Out of the Blues

by Trudy Nan Boyce

  Pearl kept her eyes down. Her hands pulled at the edges of her sleeves.

  “When was the last time you saw a doctor?”

  “I got sick from the pills.”

  “When, Pearl? How long ago?”

  “You ever fight a shape-shifter?” Pearl leaned back on her arms against the top step.

  “I’m not sure, Pearl. I got shot last year. My head was messed-up for a while, and I wasn’t sure about some things I was seeing.”

  “I don’t have no sure thing to hold on to. I see things that one side of me knows ain’t real, but the other side say is real.” Pearl looked at Salt.

  “With me,” Salt said, “I know which is which—like the difference between dreams and being awake. But after I got shot, some barrier between awake and dreams seemed gone. And now, sometimes, the dreams make me pay attention to things I missed when I was awake or that happened in the past. It’s troublesome since it’s hard to explain to other people.”

  Pearl nodded. “That’s what it’s like for me a lot. I’m scared but don’t know what’s what or who to trust.”

  “God, Pearl, that’s true whether or not your head is messed-up or not.”

  “Poleese scares me, but you don’t.”

  “I know some police that you can trust and some other people, doctors and some social workers, that I trust who can help you.”

  “You trust them?”

  “I do. They aren’t always perfect and sometimes they make mistakes or can’t make things right like they’d want to. But they’re always trying to do right by folks.”

  Pearl looked back behind her at the red doors of the church. “This church do okay, but Reverend Prince church got some evil in it. He evil, and he everywhere. Lot of folks in this city on his side.”

  “Maybe we can change that.”

  MAKING THE TEAM

  The young woman on her knees in the reception area beside Rosie’s desk was pretty, with long white-blond hair curtaining the sides of her pale face. As Salt came in, the woman lifted her eyes heavenward, her hands beneath her chin in prayer. “Jesus, we know the end times are on us.”

  Rosie looked up at Salt from beneath her bowed head.

  “Lord, we pray for these policemen that they will find the devil who killed Laura Solquist and Juliet and Megan.” The woman’s voice rose to a revival-tent rhythm.

  “Tell Sarge Mrs. Christian is here,” Rosie said to Salt in a low voice while maintaining her reverential pose.

  Mrs. Christian rearranged her knees, walking on them a few inches, and continued her prayer. “God, we implore your guidance. Forgive their sins.” There was a wheeled carry-on bag parked beside her.

  Salt punched the entry code into the door.

  —

  THE PINK SIPPY CUP that had appeared during the interviews for the Razor Wire Manor shootings was on Sergeant Huff’s desk beside the phone. As usual the rest of the desk, and the shelves and chairs, held murder files of all the years’ colors. It looked as though a rainbow had exploded. But the dominant color, the color of the files on top, was bright green. Huff took a sip from the plastic cup. “As if I didn’t have enough shit to deal with, now I’m getting calls from cops asking me if you’re trying to make an issue about extra jobs. Sandy Madison seems to be the source of their information. And I’m getting calls from ‘well-connected’”—more finger quotes—“members of Midas Prince’s congregation asking me why you got to be bothering the good reverend.”

  Salt stood in the corner, hands clasped together, shoulders hunched, taking up as little space as possible in the small office. They were waiting for Wills, the two of them having been summoned to update Huff on the progress of the Solquist/Spangler/Pyne/Anderson cases.

  “This is not rocket surgery,” Huff said.

  “Sir?”

  “Rocket surgery. It isn’t hard, doesn’t have to be hard,” he said.

  Appearing at the door, Wills walked in, picked up a pile of folders from the edge of Huff’s desk, and sat down on the corner. “Like the pink cup, Sarge. It suits you.”

  Huff looked at the cup in his hand as if noticing it for the first time. “Fuck. I’m changing the name of the unit. ‘Homocide. The ‘Homocide Unit.’ Everything about this bunch is gay, pink, purple, whatever. Used to be detectives were called ‘dicks.’ You know why? ’Cause they were all men. All men in every sense of the word.”

