“But you are an Italian-American cop. That’s a stereotype.”
He grinned. “If there wasn’t some truth to stereotypes, they wouldn’t last long enough to become stereotypes. How long do you plan to stay here?”
“I don’t know. As long as it takes.”
“You’re not married.” When she raised one brow in question, he matched her with one shoulder lifted in a negligible shrug. “Most men don’t like it when their wives move away for indefinite periods of time.”
“No,” she agreed. “I’m not married.” She’d seen little to recommend the institution. Luisa had grown old before her time, caring for a new baby every year, struggling to make ends meet, giving to her fat, lazy husband until there was nothing left for her children or herself. Selena’s teachers, her acquaintances, even Asha, who ran the gallery for her— all had been married, unhappily so, subservient to the men who controlled their lives. She had enough male domination in her life because of William. She didn’t intend to seek out more elsewhere.
“Any brothers or sisters?”
Nine half siblings at last count. Luisa had still had a few childbearing years left when Rodrigo had sent Selena away. Who knew how many babies she’d produced before nature had intervened? As for siblings on her father’s side, that was impossible to know. Not that it mattered. Unless he’d made a habit of choosing women of other races, she would have been as much an outcast with his family as she’d been with her mother’s.
“None,” she lied.
“A lonely only,” he teased. “Or is that a spoiled only?”
“A little of both.” Another lie. William was the only person who’d come close to spoiling her, and his indulgences were financial in nature, not emotional. As for loneliness . . . Breathing deeply, she pushed the thought away. Indulging in self-pity served no purpose.
The faint wail of a siren sounded in the distance, growing louder as it came closer. Detective Ceola perked up, his gaze shifting in that direction. She smiled as she murmured, “Like Pavlov’s dog.”
Once more he grinned, and once more she was struck by how it changed his appearance—or rather, her perception of it. Though portraits weren’t her strength, she would like to capture the transformation on canvas.
“I’m not drooling,” he pointed out.
“You’re also not denying that your ears pricked up, your heart rate increased a beat or two, and your curiosity was piqued.”
He brushed one hand over the hair that barely touched his right ear. “My ears don’t prick up. Besides, that’s a fire engine.”
“How can you tell?”
He gestured toward the house. “You can recognize Etta James by hearing her voice. I can recognize a Federal Q siren by hearing it.”
So he was an Etta James fan, as well. The idea of sharing interests with him made her uncomfortable.
The siren soared to its loudest, accompanied by the growl of the engine, as the vehicle sped past on a nearby street. In the quiet that followed, she covered a fake yawn with her fingers. “It’s late.”
“Yeah.” Detective Ceola pushed his chair back, the metal feet scraping the brick, then stood up. “Thanks for the wine, and welcome to the neighborhood.” Waving, he stepped from the patio into the shadows, then headed toward the rear of his house.
Rising from her chair, Selena carried the dishes inside, locked up, set the kitchen to rights, then shut off the lights. For a moment she lingered at the kitchen window, gazing at the neighboring house, dark now. Detective Ceola was an interesting man. Given the opportunity . . .
With a scowl, she turned away from the window and walked down the hall and up the stairs. She couldn’t afford any distractions, no matter how interesting.
Light spilled out at the end of the hallway from the frilly beaded lamp next to her bed, along with the sweet fragrance of the jasmine blooming on the nightstand. She dressed for bed, then sat in a wingback chair, chosen more for its style than comfort. Spine straight, nerves taut, she picked up the cell phone next to the lamp and dialed the only number in its directory.
William answered on the second ring, his tone curt. That would change, she knew, once he heard what she had to say.
“Hello, Uncle,” she said coolly. “Sorry to call you so late, but I’ve just finished having dinner with the detective who lives next door.”
Selena rose before dawn Friday. Dressed in shorts and a tank top, she sat cross-legged on a mat on the living-room floor, spine straight, eyes closed, breathing in deeply as if a balloon were expanding inside her rib cage, then exhaling slowly, slowly, as the balloon deflated.
Her yoga instructor’s soothing voice murmured inside her head, calming and guiding her attention inward, but another part of her mind remained attuned to the external—the coolness of the wood through the rug. The pendulum tick-tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway. A dog barking somewhere in the distance.
When a door closed nearby, she expelled the breath she’d been holding, got to her feet, and moved to the window, staying well back from the glass. Detective Ceola was striding along the sidewalk that connected his front stoop to the driveway, a black bag over one shoulder. He wore a dark suit with a white shirt and patterned burgundy tie. Conservative, as a good detective should be. As he passed the ’Vette, he gave it a pat.
She turned away to check the clock. Six-forty. Dr. Franklin, down the block, left five minutes later. Her husband followed half an hour after that. Once he was gone, Selena picked up the canvas bag she’d left beside the door, took her keys from the hall table, and went outside to the car. There was no sign of life on the street. She could pick the lock at any one of the houses, walk right in the front door and make herself at home, and no one would know the difference.
Instead, she drove west to River Parks, parking in the narrow lot nearest William’s estate. After pulling her braid through the back of a ball cap and adding an oversize pair of sunglasses, she carried the canvas bag to a shady spot halfway between the main gate and her car, settled down, and took a sketch pad and pen from the bag.
