I found Ray and two officers in my bedroom. "What's happening?"
He pointed to the telltale signs. "We dusted for prints."
"Fingerprinting for a simple burglary?" I asked.
"I'm not sure it's simple. Your involvement with the Hutchinson case should have stopped when he died. This seems to be too closely connected."
"Coincidence?"
"No. You had the prowlers a few days ago, and now this. Someone is looking to get under your skin. Someone who knows your habits."
"Why? I'm no threat to anyone."
"Maybe they don't know that."
One of the young officers interrupted. "Ray, we about done here?"
"Looks like it."
"Fine, we're outta here."
We watched them leave. One rattled the door to be sure the door locked behind him. I turned to Ray, then waved my hands around my bedroom. "Look at this mess."
"I'll help you with it."
"Would you really?"
He wiped my tears away with his warm fingertips. Then I felt his hands on my shoulders. I looked up as he bent down and kissed me on the forehead.
"Let's get to work," he said, stepping away. "I'll bring you up to date on what's been going on."
The stuffing from my comforter and pillows littered the room. Upended drawers crowded the floor near the dresser, but none appeared broken at first glance. Besides the pile of torn clothing that had hidden Sunshine, a second and larger pile covered the closet floor. Empty shoeboxes crowned the pile. Several pairs of shoes lay ruined, their straps cleanly sliced with, perhaps, the same knife that ruined my bedding.
I stripped the slashed linen off my bed, casting it into a pile in front of the door. I was thankful to see the mattress remained intact, except for a single shallow gouge near the foot. After we flipped the abused side down, I retrieved clean sheets from the closet and began to make the bed. Ray grabbed the other side. We'd done this before. "So," I said, stretching the last corner of the fitted sheet into place, "what's the news you were going to tell me?"
"First, Jamel Hutchinson and his source had a parting of the ways. Unless he's reconnected, he isn't dealing at the moment."
"That would explain his need of money from his mother."
"True, but he is still in debt to the man for missing merchandise. The word is they had a problem over the money, and the supplier cut him off until he settles his debt."
"Maybe he was looking for something to sell here?"
"We don't know it was him. And, most of your valuables are in large electronics, not little bedroom items."
"He wouldn't know that."
"You're not exactly bedecked with jewels." He pulled the top corner of the old comforter I'd taken from the closet until it was smooth. "Don't get me wrong. I think Hutchinson and his friend were in here, but I think they want to scare you off, not rob you."
"But—" There was no reason to debate the issue. Besides, I thought Ray was right. "Are Jamel's prints on file?"
"Yup." He pulled the bedside table back into position and straightened the lamp. "I told the guys to check his first. If there's a match, we can pick him up."
"I'll stake my life on it."
"I hope you haven't already." He pointed to a pile of clothes in the corner. "What are you going to do with those?"
"Go through them, I guess." I shrugged. "Why would they just throw the clothes on the floor?"
"To aggravate you." He turned his back and left the room, returning a minute later with Sunshine in his arms. "I thought he'd be happier in here watching us." He laid the dog on my fresh, clean pillows and began sorting the clothing on the closet floor.
I watched him toss some of my favorite blouses onto the trash pile in front of the door. I began to do the same with the pile in the corner. Most of what I found appeared in good shape. I started a second pile of things to launder. I didn't want to wear something next to my skin that had been touched by the thugs. God only knows what I'd catch.
As he worked, Ray resumed his report. "You know Calvin Wiggins?"
"Sure. When I was on the force, he was an active informant on local gang activity."
"Now he's a crack head and fading fast. He was more than willing to give me info for a twenty yesterday." He tossed a blouse onto the trash pile.
I cringed—another favorite. "And?"
"He claims he overheard one of the brothers talking about a job. He's sure it was the hit on Hutchinson because there was a side comment about not getting the rest of the payment because the mark lived and had to be finished off in the hospital."