  “What’s up, Sarge? You wanted to see us.” Wills winked at her.

  “I was just explaining to the rookie here”—he nodded up at Salt—“that I don’t like people calling me complaining about my detectives. There’s ways of getting information without making a lot of noise, and now this.” He pulled a copy of the city weekly from a top drawer. The headline was printed over a forties-style lurid graphic of a woman, breasts spilling, holding a bloodied man: “‘Musician Shot, Dies in Beautiful Cop’s Arms.’” Huff read with dramatic intonation.

  “Well, for once that fish wrapper got something right. Salt is a good-looking dame.” Wills leered and gave a wolf whistle.

  She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the glass partition. “How ’bout fuck y’all and the horse you rode in on.”

  Huff sighed. “Okay, enough fun. Where are you on Spangler and the Pyne case?”

  Salt took a breath. “I don’t get the motive yet, but DeWare, one of Wills’ suspects in the Solquist murders, may also be the shooter at the Blue Room. Before you ask, the ballistics don’t match, but that just tells us different guns were used. I have a Homes informant telling me DeWare is hiding out at Toy Dolls and that they regularly sell drugs to their customers. Narcotics might be able to help us find him with a search warrant on the drugs.”

  “Really?” Wills asked, chin drawn back, a slight grin on his lips, eyebrows raised. He sounded a little incredulous but pleased.

  “Also, I need help from Special Victims,” Salt added.

  “Shoot,” Huff said, holding his hands up. “Not really. Please continue.” He lowered his hands. “What do we need Special Victims for?”

  “Those calls you’ve been getting on Reverend Prince’s behalf—seems like too much pushback for an innocent preacher. I’ve now heard allegations from three sources that say Midas Prince likes his sex partners very young, and I’d like to know if there have been others. Maybe kids’ parents paid off?”

  “What’s wrong with the three you’ve got? Why aren’t they enough?” Huff asked, dropping his arms to the desktop.

  “One victim is dead—Mike Anderson. One is mentally ill, schizophrenic. I’m trying to get her into treatment. One’s in prison and crazy—Curtis Stone.”

  “So let me just review for my benefit.” He leaned forward, the wheels on his chair clacking. “You now want me to formally open an investigation of child molestation against one of the most powerful—shut that door, Wills—one of the most powerful men in this city and you’re just now, because I asked, telling me about it? Did you know about this, Wills?”

  Wills squared with Huff. “Look, Sarge. Salt is new. She’s a great and going to be a greater detective, but she hasn’t had time to get the politics of things. After all, you’re the one who sent her out without a partner. Just sayin’.” Wills shrugged his shoulders and held his hands beseechingly.

  “What politics?” Salt jumped in. “Commit a crime and go to jail. Hurt a child and go to jail. What’s the question?”

  “Well, I could name several potential issues that could arise,” said Huff, folding his arms on his desk and bending toward her. “But let’s just imagine one.” He pulled out a bag of potato chips and stabbed it with a knife he grabbed from somewhere under the desk. “Look around this room. Give me a brief description of the three of us. Brief. The basics.”

  “Sarge—” Wills tried to interject.

  “Don’t fucking call me Sarge.”

  W
ills said, “What Sergeant Huff is trying to point out, Salt, is that race haunts this city at every turn. Every case, especially high-profile ones, which many murders are, has the potential to fetch ghosts, and not just of the victim under consideration.” Wills put his hand out for Huff’s bag of chips.

  Huff pointed his finger in assent to Wills’ explanation. “And poking around Midas Prince is like messin’ with the King family, or Creflo Dollar or Eddie Long,” Huff said, listing some of the biggest personalities in the metro Atlanta megachurch industry. “You can’t get near them. Those churches are so powerful and have so many members that they significantly influence elections. And you know how that goes.”

  “Midas Prince could be victimizing another kid while we sit around worrying about stepping on toes.” The air in the small office was being used up, and Salt was finding it hard to breathe.