The morning sun bathed the house in a soft glow. In front a gardener tended the flower beds and, closer, two men stood outside the guard shack, one holding a coffee mug while the other ate a fast-food breakfast sandwich. Other than that, everything was still.
She sketched absently, not caring whether she captured the house’s grace and elegance. Though she earned a living painting beautiful houses, this one left her cold. Once this trip was over, she would be happy never to see it again.
The breakfasting guard was on his third sandwich when he abruptly went into the guard shack, then returned, hands empty. The other guard set his coffee cup inside and came back out, smoothing his shirt, adjusting his gun belt. A moment later she saw why. A Cadillac glided around from the garage at the back of the house and slowly approached the gate. One of the guards hit the button that swung the gate open, then they both stood practically at attention as William drove through with a smile and a wave.
Selena’s breath caught in her chest. This was her first glimpse of him in two years. He was a handsome man— tall, tanned, with thick hair that had gradually turned white. His eyes were blue—usually cool and distant, though at times they were fired with passion. Business inspired him; so did the prospect of her joining him in that business.
She had come to believe that was the reason he’d rescued her. Not because it was the decent thing to do. Not because he was kind and generous, but because a man wanted to leave something behind, and wanted someone to leave it to. He’d had the something in his business, but, divorced and childless, he’d lacked the someone.
Until he’d found her. He’d groomed her, pushed her, tantalized her with images of the two of them working together, like a real father and daughter. In the beginning she had been willing, but then she’d learned the truth about his business.
Her dignified, elegant Uncle William was nothing more than a drug dealer.
And no matter how grateful she
was to him, she couldn’t allow herself to become one, too.
At the first break in traffic, he turned north on Riverside. Quickly she stowed her supplies in the bag, then jogged back to her car. He’d traveled nearly a mile by the time she sighted him again, heading toward downtown Tulsa. What kind of career did he dabble in to create a front for his criminal activities? she wondered as she settled in four cars behind him. Business of some sort, no doubt, dealing with money. Money and the power it brought were his gods; wheeling and dealing, his idea of entertainment.
He turned onto Sixth Street, then into the Civic Center parking lot. She couldn’t follow, not without the risk of discovery, so she circled the area. Besides the Civic Center itself, the lot provided parking for the complex of government buildings located there—city hall, the police department, the courthouse, and, across the street to the north, the federal courthouse.
He wasn’t likely to have an office in any of those buildings, so perhaps he’d merely been making a visit, she admitted a short time later when she’d driven through the lot twice without finding his car. While she’d been dallying to ensure he wouldn’t see her, apparently he’d left again. Maybe he hadn’t even stopped. Maybe he’d suspected he was being followed and had merely pulled through the lot to exit on the opposite side.
But that was all right. She was nothing if not patient.
5
Friday found Tony in a north Tulsa cemetery in ninety-degree heat to see Grover Washington laid to rest— or, more accurately, to see who else came to see him laid to rest.
The family had forgone the church service for graveside rites. Most of the mourners were gathered under the big green tent erected by the cemetery. He and Simmons had taken shelter in the shade of a scraggly cedar, near enough to see and hear the proceedings, far enough away to give the mourners some privacy. Cars lined the narrow road behind them, including the surveillance van off to the west, where another detective, Darnell Garry, was set up with a camera.
Tony wondered if one of the three dozen or so men was Marcell. The computer had given him a last name— Napier—and an old booking photo that could have matched any number of people. His last known address was an overgrown lot littered with debris from a house fire four years ago. The utility companies had no accounts in his name, his driver’s license showed another no-good address, and there was no current vehicle registration under that name in the state. Tony had even tried Voter Registration—as if Grover’s type bothered being responsible citizens—but had come up blank.
None of which meant Napier wasn’t living and doing business right there in town, and quite possibly standing across the cemetery from them.
“Is that the flowers smelling, or Fat Grover?” Simmons whispered as the breeze carried a sickly sweet odor their way.
“Hard to tell.” The flowers were wilting fast under the midday sun, as were many of the mourners.
“If I go before you, have me cremated,” Simmons said. “Don’t let Suz lay me out in the sun for two hours of wailing and moaning.”
“Suz doesn’t have two hours of wailing and moaning in her, at least not for you.”
“Jeez, how long can this go on?”
Tony’s narrow look was lost on Simmons because of his sunglasses. “You’re not Catholic, are you, Frankie?” he asked dryly. “A funeral mass can last long enough to make you wish you were dead.”
He scanned the crowd again. He’d already picked out Mae Washington in the front row, flanked by LaShandra Banks and another woman, all three dressed in black and wearing elaborate hats. There were plenty of other familiar faces—people he’d interviewed with regard to the murders, people he’d arrested, people he’d taken reports from as victims. He had a great memory for faces and names, dates and circumstances, crimes and punishments. Some of them ignored him and Simmons. Others watched them as steadily as they were being watched.
“You ever see that movie The Big Easy?” Simmons asked.
“Several times.”
