“I talked to Davon,” I finally said.
“You found him?”
I nodded. “He says he saw you and Gabe two weeks ago at Club 77.”
“So?”
“You said you hadn’t seen Davon in a couple of months.”
Her cheeks flushed red. “I guess I was wrong.”
“So Davon is right.”
She shrugged. “I guess.”
I drew in a breath and let it out very slowly. She was trying my patience. “Sally, you need to do me a favor.”
“What?”
“You need to start focusing a little more, or you’re going to find yourself in prison for murder.”
She glanced away. When she looked back, there were tears in her eyes. Lord help me, I’m a sucker for a damsel in distress, and this was no exception.
“I’m sorry I’m being so flaky,” she whispered.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said in a soothing tone. Then I moved on. “Davon said that Gabe was a gambler, mostly online.”
“That’s news to me.”
“You never saw him gambling?”
“No. I even remember his next-door neighbor inviting him to a poker night, and Gabe said no, that he hated poker.”
“It appears Davon lied to me,” I said.
“All I know is if Gabe gambled, it was never around me.”
I thought for a second. “Does your supervisor at work know what’s going on?”
She shook her head. “I called in sick today, but I’ll go in tomorrow.”
“If Gabe’s murder is in the news, they’ll find out. You might want to talk to your boss about what’s going on.”
“Are you still going to talk to him?”
“If he’ll see me.”
“He might fire me.” She let out a huge sigh.
I nodded, then pointed at the notebook sitting on top of the sheets and blanket. “Were you working on a song before I got here?”
“Yeah. It’s not much.”
“May I see it?”
“Yeah.” She handed the notebook to me.
I read the lyrics on the page. The song was about being in a bad relationship and feeling trapped. I had to admit, it had a haunting quality to it.
“This is good,” I said.
“Thanks.”
I noticed that other pages were filled with writing. I held up the notebook. “Is this an older notebook?”
“Yeah, one that Gabe gave back to me. You can look through it.”
I flipped through a few pages and read them. Some pages contained songs, some seemed more of a rap rhyme, and some were comedic vignettes or jokes. I didn’t get the humor in a lot of them, but a few were pretty funny. I chuckled.
“What?” she said.
I handed the notebook back to her. “Kristen said you were funny, and that maybe you missed your calling.”
She shrugged. “Maybe.” She sighed again. “What’re you going to do now?”
“You really did see a man on the fire escape outside Gabe’s apartment?”
“Yes! I’m not lying.”
“The police didn’t find anyone in the building who saw a man leaving through the alley.” I held up a hand to stop her protests. “I’m going by Gabe’s place to see if I can find anyone who did see someone, but didn’t want to tell the police.”
“Oh, I hope you do.”
“It might not lead anywhere.”
“But it might.” She was grasping at anything that would give her hope.
I went to the door and opened it. “I’ll be in touch soon. If you think of anything you forgot, call me, all right? We’re on the same team.”
She nodded. I let myself out, and before I’d reached the sidewalk, I heard her voice without the guitar, this time singing the song she’d been working on when I’d arrived. Her voice wasn’t the greatest, but the lyrics were good, ones that could get under your skin. I listened for a minute longer, and the line “or I’ll end up in jail” drifted out the window. It sent chills through me.
Chapter Fourteen
In five minutes, I drove back to Gabe’s apartment on Race Street. It was almost four, and parking spots on the street were filling up. I had to park down the block and walk back to the entrance. I went inside and scanned the mailboxes. Apartment 303 was labeled “Hernandez.” I pushed the small call button beneath the name. After no one answered on the speaker, I punched a bunch of other call buttons and waited again. A moment later, the door buzzed. Someone either was waiting for a visitor, or they didn’t get the idea behind having a security door to keep out strangers.
I climbed the stairs to the third floor and walked down the hall. Apartment 302 had yellow crime scene ribbon tacked across the door. I couldn’t resist checking the doorknob. It was locked. I went to 303 and knocked. No one came to the door, and I knocked again with the same result. I frowned and turned away. I’d try Hernandez again later.
With that thought in mind, I went to the other end of the hall and knocked on the door, but no one was home. I sighed and moved on to the other apartments on the third floor. In one, a woman was home, but she said she hadn’t been home the night when Gabe had been killed, and she didn’t know him.
I trudged down to the second floor, started at one end of the hall, and knocked on doors. One young woman barely let me ask about Gabe before she shut the door in my face, but then I hit paydirt in apartment 202. A man with a young face but with gray around his temples answered. I explained who I was and asked him if he’d heard about Gabe Culpepper’s murder.
“That guy upstairs? Yeah, I heard about it. I didn’t know him.”
“Were you home that night?”
He glanced into the hall. “You a cop?”
“No.” I pulled out my PI license and showed him.
He studied it closely, then stood in the doorway and waited for me to say more. I continued before he changed his mind about me.
“Were you home that night?” I repeated as I put my wallet away.
“Uh-huh.”
“Did you hear a gunshot?”
