“It’s not her, Cartier,” Quinn said.
Cartier remained silent, trying to hold back the tears. Her gut instinct was telling her that it was Christian they’d found. The tears started to fall, trickling down her face like a spring shower. She wanted to wake up from this nightmare. The thought of the girl found being her daughter was troubling.
It suddenly became hard for her to breathe. She stumbled backwards toward the wall, and then her knees buckled. Next thing she knew, she was on the floor. She felt paralyzed. Quinn and Mills rushed over to her aid, but gravity and grief kept her stuck to the floor.
Cartier knew it was Christian they’d found. Everything in her body and soul screamed that her daughter was dead. But how could that be? Her time hadn’t run out yet. What the fuck is going on? What kind of sick, twisted game are these kidnappers playing?
***
In the wee hours of the morning, Cartier and Quinn went down to the city morgue to identify the body. Every step Cartier took inside the morgue was extremely painful and difficult. Her eyes were almost blinded with tears, and her body felt frail. She followed the officers and coroner to the room containing the body. The girl was found by a cleanup crew doing maintenance on the highway. The little girl was naked and badly decomposed.
Cartier and Quinn walked into the dreary, spine-chilling refrigerated room, where there was a small freezer for long-term storage of unclaimed bodies, which were becoming more numerous in Miami. The building held up to seventy corpses, and the room smelled of antiseptic cleaning products, decomposition and death.
The coroner had removed the body from the cot to the morgue table earlier and covered it with a long white sheet. The body had an ID band on the wrist, and a toe tag, and the indentation in the sheet was small, indicating a slight frame on the table.
Cartier felt like she couldn’t breathe. She clutched Quinn’s hand as the coroner was ready to remove the white sheet that covered the body on the slab. The detective standing behind them nodded, as the coroner slightly pulled back the sheet, revealing the face and neck of the little girl underneath.
Instantaneously, Cartier knew it was Christian. A mother would know her own child, no matter what the body looked like.
She burst out into tears and grief, her chilling cries echoing in the room and blaring throughout the building.
“Oh God! Noooooo!!!” she screamed in agony.
She went to grab for her daughter, yearning to pull her baby girl into her arms and console her, but she was at once held back from doing so. It was still a crime scene, and the body was still evidence.
Cartier dropped to her knees, her body going limp and her tears falling. It was her. The cops had their identification.
The body was covered up once again, and Cartier continued to scream and cry. She was then told that Christian had been dead for roughly two weeks, but the body’s decomposition had accelerated due to Miami’s exceptionally warm climate. Cartier didn’t believe him, because she’d spoken to her daughter only a few days earlier.
“We should go, Cartier.” Quinn felt something wasn’t right. The way the detectives were gazing at them told her something was about to go down.
But Cartier wasn’t in any mood to leave her daughter so suddenly. Even though she was dead, she still yearned to be in the room with her. But the authorities wouldn’t allow it. She was dragged outside the room still fighting them and crying out. “I want my baby back! I want her back! Give her to me! Christian! Christian!” she screamed out madly. “This isn’t fuckin’ happenin’. No! No! No!”
“Cartier, let’s go!” Quinn said sternly.
She had Cartier wrapped into her arms. It was a struggle, but Cartier was finally removed from the room.
Cartier regained her composure, but she was completely torn on the inside. She knew Quinn was right. They had to leave. Her daughter was dead, and somebody had to pay with their life. She wanted Miami to burn and burn like hell fire.
The minute they stepped out of the building, a few detectives and local police were outside waiting to confront them. Cartier recognized Detective Sharp immediately.
“Cartier, we need to have a few words with you down at headquarters,” Detective Sharp said.
“For what?” she snapped.
“About your daughter.”
Cartier and Quinn found themselves surrounded by Miami-Dade police. Things weren’t looking too good. She glared at the detective and asked, “Am I under arrest?”
“We just need for you to come with us for questioning.”
Quinn shouted, “Don’t y’all have any respect? She just lost her daughter, an’ y’all come wit’ this bullshit?”
“We just want to ask some questions.”
“Questions!” Quinn screamed. “She’s fucking grieving here!”
Uniformed officers came in ready to defuse the hostile situation that was escalating in the street.
Cartier felt like she didn’t have a choice. Reluctantly she walked away with Detective Sharp and his partner and was escorted into the backseat of an unmarked car.
Quinn was left standing there. It was hopeless to intervene. She couldn’t go up against the police. She watched her friend being carted off to jail, she assumed.
***
An hour later, Cartier sat in the windowless room alone. She wasn’t handcuffed, but had been detained in the locked room with the bland décor. She knew she was a suspect. The fact that her daughter had been murdered a week or two ago and she had never reported her missing sounded like another Casey Anthony case all over again. And then the slaughter of her family started to bring up red flags. And the press was all over it.
It was a perpetual nightmare. While Christian was lying in the morgue, she was being detained because they thought she did the unthinkable — murder her own child. It was far from the truth, but would the detectives believe her?
The door to the room opened, and Detectives Sharp and Lam stepped inside. Then another suit-and-tie-wearing man followed them. Sharp and Lam took a seat opposite Cartier, while the third man, with his long, narrow face and steely glare, stood in the corner. They all looked at Cartier like she was already guilty; they just needed to pull a confession from her.
