gotten him over with the women were his gentle manner and his sweet talk.
Unlike most men, James had never been afraid to be corny. He would shower women with compliments and poetry and they invariably fell before the onslaught. It was the same technique he used with witnesses and occasionally with suspects as well.
After he’d freed his face from its fur coat, he quickly shrugged his thick stubby legs into a pair of satin Ringside boxing shorts and a Joe Boxer tank top. He walked back into the gym, wrapping his fists in long yellow Mexican hand wraps with a pair of Reyes bag gloves tucked under his arm. Captain Kelly was still on the bench press, straining beneath what James estimated to be 425 pounds. James picked up a jump rope with one-pound weights in the handle and began skipping rope. He watched the clock while he twirled the heavy rope faster and faster.
Over and over, the image of Baltimore’s corpse slithered its way into James’s thoughts. He tried to concentrate on the workout, but his anger kept getting in the way. He wondered where Reed Cozen had gone and what he planned to do with Baltimore’s gun. If he had gone after Malcolm, they’d no doubt be finding another mutilated and cannibalized corpse soon. Then Malcolm would disappear and they’d have no way of finding him again. Not until he started to kill again in some other city, some other state, where they were less equipped to deal with evil of that magnitude.
For some reason, James could never skip rope with shoes on. They threw off his rhythm. He often paid for this inability with scraped and bruised toes. The rope cracked against James’s toes whenever he missed a turn. He bit his bottom lip and cursed under his breath. He started jumping again, once again struck his toes, then threw the rope across the room into a corner. Captain Kelly looked up from the bench, but said nothing. James slid the bag gloves on and began pounding the heavy bag with all the strength and speed he could muster. He imagined the eighty-pound leather bag was Malcolm, and he pounded his fists into it with increasing ferocity, grunting with each shot. Rather than making him feel better, it was beginning to depress him. The bag wouldn’t go down. It just bounced right back. To James, it seemed like an omen.
Captain Kelly walked over to the curl bar to do some bicep curls. James began beating the stuffing out of the heavy bag, grunting and cursing. His short muscular arms were pumping faster and faster as jabs, hooks, and straight rights flew in rapid, vicious, combinations. James bobbed and slipped punches from his imaginary opponent then countered with vicious body shots and hooks. He looked insane. James threw one more violent flurry. The bag nearly bounced off its chain. He stood still, breathing hard and staring at the bag as if he believed he could disintegrate it with his eyes.
“James? Are you okay?” the captain asked.
“No. Not at all. My partner is dead.”
“I think maybe you should take a break for a while. Maybe use up some of those sick days and see Dr. West.”
“I’m not crazy, Roy. I’m just pissed off. I think I have a right to be angry. Our boys fucked up and now my partner’s dead. You should have let me kick every one of their asses. The whole damn task force is useless!”
“James, Malcolm killed Detective Baltimore. Not Trinidad, not Nellis, not Wilson, not Jones, not Lieutenant Woo. Malcolm is the one who needs his ass kicked.”
James fell silent for a long moment. He stared at his feet with his hands clenched into tight fists. He was sweating so heavily it was forming a puddle at his feet.
“Look James, it’s okay to be pissed off. It’s okay to be a little scared. After what happened, I’d be kinda worried if you weren’t both. But you cannot let that fuck up this investigation. I talked to Lieutenant Woo last night. He’s going to be taking a more active role in the investigation, which means you’re gonna have to start acting like part of the task force. If you want to remain a part of this investigation, you’re gonna have to start checking in with Woo and getting your assignments from him. I can’t have you going renegade on this one. I gotta cover my ass, too. So just do this by the numbers.”
“Yeah, right. Whatever.”
The door to the gym opened and Detective Vargas strolled in grinning.
“We finally got a muthafuckin’ lead!”
“What have you got?”
“Paul Cooper, Malcolm’s little butt buddy, the one you found filleted the other day? Well, he had credit cards, platinum ones, close to twenty thousand dollars in credit. We didn’t find any cards when we searched the apartment. We checked all over and couldn’t find any identification of any kind.”
“How the hell does a street prostitute get twenty thousand dollars in credit?” Captain Kelly asked.
James shook his head in amazement and chuckled, thinking about how he was turned down at Sears for six hundred dollars of credit to buy a refrigerator.
“Cooper was a long way from a street prostitute. Before he died, he was working for an escort company that specialized in creative fantasy experiences. The place was perfectly legal. They even filed taxes,” Vargas said.
“Let me guess. Cooper’s particular specialty involved bullwhips and cattle prods? Creative fantasy experience,” James laughed.
“Cooper was pulling down about five thousand a night.”
“Five Thousand! Dollars? Some rich faggot pays this guy what . . . a thousand dollars a pop just so he can beat the shit out of him? What the fuck is wrong with this world?”
“The dude who ran the place said it was all pretty mild, no real sadistic stuff, and there was absolutely no sex. All those scars and bruises must have come from Cooper’s personal life.”
“Like he’s going to admit that he has guys coming to him, paying for violent sex,” James barked.