“You know the scene where they go to investigate the triple homicide, and everybody in the neighborhood is stirred up outside the house? One of ’em says, ‘Don’t be lookin’ at us, ’cause you did it,’ or something like that. That’s what they’re thinking every time one of them looks over here.”
Have you considered the possibility that the vigilante could be a cop? Marla had asked. How could he not, when everyone else was considering it? But it wasn’t him, or Frank, or anyone else he worked with. He couldn’t do anything about the uneasy relations between the police and the black community, other than what he’d always done—his job, as professionally and fairly as he knew how—but he knew one thing for sure: He was just as willing to put away a dirty cop as any other bad guy.
Finally the last prayers were said and the mourners began to gather around Mae to express their sympathies. The pastor stood at her side, one arm around her waist.
“Looky who’s over there,” Simmons said, pointing toward the far side of the grave. “Jerome Little.”
Tony’s gaze went straight to the man Grover Washington had once beaten into a coma. Thin, wiry, the guy didn’t weigh a hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet, but he had a mouth on him that would do an eight-hundred-pound gorilla proud. “What do you wanna bet he’s none too broken up over Grover’s passing?”
“Don’t you know it. I think I’ll amble over and say ‘Hello.’ You gonna look for Marcell?”
“Yeah.” But what were the odds, Tony wondered, heading for the family as Simmons angled off toward Little, of a white cop walking up to a bunch of black men at a black drug-dealer’s funeral and getting a straight answer about anyone’s identity?
LaShandra was standing near Grover’s mother, gold and diamonds glinting brightly in the sun. She looked neither pleased nor displeased to see him, merely resigned. “That’s some job you’ve got, Detective, hanging out at graveyards and intruding on people’s grief.”
“I’m only here because it’s part of the investigation. I try my best not to intrude.”
She studied him a moment before pulling a pair of sunglasses from her purse. “Okay. Let’s say you’re trying to find whoever killed Grover. What do you want from me?”
“Marcell Napier. Is he here?”
“I told you the other day, I don’t know him.”
“Maybe some of these other people do.”
“Then ask them.”
He smiled faintly. “You know they’ll be more likely to answer if you ask.”
She smiled, too. “People tend to get evasive when you come around with your badge and your gun, don’t they?” After looking around for a moment, she brought her gaze back to him. “You want to tag along or wait here?”
“I’ll wait. Tell them I just want to ask Marcell a few questions.”
“Oh, yeah, that’ll reassure them.”
He took shelter again under a tree and watched her move from group to group. He got a lot of stares, saw some heads shaking no, and caught a few reactions that could only be considered hostile. When LaShandra returned, perspiration dotted her face and made him aware of the sweat trickling down his own spine.
“Marcell wasn’t here. Tiny says he’s staying with a cousin in south Tulsa. Deion says he’s moved out West. Kendra says she saw him last week and might see him again. She says she’ll let me know if she does.”
“And you’ll let me know?”
The look she gave him could have melted ice in January. “The boy isn’t of any interest to me. Now, unless you have any other errands you’d like me to do for you, I’m going to get out of this heat.”
“Thanks, LaShandra. I appreciate it.”
He headed toward his car and the surveillance van parked where the road curved back around to the cemetery exit. Halfway there he spotted a familiar figure, out of sight of the mourners, behind a big oak. Thinking longingly of air-conditioning, Tony turned in his direction.
Javier Perkins was thin in that painful way caused by too much booze and drug
s and too little of anything good for him—food, sleep, a clear conscience. He wore a long-sleeved shirt that covered the needle tracks, and shifted his weight from side to side. “Hey, Chee,” he greeted Tony, his voice raspy.
“Javier. You paying your respects to the Washington family or looking for me?”
“Looking for you.” Javier took a drag from his cigarette, then blew out a thin plume of acrid smoke. “I figured you’d be here.”
“You know if you want to talk to me, you can call.” Back when Tony had worked Burglary, he’d cultivated Javier as an informant. In spite of his addictions, his information was generally reliable, but he offered it only when he was short on cash and needed a fix.
Javier shuffled his feet, his gaze darting around the area. “Yeah, well, I don’t like to call if I can avoid it.”
Tony leaned one shoulder against the tree. Everyone else was heading for their cars while, off in the distance, the cemetery crew waited to finish their job. “You have some information for me?”
“Y-yeah, I do.” Drawing a handkerchief from his pants pocket, Javier wiped the sweat that beaded his forehead. When Tony had first turned him, he’d figured he was an old guy—late fifties, early sixties. It had been a shock to discover that the man wasn’t even forty yet. “It’s about Washington.”
“What about him?”
“I, uh, I was over there—in that area—the night . . . the night him and them others was killed. I, uh, s-s-saw . . .” Realizing his cigarette had burned to the filter, Javier dropped it to the ground, shook another from the package, and stuck it between his lips, but his hands were too unsteady to light it.
Tony took the matchbook from him, lit the cigarette, then ground out the butt in the grass. “What did you see?”
“Them.” He jerked his head in the direction of the grave. “At that house. The one where everyone hangs out, you know? Where they was killed. And—and—and the man. The man what did it.”
The Assassin Page 8