“Y’all need to find out who did this to my baby.” The moment the words escaped her lips she began to weep openly. As only a mother could for their only child.
The men weren’t in the room to hear her sobs. They wanted the truth and as far as they were concerned, they’d already found the killer. Her.
The coroner’s report so far said she’d been suffocated and then shot twice. There weren’t any indicators of sexual abuse although she was found naked. The body had also been washed prior to dumping, most likely to get rid of any forensic trace evidence.
Another dead child that was likely murdered by her mother, and in Florida, was bad press. It was a brutal killing, therefore making national news.
“Tell us what happened, Cartier,” Lam said. “Talk to us.”
She shouted, “What the fuck you mean, what happened? My daughter is dead! And why the fuck am I here? Why the fuck am I here? Why? My daughter’s dead —” Cartier started to sob inconsolably.
Sharp handed her some tissue and waited for her to stop crying. He started to read her body language, analyze her facial expression, and all the signs of an upset and distraught mother showed on her face. He knew these weren’t crocodile tears; this emotion was for real. However, he felt it was stemming from remorse rather than innocence. If she didn’t personally murder her child and siblings, then the remorse could stem from her being the reason they were dead.
Detective Sharp sighed. “What happened, Cartier? You can talk to us.”
Cartier dried her tears and gazed at the detectives. She had nothing to say. She just wanted to go home and make arrangements to bury her daughter.
“Look, let’s cut the bullshit,” Detective Lam shouted. “It’s a shitstorm out there, and it’s all going to be falling down on you. Ther
e’s a dead girl found suffocated and shot, and you haven’t reported your daughter missing at all! The coroner’s report says she’s been dead for more than a week. Now from the look of things, that’s capital murder, and all fingers point to you. And after this Casey Anthony fiasco, I don’t think the jury’s gonna be so lenient as to acquit another murderous mother.
“We pulled your colorful record and found out you did some time in New York for manslaughter, so we know we’re not looking at ‘Susie Homemaker’ here. This is a slam-dunk case, Cartier, so make it easier on yourself and tell us what happened. Let’s talk — why did you kill your daughter and probably your whole family?”
There was an explosion of anger. “Fuck you! FUCK YOU! I would never hurt her. Never!”
Lam ignored her temper tantrum. “You’re a mother. You’re supposed to protect your children. If you were being a parent, watching out for your child, she wouldn’t be dead now would she?”
Cartier lunged for Detective Lam, but she was quickly restrained by the other two men in the room and pushed back into her seat.
“Sit down and relax, before we throw the cuffs on you!” Sharp yelled.
Cartier was seething. She glared at Detective Lam, wanting to knock his head off for being disrespectful. She dried her tears. She was shutting herself down and no longer going to cooperate with the men. Life no longer mattered to her anymore. Everything had been snatched away from her. She had nothing — no family, no friends — but only misery and pain. Suicide plagued her mind.
Sharp realized they weren’t getting anywhere with her by being vulgar and mean. He saw she was about to have nervous breakdown. “Are you thirsty? You want something to drink?”
Cartier didn’t respond.
“Mike, get her something to drink from the machine outside,” Sharp said to the third man in the room.
Mike didn’t look too pleased, but he followed orders and left the room.
When the doors closed behind him, Sharp focused his awareness back on Cartier. He decided to use a different approach. “I know you didn’t kill her, Cartier, but somebody did, and we need to know who. These monsters are still out there, and we are here for you,” he said sympathetically. “But you know what I think happened . . . my theory about all this? Your daughter was taken — perhaps by a family friend, or boyfriend? Someone you know, and you chose to keep the incident a secret.”
“Where are you going with this, Sharp?” Lam asked. “That’s Casey Anthony’s defense. Why are you trying to give her an out?”
Sharp cut Lam a stern look to silence him. Lam should have known better than to interfere with his line of questioning. To challenge him in front of the perp was undermining Sharp’s authority. He went on with, “This person, this monster, took everything from you. Help us help you.”
Detective Sharp placed a manila folder in front of Cartier and opened it up. It contained several graphic pictures of Christian, Trina, Prada, and Fendi. He spread them out, so Cartier could get a clear look at each one of them.
“Do you know who did this?” Sharp asked.
Cartier didn’t even cringe at the blood-splattered bodies displayed on the glossy photos in front of her. She shook her head no.
Sharp then asked, “Did you do this?”
“I want my lawyer,” Cartier replied dryly.
Sharp sighed. He leaned backwards in his seat, knowing once she asked for her lawyer, the interrogation had to stop. They didn’t have enough evidence to arrest and indict her. And the GPS he’d placed underneath her vehicle didn’t show anything critical to their cases. Most of the time the Range Rover had sat parked in a garage on the outskirts of town. Detective Lam and Sharp looked defeated, but it was far from over. They had the right to detain her for twenty-four hours, after that, if they didn’t have anything to charge her with, then she had to be let go. They removed themselves from the chairs and left the room.
“We gonna have to eventually let her go,” Sharp said to Lam.