“Okay, so what happened to the cards?” Captain Kelly interrupted.
“You think Malcolm took them?” James asked, hopeful but skeptical.
“This morning we ran his Visa and American Express cards and they’ve been used twice since Cooper’s murder and guess what the purchases were?” Vargas asked, drawing it out like a good joke, building the suspense, waiting to spring the punch line.
“What?” the Captain asked.
“Someone spent close to five thousand dollars at Kran Brothers on Seventh and South. You know that fancy menswear shop? I called down there and they said a tall, bald, black guy came in and bought one black Armani suit two days ago and then just this morning he came in and bought a Hugo Boss suit, size fifty-two extra-long, and a pair of black, lizard skin Stacy Adams, size fifteen.”
“Mu-tha-fucker. I just can’t believe the balls on this sonuvabitch! H
e kills a cop one day and then goes shopping the next? We just can’t be as stupid as this guy thinks we are!” James threw his hands up in exasperation.
“You mean to tell me this bastard’s picture is all over the news and nobody in the store recognized him?”
“I asked them that, too. The two old Italian guys that work there, they own the place, they said they work all day and when they get home they’re too tired to watch TV. Said they knew there was some guy out there killing people, but they had no idea what he looked like.”
“Yeah, and they were probably in too much of a hurry to sell one of their expensive-ass, over-priced suits to worry about little things like getting an ID with that credit card. Do you really buy that they didn’t know Malcolm’s description? A six-foot black vampire? His description has been getting as much attention as the murders themselves!”
“Do you think he’ll use the cards again?” Captain Kelly asked.
James bit his lip hard, trying not to scream. He stalked back and forth like a panther in a cage. The captain was staring at him. Detective Vargas was staring at him, too.
Fuck ‘em both, James thought.
“Uh . . . I don’t know. I mean he’s a cocky enough but he’s not stupid, either. I’m sure he knew he was taking a risk buying that suit. I can’t see why he even did it. It would be crazy for him to try it again.”
“Malcolm ain’t crazy. He wants us to think he is. But he ain’t crazy. He’s just bad, just fuckin’ evil.” Spit flew from his lips as James spoke. Suddenly self-conscious, he wiped his mouth with his sweaty hand wrap and fell silent again.
Captain Kelly turned away from James and looked at Detective Vargas.
“What the hell are you wearing? What do you think—you’re back in Vice?”
Vargas was wearing an oversized Ben Davis shirt, oversized FUBU jeans that hung low off his ass, revealing the tops of his red and white checkered boxer shorts, a pair of black and white Air Jordans, and black gangster loc sunglasses. With his hair slicked back, he looked like a Mexican gang-banger.
“Sorry, Captain. The Lieutenant thought it would be a good idea to go undercover and check out Malcolm’s old neighborhood. See if any of his old homeboys know where he’s hiding out.”
“Yeah, but this is Philly, not LA in the nineties. Nobody dresses like that out here! You’re Puerto Rican. Do any of your friends dress like that? You go into G-town lookin’ like American Me and they’ll have you made in a second. Go change your damn clothes will you and take James to get a damn haircut. I’ve been trying not to say anything, but you look like shit, James. Well, at least you shaved, but that haircut is way past regulation.”
“Yeah, I’ll take care of it.”
“It’s almost time for the morning briefing.”
James rolled his eyes.
“And you will be there, James. By the numbers. You hear me?”
“Yes, Sir!”
“Fuck you, James. Just be there.”
Captain Kelly walked into the locker room and James followed. Vargas was still standing there, looking at himself in the mirror. James shook his head. The guy watched too many hip-hop videos. Out of the corner of his eye, James caught Captain Kelly staring at him again, visibly troubled.
“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay, James? I mean, you just lost your partner. It might not be a bad idea to take a few days off.”
“And how many people will die while I’m home convalescing?”
“You are not the task force, James. You are part of the task force. The investigation can and will go on if you need to take a rest.”
“Yeah, I’ll think about it.”
“One more thing. We’re still focusing on Malcolm here. We have an all points bulletin out on Reed Cozen, but forensics found skin under Baltimore’s fingernails, black skin. He must’ve scratched Malcolm during the attack. So that pretty much lets Cozen off the hook for the murder.”
“He might still have been an accomplice. He and Malcolm could’ve set Baltimore up.”
“Do you honestly think Cozen might be involved?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. Until we know for sure, we gotta consider him armed and dangerous.”
“Yeah, but you know what it’s like out there. What if he’s innocent and he winds up getting gunned down by some overzealous cop? A murderer that we failed to catch kills his family and then we murder the guy. The press will crucify us.”
“Captain, there is no way we’re gonna come out of this looking good. We’re already screwed so fuck the public relations.”
The captain held up a hand to silence him.
“We got the DNA tests back from the lab.”
“You can’t get DNA tests done in less than a week.”