"I can't imagine there being two of those incidents without you knowing about it."
He nodded.
"Did you pick up the hit man?"
"No, we can't find him. We have a name, address, and description. It's only a matter of time. The other interesting thing is the brother was braggin' about having an Uzi Parabellum."
"What significance is that?" I finished sorting my pile and sat on the bed, leaning to reach Sunshine's head. He scooted close to me so I could reach his ears. He acted uncomfortable, and I avoided his chest and the side of his head with the missing tooth.
"Uses nine millimeter ammo. Fits. I think you were right about it being one shooter and one gun. The M.E. guesses a similar sized weapon made all the wounds, but because of the time elapsing between the hit and Hutchinson dying, he can't tell for sure. All of the shells and the slugs at the scene support the one-shooter theory." He sat next to me. "We're looking under every rock and in every crack. He's a known bad guy, but we've never been able to make anything stick. We want to take him down on this one and get him off the streets."
"Think they had anything to do with the break-in here?"
"No, no, I don't. What I figure is someone, perhaps Jamel Hutchinson, put out the contract. I don't find any direct connection between him and the suspected hit man, though I believe they are acquaintances. Everyone pretty much knows everyone on that level."
"Makes sense." I continued to pamper the dog for a long moment. "What I can't figure out is why Jamel wants to threaten me. I'm no danger to him."
"We'll have to ask him."
"Something doesn't connect. I've hardly talked to the kid. He can't know I've been poking around."
We continued to discuss the possibilities for several minutes until Ray looked at his watch. "It's midnight. Been a long day." He yawned.
"Go home." I stood and picked up the dog.
"I thought I'd stay here."
I pointed in the direction of the other side of the house. "Knock yourself out. The linen is clean in the spare bedroom, and there are towels hanging in the bathroom."
I saw a flash of disappointment cross his face. He shrugged his shoulders. "That'll work fine. I don't want you alone and at risk if those clowns decide to finish the job."
"I'm sorry. The truth is I don't know what I would have done if you refused to come, and I appreciate your staying. I'm not . . . I don't . . ."
"I know." He leaned close to me, being careful not to squeeze the dog between us. He kissed me on the forehead. "I'll sleep better knowing you're okay." He left the room.
I watched from my bedroom door as he wandered around the house turning off lights and checking the locks. Though it'd been a long while since he lived in the house, he didn't forget a thing.
I suppose he slept better. I, on the other hand, didn't sleep a wink. I wasn't thinking about the intruders. I couldn't get the man in the spare room off my mind. In the morning, I stayed in bed and played dead until I heard him lock the front door behind him, then I crawled out. It was a few minutes after six, but I had a lot of cleaning and more sorting to do.
26
Early Saturday morning, I dressed in short-shorts and a halter-top and went out in the yard to finish the work begun earlier in the week. The morning was cloudy and cool, unusual for the weekend before Memorial Day. A hint of a breeze refreshed my bare arms and legs. Even so, within ten minutes, my scanty clothin
g clung to my sweat-drenched skin.
First, I clipped the hibiscus growing next to my screened patio—I wanted a clear view. Then I did the same with the cherry hedge growing outside the fence. At last, I tackled the allamanda growth on the east side, hacking it down as best I could while cursing the fibrous tendrils I'd woven through the chain link fencing during an earlier yard-tending frenzy. When I finished, the foliage around my house wasn't as lush and full. There were fewer places to hide. Purpose accomplished.
Ray had slept in my guest room again the previous night. The whole thing was getting too close for comfort, and I intended to provide for my own safety and protection. Not that I didn't appreciate his concern. I did, but I had entertained notions about offering him warmer sleeping accommodations. Not a good thing.