He hesitated. “I had the TV on and I didn’t hear anything.”
I could tell he was holding something back. “But what?”
He shifted from foot to foot. “I saw a guy outside my window, going down the fire escape. I swear it was a ghost because the guy’s face was white as a sheet. Scared me to death. I’m not afraid to admit that it took me a second to go and look, but by then, whoever was there was gone.”
“You said it was a man?”
He shrugged. “I think so. I didn’t get a good look and it could’ve been a woman.”
“Was he in a hoodie?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you call the police?”
He snorted. “What would they do, other than think I was crazy?”
“Did you talk to the police about Gabe’s death?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t tell them about that guy.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “I don’t want to get involved.”
“I see. Did you know Gabe?”
“No. I saw him around a time or two, but I didn’t even know his name until some people in the building told me about his murder.”
“Anything else you can tell me?”
“No.”
I thanked him for his time, then tried the rest of the apartments, but the tenants who I talked to hadn’t heard anything of note, nor had they seen any ghost-like person outside the building the night Gabe had been murdered.
I returned to the third floor, and when I reached the landing, a young Hispanic man was walking past Gabe’s apartment. He was small, probably no more than five-six, with short, black hair that was slicked back. I paused on the landing and watched him stop at 303.
“Excuse me?” I said as I headed toward him.
He stopped, his key in his hand, and gazed at me cautiously.
“Yeah?”
“Are you Luis?”
“Who wants to know?”
I gestured at Gabe’s apartment. “You heard about Gabe?”
“Who hasn’t?” The wariness remained.
“Sally Evans said you’re friends with Gabe.”
“Nightmare Sally?”
I was beginning to loathe that nickname, and agreed with Kristen Dalrymple, who said it had been mean of Gabe to call her that.
“Yes,” I said. “She said I should talk to you.” I was again shading the truth.
“Is she in trouble?” He unlocked the door and opened it.
“She’s a suspect in Gabe’s murder.”
He swore. “Sally? No way.”
I glanced up and down the hallway. “Mind if we talk inside?”
“You a cop?”
I shook my head. “I’m private.”
He stared at me for a moment. “You don’t think she did it.” It was a statement, and within the tone was his feeling as well.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
Two women came out a door at the other end of the hall. They were giggling as they walked toward the stairs, but they had their eyes on us. They lingered on the landing, watching us. I pointed behind Luis, into his apartment.
“Could we talk inside?” I repeated, then gave a slight nod of my head toward the women. “Unless you want everyone to hear our conversation.”
He gave a halfhearted wave at the women, then said to me, “Uh, sure.”
I followed him into an apartment that had the same layout as Gabe’s. But where Gabe had cheap furniture, Luis seemed to be trying for a modern vibe à la IKEA. He gestured for me to sit on a small white couch while he went into the kitchen and returned with a beer. He didn’t offer me one.
He leaned against a large desk that had a substantial monitor on it. A laptop sat nearby, and I also spotted a tablet on a coffee table.
“So what do you want?” he asked.
I got right to the point. “Any idea who might’ve killed Gabe?”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t make sense, you ask me. Gabe was an okay dude, at least with me.”
“From what I can gather, he was arrogant and people didn’t like him.”
He snorted. “They’re just jealous.”
“Of what?”
“Gabe was a cool deejay.”
“You saw him at some clubs?”
He nodded and took a swig of his beer. “Mostly at Club 77. He had all the girls wanting him. And he mixes his own stuff, too. Mostly techno.”
“I’ve heard he was producing some songs.”
“And some were good. He was going places.”
“How do you know?”
“I heard it, man, all the videos and stuff. He told me he was working on a big deal, that it was the break he was waiting for.”
“Hmm,” I said. “How do you know that wasn’t just Gabe talking big?”
He brushed that aside. “Nah, man, he was onto something.”
“But you don’t know what.”
“Well, I dunno …” He didn’t finish the sentence.
“What?”
“Nothing. He’s just got it going, trust me.”
“Did Gabe have a job?”
“I don’t think so. Nothing regular anyway.”
“Where’d he get money?”
“I think he had something going on with this big dude I saw around.”
I described Davon.
“Yeah, that’s him,” Luis said. “I saw him one time out in the hall, arguing with Gabe about selling some stuff. I don’t know what it was about, but that big dude was maaaad at Gabe.”
“Did he threaten Gabe?”
“Like he was going to do something to him?”
I nodded.
He thought about that as he fiddled with a button on his shirt. “He said something like Gabe better not tell anyone. Something like that. I just know that dude wasn’t happy.”
“Was anyone else mad at Gabe?”
“I don’t know.”
“Were you here the night Gabe was murdered?”
“No, I was out with some friends.”
“Sally says she saw someone on the fire escape outside Gabe’s window. Have you heard anyone in the building talking about that?”
He shook his head.
“Did Gabe ever gamble?”
“I don’t think so. I even asked him to come with me to a poker night with my buddies, but he said he hated poker and didn’t really gamble.”