“Let the bird out the cage and she’ll fly away.”
“Maybe, but if we break her wings she won’t be able to fly far.”
***
Twenty-four hours later, Cartier stepped out of the police building a free woman. But she was far from delighted. In the physical, she was free, but inside, she was locked and chained to the pain of losing her daughter and family. She was flanked by her attorney, Jennifer Massenburg, as she descended the stairs and hastily moved toward the idling SUV.
Once she stepped out the gates, cameras started flashing and the screaming journalists swarmed down at her.
“Cartier Timmons-Payne, did you murder your daughter?” one reporter shouted.
“Cartier, tell us what happened to your family.”
“Cartier, is it true you were the ring leader of a notorious New York drug crew?”
“Cartier, what brought you down to Miami?”
“Cartier, is it true you are head of the Cartier Cartel?”
Cartier ignored them all, pushing her way through the throng of reporters, and rushed into the backseat of the Escalade. There were too many people everywhere. She couldn’t breathe.
Quinn was riding shotgun, and Mills was behind the wheel ready to go.
“Get me the fuck outta here,” Cartier said, looking flustered.
Mills nodded and slowly moved his way through the people and traffic.
“We gonna be okay, Cartier,” Quinn said. “I got my people an’ the streets, an’ as soon as they get a whiff of information ’bout any muthafuckas responsible, we gon’ be on it. But in the meantime, we all gotta remain low. It’s too hot out there for us right now. Hector is becomin’ suspicious of everything, we got contracts on our heads, and the police are on us now, so we gotta watch our back. We gotta be careful.”
Cartier didn’t respond. She sat slumped in the backseat of the SUV with a blank expression, her mind drifting elsewhere. She was dirty, exhausted, and emotionally drained. She felt like dying. But first she had to get her revenge. Her daughter and family’s death wouldn’t be in vain.
After they made it to the Motel 6 and parked in the back, Quinn decided it was time to check out. Cartier had stayed there too long and needed to relocate.
Cartier remained despondent. Quinn was talking, but she wasn’t doing too much listening. She went into the bathroom and locked the door. She stripped from her clothing to take a needed shower.
The water cascaded off Cartier’s brown skin. She just wanted to wash away all of her grief. She wanted the miseries and troubles to spill out into the shower drain. She hung her head low and started to cry heavily. Her tears fell like the water from the showerhead above.
Christian was all she could think about. She felt herself drowning in her tears. She fell to her knees and wailed. Where did she go wrong? How did she fuck up? Cartier lingered in the shower for a long moment until the last tear fell.
Cartier exited the bathroom an hour later, her tears dried, her mood desensitized to any more pain. Now it was payback unto those who did her wrong. The first thing she needed to do was call Janet. Quinn handed her the cell phone.
Cartier dialed Janet’s number and walked toward the window. She peered out at the sun fading over Miami.
Janet answered, “What the fuck is goin’ on down there, Cartier? I heard about Christian. I was just about to call you. It’s on the news up here too.”
“They killed my baby, Janet. But I’ma kill every last person involved—whoever’s behind this. I swear, I’m gonna hunt them down and tear them apart limb from limb.”
“Get the fuck outta Miami, Cartier. Come back to New York, and come see me immediately. I have something important to tell you. Something, really important. And stop talking reckless over these phones. You know those peoples could be listening.”
It was part of Cartier’s plan to leave Miami. She needed to regroup, but she also wanted to wait until the coroner released her daughter’s body, and then she would leave on the next thing smoking. She hadn’t
been officially charged with any of the murders, but the cops were definitely still investigating her, and it probably was only a matter of time until they found some charges to stick to her.
Cartier wanted to take her daughter back to Brooklyn and bury her next to her father.
“Go back to New York an’ handle ya business,” Quinn said to her. “I’ll handle things down here. I promise you, word gon’ stay out on da streets ’bout this shit, an’ me an’ my goons gon’ be on the hunt.”
Cartier nodded. It was official. She’d be heading back to New York.
Chapter 23
Hector stepped out of the SUV with Tumble by his side, and three scowling thugs following them, watching his back, each man armed with semi-automatic pistols. The fire in the kitchen was getting hot, but Hector and his hoodlums weren’t ready to burn anytime soon.
West Little Havana was vibrant under the full moonlight. The people in the streets were joyous and partying like it was New Year’s Eve as Little Havana hosted its annual Calle Ocho Street Festival, salsa music blaring in the distance.
Hector walked toward the burgundy Chevy Cruze parked on the street. Three of his peoples were standing by it. The look on their faces already told the horrors they were about to see, and while everyone was carousing and feeling jovial just a few blocks away, the Ghost Ridas had a major crisis to deal with.
Hector walked up to Luis, one of his street lieutenants, and said, “What the fuck is in the trunk, Luis?”
“It ain’t pretty,” Luis replied with a gloomy stare. He opened the trunk.
Hector stared down at Tosar and Ortiz, wrapped in plastic, their heads blown off. It was a messy sight, but Hector remained expressionless.
Luis said, “Look what these putos did to them.”
Hector remained silent, his eyes hooked into his two longtime friends who met with a ghastly fate by their enemies’ hands.
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