The next item on my agenda called for improved outside lighting. Because I'm no electrician, I made my selections under the helpful guidance of the Home Depot man. I screwed a spotlight on a swivel in over the garage side door and illuminated the east side of the house. Knowing it was against the building code, I tacked extension cords under the eaves in the rear of the house for more spots—a more permanent solution waited on improved cash flow. My neighbor to the west had an outside light that was always on. With his permission, I bought a stronger bulb for his light and a black-out shade to fit under the blinds in my bedroom. Then I installed floodlights around the front of the house. There was already wiring in place, and the plug-in variety worked fine.
The light in my life pleased me, and my right hip and thigh ached from the manual labor.
I hated alarm systems in houses, but I ordered one installed anyway, the project being beyond my do-it-yourselfer's capability. My house was small with thirteen doors and windows total. The installation took the technician a couple of hours, and by two o'clock I had myself buttoned up tighter than a snail in my hibiscus bed. The single weakness in the defense system was Sunshine's doggy door. The alarm guy and I decided I'd latch it at night. The truth is the door is too small for anyone but the smallest child to crawl through.
***
I hadn't talked to Vanessa since Tuesday. She required consistent attention from her friends and enjoyed surprise visits. Even though her former husband, Craig, was a monster, she grieved the loss of her marriage and got melancholy and lonely at predictable hormonal intervals. I believed it was the real reason she worked excessive overtime. True, she needed the money, now even more because of the high interest she'd have when she closed on the townhouse, but she had few other expenses. They were married for twenty years, and I entertained the idea that her only goal had been staying in his good graces so he wouldn't beat her.
I showered, slipped on a denim mini-skirt, a cropped stretch top, and my favorite red sandals, then headed out the door. I'd run to Vanessa's and take her a cup of java. If she wasn't home, I'd do my monthly grocery shopping. The trip wouldn't be a total waste.
Vanessa lived in an apartment on the far west side of Tamarac. The older building once served as a seniors-only condo. The families of the dearly-departed former owners were turning it into rentals one death and estate settlement at a time. Because of the increasing number of rentals, the remaining units lost value, forcing more leases as families tried to get a return from the property. The new owners gained control of the condo board, voting a change in the bylaws to accommodate their own agendas. I understood why, but I felt sorry for the elderly residents dealing with young, often lower income, noisy neighbors. Vanessa's building, like many in the immediate area, needed paint and a thorough cleaning.
She picked the apartment because it sat in the middle of the building on the third floor, claiming the location protected her. There was an outside staircase on each end of the building and a central elevator. Rusting wrought iron railing edged the open-balcony corridors.
I climbed the stairs, taking the opportunity to provide some focused exercise to my right hip and thigh. Nearing the top, I stopped to rest and allow the cramping pain to subside. That's when I noticed a strange car in Vanessa's parking space. I glanced around the parking lot and didn't see her Camaro. Maybe she wasn't home, I thought, resuming my climb.
"Van, where's your car?" I said when she opened the solid inside door. She didn't open the screen door. She wore a wrinkled housecoat and looked like she hadn't combed her hair.
"Oh, it's in the shop." Her voice sounded flat. "That's a loaner the mechanic let me use since I had to go to work."
I looked her over. "You work all night?"
"No, just until maybe one. I . . . I don't feel very good, that's all. That's why I'm not dressed." She stepped away from the door.
"Aren't you going to ask me in? I thought I'd have a cup of coffee with you if you feel like it." I held up the two cups of designer coffee I'd purchased. "Your favorite."
"Oh, okay." She slowly turned the lock on the screen door and opened it.
"If you don't feel well, I'll leave and go shopping. I haven't talked to you in a couple of days and thought I'd stop by. I'm sorry I didn't call first."
"It's okay, Sophia, really it is. Come on in." Her cheerfulness sounded contrived. "Let me put on a pot of coffee, then I'll get dressed. It's about time I move my ass anyway."
"I brought the coffee." I held the cups higher.
"That's nice."
She laid out napkins and sweet rolls. When she disappeared into the bedroom, I took the opportunity to wander around the small apartment. I found it odd that although she and Craig divorced over two years earlier, she kept a formal portrait of the man displayed in her living room. Even more unusual was the recent snap shot of him slipped into the edge of the frame.