“Huh.” I wondered if Gabe hadn’t been straight with Luis, or, as I’d thought before, had Davon lied to me. Since Sally hadn’t been aware of Gabe gambling either, my bet – no pun intended – was on Davon lying.
Luis interrupted my thoughts. “Gabe was into music, man. We even put some stuff together. Let me show you.”
He set down his beer and grabbed the tablet off the table before I could protest, swiped at the screen, and began tapping it. “Here’s something we did a while back.”
The video showed Luis and Gabe at their computers, or dancing in front of a building, as they rapped a song. The video, and the song, seemed amateur to me. But then, it also wasn’t the kind of music I liked, so what kind of critic was I?
“It’s good,” I said politely.
“Yeah, Gabe did some better stuff.”
He tapped the screen again, found Gabe’s Facebook page, and showed me a video post. This one was flashier, with a techno sound and lots of graphics.
“Gabe did this?” I asked.
He nodded. “He’s good, huh.”
“Yes.”
I noticed another post that Gabe had shared, of a man in a black-and-white mask standing near a building with a skateboard.
“Is that Gabe?”
“Nah, that’s Masta Dig. Don’t you know him?”
“Vaguely,” I murmured, thinking about my conversation with the Goofballs.
“This dude is awesome!”
He pressed “play” and the video began.
“Masta Dig comes to you again with a great trick,” a disembodied voice said. “Check it out.” The man put his skateboard down, then skated across the sidewalk while he rapped some lyrics that I couldn’t understand. Luis danced to the rhythm. Then Masta Dig crashed into a tree. The masked man raised his arms and yelled, “Masta Dig can do anything!” The video ended.
Luis busted out laughing. “He’s hilarious.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I said. “Who’s the man behind the mask?”
“Uh, nobody knows. That’s what makes it fun. Sometimes he dares people to find out who he is by telling them a bit about where he films the videos, but no one’s figured it out. And look.” He pointed at the screen. “He’s got over five million followers, and he’s getting more every day. Man, I wish I had that.”
“You do this kind of thing?”
“Nah, man, I just meant I wish I had that kind of talent.”
If you could call what Masta Dig was doing “talent,” I thought. “Huh,” was all I managed to say.
“That dude’s gotta be raking in the dough. Or if he isn’t, he soon will be.”
“How so?”
“Advertising, man.” He poked a finger at the screen again. “He’s getting YouTube ads, and then some of these guys, like Logan Paul and King Bach, actually have companies paying them to promote their products.”
“Who?”
“Logan Paul and King Bach. They’re hilarious, too. They’ve even got movie parts and stuff like that. Think about it. Hollywood, man.”
“I had no idea these social media personalities were that big.”
“They are,” he said with awe in his voice. “And Masta Dig is putting up new videos all the time, and they crack me up.”
I was getting an education, but it wasn’t getting me any closer to finding Gabe’s killer. I handed the tablet back to him.
“I really appreciate your help.”
“No problem, man. I hope you find Gabe’s killer.”
I pulled out a business card. “If
you think of anything about Gabe that might be important, give me a call.”
“What would I think of?”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
“Uh, okay.”
Lord, I felt like I was talking to one of the Goofballs.
“Thanks,” I said.
When I left, Luis was back on the tablet. By his laughing, I assumed he was watching another Masta Dig video. I didn’t get it.
Chapter Fifteen
When I got back to the 4-Runner, I googled “Davon Edwards” and found what appeared to be a current address near Fortieth and Colorado Boulevard. I poked around a few White Pages sites, but I couldn’t access any listings of Davon’s relatives, so I googled the address. It took a bit more searching, but I found a site that listed a Francine Johnson at that address. I googled her name, and found that she was born in 1945.
“That’d be about the right date of birth for her to be Davon’s grandmother,” I said to no one. “Let’s see if my assumption is correct.”
I put my phone away and headed to Francine Johnson’s house.
Francine Johnson lived in a small house on Jackson Street that had a tiny brown yard that was crying for attention. I pushed through an old picket-fence gate that badly needed paint and up the sidewalk to a front entrance with a rickety screen door. I rang the bell and waited. A moment later, it was opened by a buxom woman in a threadbare yellow bathrobe and dirty white slippers, with curlers in her gray hair. She held the collar of a German Shepherd as she peered at me though the screen door. The sound of a game show and the smell of coffee drifted out to me.
“Yes?” Her voice was squeaky and small, like a mouse.
“Are you Francine Johnson?” I asked.
“I am.” She pulled her robe tight around her chest.
“I’d like to talk to you about your grandson, Davon.” Before I had a chance to show her my ID, or say anything more, she interrupted me.
“What’s that boy gotten himself into?”
“I’m not sure he’s gotten into anything,” I began.
“Well, if you expect me to bail him out of jail again, I’m not going to do it. He’s not getting any cash from me.” She emphasized this with a sweeping motion of a wrinkly hand. “And you tell him that he made his choice leaving here, so he can’t come back. You got that?”
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