“No, you can’t get DNA tests done in less than a week. I can hire another lab to do all our tests if those bastards don’t rush a little when we need them. Anyway, the semen we found in Mrs. Cozen didn’t match the DNA samples we took from Mr. Cozen. Now, I’m willing to go out on a limb and say Mr. Cozen might want to kill his wife, but it’s hard to imagine that he’d let a guy fuck her in front of him and his kids. I say bring Malcolm in dead or alive, but handle Reed with kid gloves. The guy’s innocent, James. We can’t afford more bad press on this. We’ve already made enough embarrassing mistakes on this case to put all our pensions in jeopardy.”
“Yeah, like getting Titus killed.” James balled his hands up into tight fists and stared at them.
“James, enough. I need you on this. All of you. If you can’t put this behind you . . .”
“I’m not taking a vacation, Roy. Let’s just do everything we can to catch this bastard. Once his ass is in jail, the press will forget all about how badly we fucked up the investigation. Until then, I’m the only one whose pension’s in jeopardy. You’ll be fine. You always are.”
“We’re in this together, Detective.”
“Okay, Captain. Whatever you say.”
“I keep thinking about the cop who returned that little Asian boy to Jeffrey Dahlmer’s apartment. After Dahlmer was caught is when all that information came out and the shit hit the fan. The press crucified that guy. I wonder what mistakes they’ll dig up from this investigation?”
“Sorry, Roy. But you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t give a fuck. I just want to catch this asshole.”
James dropped his shorts and stalked off into the shower. He turned back around and looked at Captain Kelly in amazement.
“Were any of Titus’s credit cards missing?”
“His what?”
“Credit cards! Did we check his wallet and make sure everything was still there?”
“No.”
“Damn it! If that bastard buys a suit on Titus’s credit he’ll never see the inside of a courtroom! I promise you that. I’ll shoot him dead on sight!”
“You might have to wait in line.”
PART II
Malcolm and Reed
XXX.
It was the first time since the ordeal began that the tears came uncontrollably. Sobs racked his body as grief overwhelmed him. He felt empty, like some vital part of him had been unceremoniously excised and lost forever. His life was over. He had lived the last ten years for his wife and family and they were dead. So were the next ten years of his life he and Linda had planned out so meticulously.
The dream of Linda owning her own vegetarian restaurant—dead. The dream of finally writing an award winning novel—dead. Buying Linda a larger stone for her engagement ring—dead. Putting Mark and Jennie in private school—dead. He and Linda joining a gym and working out together—dead. Vacationing in Thailand—dead. Growing old and retiring in Las Vegas—dead. All of his dreams died the night Linda, Jennie and Mark were murdered, and he knew he would most likely be dead soon, too. Still, he had to try, for his family. He had to try to stop Malcolm.
Reed cried so hard he had difficulty steering the 2008 Ford Taurus through the cracked and potholed streets of Germantown. He thought he saw Malcolm
in every black face he passed. This was Malcolm’s neighborhood and he was omnipresent, a dark shadow of menace that seemed to fill every nook and crevice with the threat of violence. Reed started questioning himself, doubting the sanity of going after Malcolm in his own neighborhood.
If I have to confront this monster, shouldn’t I at least do it on my own terms, in a place where I would have the advantage, where I might at least stand a chance?
This was suicide. But perhaps it would give him the element of surprise. Reed laughed. The sound of his own laughter frightened him. It had been so long since he’d heard it. It sounded warped, insane. He was so scared, angry, emotionally exhausted, it felt like he was losing his mind.
It had been fifteen years since Reed last came to Germantown. He hadn’t been avoiding the place. He just never had a reason to go there. He drove slowly up Germantown Avenue while memories of his first few trips into G-town came back to him in a thrilling rush of frightening, amusing, exhilarating emotions. Even knowing how it all ended, his emotions were conflicted as he recalled his past with Malcolm. Much of who he was, many of the things he liked most about himself, he owed to Malcolm. He was a shy little nerd who everyone overlooked until Malcolm took an interest in him. Malcolm taught him to believe in himself and his abilities because Malcolm had believed in him. Malcolm showed him things about himself and the world he might never have seen.
Reed crept his vehicle past the rows of seedy bars. In front of these graffiti-covered, rundown establishments, teenaged drug dealers “slang rocks” and crack-whores peddled their diseased sex. He recalled when Malcolm smacked a young drug dealer outside the AMPM mini-market, seventeen years ago, for offering him crack.
“Do I look like a fucking piper to you fool? Huh? You think I use that shit? Don’t you ever insult me like that again muthafucka! Ever!”
He grabbed the young dealer by his leather jacket and cracked the back of his hand across the guy’s mouth with a sound like a gunshot. The kid reached into his pocket and fumbled out a small, silver, automatic pistol. Malcolm paid no attention to the gun. He slapped him again and again. He didn’t even respect the guy enough to punch him. The drug dealer dropped the gun and Malcolm slapped him again. The kid turned to run and Malcolm kicked him, stomping down on his tailbone so hard the guy’s knees hit the pavement. All the other dealers started laughing and cheering. Malcolm reached down, picked up the kid’s gun, then turned to look at the other “slangers” with an expression of utter disgust. They all stopped laughing. Malcolm turned and threw the gun in the trash.
Pure Hate Page 17