  “We’ll get on it, Salt. I’ll get on it, but it has to be quiet. By the way, your Baby Jesus, aka Charles Post.” Huff tapped the top of a file. “He also came through one of Prince’s programs. He was fostered out through the shelter to that old man he lived with.”

  “The Baby Jesus, Sarge.” She glanced away, remembering the thud of Baby landing in the ravine. Outside Huff’s office, on the other side of the glass partition, two uniform guys filed in across the room from the waiting area, two buddies from her former precinct.

  Huff, mouth turned down, eyes hangdog, and hands together in exaggerated pleading, said, “I’ll get with someone in Special Victims. You two work out the Narcotics deal. Keep me advised. Pretty please.”

  “Those uniforms”—Salt pointed across the room—“are probably here to see me. Wills, can we work out the drug angle over dinner? I’d like to say hi to these guys.” Salt opened the door. “You clear for a sit-down meal?” she asked.

  “Sure. Take your time.” He gave the chip bag back to Huff and reached for the sippy cup. “Want a refill, Sarge?”

  She’d barely cleared Huff’s door when Fuzzy bellowed, “There’s my girl!” He strode down the aisle and swung her off her feet. Everything about him was over the top, from his spiky blond hair to the volume of the radio on his shoulder. She’d long suspected he was hiding some hearing loss.

  Blessing was his shadow opposite, dark skin, short, shaved head. He peeled Fuzzy’s arms off Salt. “We miss you,” Blessing said.

  Fuzzy leaned down to whisper as best he could. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  Gardner looked up from his desk.

  “Private?” asked Fuzz. “I don’t know how you stand working in this rabbit warren.”

  “Come on.” She motioned them to follow and led them through the office to the back, where there was a set of double doors with a hazard sign, “NO PERSONNEL BEYOND THIS POINT,” and through the doors to part of the unconverted, cavernous space of the old building. The city had needed only about twenty-five percent of the building, and the PD occupied only about half of that. Disconnected wires protruded from the walls and long rectangular tin ductwork ran the length and breadth of the high ceilings. Someone had upended a construction-sized wooden cable spool on which were overflowing ashtrays. “SMOKING STRICTLY PROHIBITED” read the sign on the wall. Broken and stained chairs were scattered around the table and beneath the levered-open windows nearby.

  “Wow! All the glamour that I expected in the Homicide office and more,” Blessing said, spreading his arms to take in the area.

  “Homeland Security be damned. The entire Taliban could be hiding in parts of this building and we’d never know.” Salt laughed. “What’s up, guys? I am glad to see you. I miss you, too.”

  Fuzz and Blessing had been part of the crew who’d been determined to help her the year before after the shooting.

  “Salt, one of our new guys, just out of the academy, is close friends with one of his classmates assigned to Zone Four.” Fuzzy looked over at the door to the inner office. “He asked me if I knew you and what your deal was. He still doesn’t know I’d sell my firstborn for you.” Fuzz kissed her forehead.

  “Nancy might not like that.” Salt smiled back at him.

  “My wife knows.” Blessing shoved Fuzz away and put his arm around her shoulders.

  “Anyway, this rookie who doesn’t know nothin’ but hears stuff said that some of the Zone Four guys were talking about how to burn you.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what I said. The rookie said he didn’t know more but thought it was something about extra jobs.”

  “Shit.” Salt sat down in a metal chair, its legs wobbling on the concrete floor. “Sandy Madison.” She steadied her seat.

  “What’s that John Wayne–wannabe got to do with you?”

  “He somehow got it in his head that I have it in for extra jobs. That I’m investigating his EJs.”

  “Look, we all know you don’t like the EJ thing, but you know we have to work ’em.” Blessing had a big family, four boys, and helped with finances for his extended family.

  “Guys, Sandy Madison works for some bad people. I don’t care about the jobs, the hours, just who he works for and what he might overlook to do the job.”

  “Just watch your back, girl. He runs a lot of EJs.”

  Salt stood and gave each of them a hug. “Thanks. I know I can count on you always. And you need anything, anything, let me know.” They walked back through the warning doors. “Let’s get the shift down to my place again soon.”