When she reappeared, I said, "Is Craig in town?"
"I think he is. Why do you ask?"
"I don't remember seeing the new picture of him, and you're acting strange."
Her attire struck me as less than appropriate as well. Though the day started out pleasant enough, it was now close to ninety, and she had exchanged her long sleeved, floor-length bathrobe for slacks and a long-sleeved shirt.
"I don't feel strange."
"Then why are you all covered in the middle of a Florida heat wave? My God girl, it's hotter than hell outside."
"You know I'm cold a lot. It's nothing, really." She pointed to her dining room table. "Have a seat. I'll get the milk." When Vanessa returned, she poured an ounce of milk into my coffee. "Sugar?"
"Vanessa, we've been drinking coffee together for almost four years. I take mine black."
"Oh, of course. How stupid of me. Sorry. Sorry." She picked up my cup and hurried from the room. "How stupid of me. I'm sorry."
I followed her into the kitchen. "Vanessa, it's okay really." I put my hands on her upper arms, but she jerked and pulled away. "Now, tell me. What's wrong? Has Craig been here picking on you again?"
"No. No. Not that."
"Then why are you frightened?"
"Sophia, let's just have our coffee. There's nothing wrong. Really."
I didn't believe her protests. When I asked to use her bathroom, I glanced into her bedroom on the way by, confirming my suspicions. A duffel bag sat open on the floor of the bedroom, and an extra damp towel hung on the shower rod. I peeked into the medicine cabinet and found a new can of shaving cream and a modest selection of men's toiletries. The smell of aftershave hung in the air. I didn't recognize the brand. Craig. No doubt about it.
We talked about work for several minutes, then I couldn't stand it any longer. "Vanessa, how could you let him into your life after all he did to you?" I remembered the bruises, the unexplained broken arm, and the fractured jaw right before the sheriff hauled him away.
"You don't understand. He's changed. I know he has. And, I'm lonely. I've been afraid to date, afraid he'd find out and come after me. Now he's here." Her eyes darted around the room, never resting more than a second on anything. "It'll be different this time."
"You're not acting like it's different. You're acting like you did before h
e broke your jaw."
"No, you're wrong. He's different. You'll see."
"You know the ropes, but let's review. Do you have a plan? Are you ready to run if you have to?" For a woman in an abusive relationship—usually the woman was the victim—one of the key points was for her to have an escape plan should the abuse escalate. She would have to sneak out of the house or leave under the pretense of running a small errand.
"Yes, I did think of that. I'm not stupid. I have my papers and money and extra keys in my locker at work." She refused to meet my eyes. "I was going to ask you to take some clothes to your house so I could get them if I needed them."
"Of course, I will." I wanted to tell her she was obviously afraid if she had already made those preparations. But I didn't want her to retract them either.
I couldn't think of anything else so I backed-off. She'd have to make her decisions. But there was a lot that didn't add up here, and I vowed to myself to keep a better eye on Vanessa. It wouldn't be long before he beat her again, if he hadn't already.
I remembered our last day at the beach. Her body looked perfect in her bikini. At work, she always wore slacks and a long lab coat, no clues there. But last Tuesday, when we were shopping, she was covered neck to toe. Another hot day. I concluded Craig was already beating her, and she had retreated into the old patterns of the abused spouse. The more I thought about it, her behavior, her attire, the more convinced I became. That, and a ten-spot, would get me a second cup of coffee at Starbucks.
27
I hoisted her good-sized suitcase into the trunk of my car. Van had jam-packed it and stashed it in the closet, awaiting her chance to pass it off to me without attracting attention.
As I drove north on Nob Hill Road, Vanessa's plight stuck in my mind. There was nothing I could do to help her, not yet. She needed to help herself first.
Imperfect Contract Page 15