  “Wills cookin’?” Fuzzy boomed.

  “Shhh.” She held her finger to her lips and checked to see if anyone was around.

  Fuzz hunched his shoulders and put his finger to his lips. “See you soon.” He parodied trying to tiptoe stealthily, leaving the room.

  “Quite the devoted posse.”

  “Oh!” Salt’s hand flew to her chest. She turned to find Felton sitting at one of the nearby cubicles in an otherwise unoccupied aisle. “You startled me.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t want you to think I was eavesdropping.” Spread across the empty desk were the photos from The Manor shooting; the razor wire in the background made the location obvious.

  “You piece together how that went down?” Salt asked as she looked over his shoulder.

  Felton bent one hand back at the wrist and rolled his eyes up and sideways. “Oh, darling, this lovely property is now for sale and the fellows suggested that I could have a second career if I took charge of staging it for prospective buyers,” he camped.

  “Did they really? Don’t you get tired of being the subject of all that little-boy humor? I’m afraid Huff might be pissed because I just told him and Wills to fuck themselves.”

  Felton laughed. “Good for you. I wouldn’t worry about offending Huff. Most of the BS is just guys trying to push you, to see what you’re about. It’s when they don’t talk about you to your face that you should worry. By the way,” he flipped through the pages of the file, “this interview you did with Theresa Smith is really good. It may not be the most important, but it’s clear you got the significant bits of what she was able to see.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Now, go have dinner with your guy.” Felton glanced up, smiling enigmatically, and then turned his attention to the photos.

  Two aisles over Salt found Wills at his desk directly across from Gardner. Both detectives were leaning back, hands behind their heads, feet propped on their desks, eyes closed.

  “Should I let sleeping dogs lie?” Salt stood between the two reclining men.

  Without moving so much as an eyelid, Wills responded, “Ah, but you’re mistaken, Grasshopper. We’re ninja warriors in meditation, connecting with the cosmic forces.” He opened his eyes. Gardner started to snore. “Okay, one of us is a ninja. You ready to go?”

  —

  HAVING AGREED on Cuban, they were headed up “The River Ponce,” as the street that fronted their office was known to
some, highlighting the divergence of cultures between the more affluent and sedate communities on the north side of the avenue and the club scene, edgy art, drugs, and prostitution on the south side. Businesses and residences differed significantly from one side of the street to the other. New upscale condos on the north side of the street overlooked the “Murder Market” grocery and the Clermont Lounge, where aging strippers were known for crushing beer cans between their breasts; the Majestic Diner, serving breakfast at all hours of the day and night since 1929, majestic in a weirdly beautiful way—neon flickering, never completely out; and the pimps, cops, derelicts, drunks, geeks, creeps, and weirdos of all stripes on the south side.

  It had started to rain, spattering the reflections of streetlights, equally glittering on a bank building, the old library, fast-food joints, the garbage bags worn by committed-to-the-street people, and gathering in holes and torn places in the asphalt. Everything shone in the iridescent rain. Salt and Wills parked on a side street and ran for the café’s awning. They shook off their coats beneath the rain pattering on the stretched canvas above, the sound making the space below seem intimate, a small protective hollow. “Nights like this—crossing the River—it feels like my city.” Salt looked across the six-lane street at a hilly rise to a small park where the street citizens had parked purloined grocery carts.

  “You know that back in the 1800s there were actual springs here and a beech grove, where people used to come from downtown, what was considered the city back then, to commune with nature. It wasn’t a river, but they’d have picnics beside the streams. That’s where Ponce got its name. The springs were named for the explorer searching for the fountain of youth, if you remember your fourth-grade history.” Wills opened the door for her and they entered the warm, sweet-smelling café.

  A white-shirted waiter showed them to a window seat and left them with menus. “It occurred to me today that it’s probably not often that a detective meets and gets to know a soon-to-be victim and ends up investigating his death. How are you doing with that?” Wills asked.