Night Songs

by Penny Mickelbury

  She dried herself and wondered why she had bothered to shower. When it was this hot in D.C., being perpetually drenched in sweat was a fact of life. She threw on a pair of cotton drawstring pants, a T-shirt, and sandals. She was scheduled to meet Sylvia for dinner and a briefing on what she’d learned about whoever was converting prostitutes. On her way out, she saw McCreedy’s card still stuck in the screen door. She snatched it out and saw the familiar shield of the Metropolitan Police Department, read his name, and the words Hate Crimes Unit. Words that always said to her eyes and to her mind and to her heart, Lieutenant Anna Maglione. Gianna. She would, she decided in that moment, go to Gianna when she left Sylvia, and tell her about McCreedy, tell her that she planned to pursue the prostitute story, tell her that they needed to solve the dilemma of their lives. Beverly’s words replayed themselves in her memory: What you two do is too intense not to share it with each other. She was right. It was not possible for them to compartmentalize their lives, not without compromising the health and growth of their relationship.

  Mimi liked Sylvia more each time she saw her or talked with her and she was grateful that Beverly had found someone so wonderful. They had dinner at the Tandoor Oven on Connecticut Avenue, having discovered they both had a passion for Indian food. The full-blast air conditioning more than compensated for the heat generated by the flame-throwing oven in the center of the room which gave the establishment its name. But the gist of the conversation Mimi found to be a downer, for Sylvia adamantly discouraged her from even attempting to approach the Washington Center for Spiritual Awareness.

  “In the first place, Gianna beat you to it, and they’re more than satisfied to leave the entire matter in the hands of the police. In the second place, the prostitutes are scared silly. They’ll barely even talk to the Center staff any more.” And with that, Sylvia refused further discussion of the matter, except to add that she’d offered her services to the Center, and to answer even before Mimi asked: No, she would not ask any questions of the women on the street on Mimi’s behalf. And that, Mimi sighed, was that.

  Gianna opened the door peering over the reading glasses that rode low on her nose, and the quizzical expression that occupied her lovely face turned instantly to a grin of delight.

  “What are you doing here?” she exclaimed, pulling Mimi inside and into a wonderful embrace, made more wonderful by the fact that Gianna was wearing jogging shorts and a tank top and nothing else.

  “I apologize for arriving unannounced and uninvited and for disturbing your work,” Mimi whispered from within the embrace, wishing that she didn’t have to say what she’d come to say, wishing that she could just remain close in Gianna’s arms.

  “I’m paying bills,” Gianna growled, waving one arm toward the pile of papers on the dining room table, “so, your presence is a wonderful diversion. Have you eaten? You look wonderful, by the way.”

  “Just finished. Had dinner with Sylvia. And so do you.”

  “You like her, don’t you,” Gianna said, as she poured tall, frosty glasses of lemonade and brought them to the sofa where Mimi was already sprawled, grateful for the air-conditioned coolness of Gianna’s apartment, a welcome contrast to her heat-and humidity-ridden house. She really would have to invest in central air.

  “She’s wonderful, and I’m really happy for Bev. Gianna., can I tell you right now why I’m here?”

  Gianna looked at her, the worry crease taking its place in the center of her forehead, and Mimi laughed, reached out to smooth it away. “Don’t look like that. It’s not that serious. But we do need to talk. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Gianna said, the crease returning with the concern at the tone of Mimi’s words.

  “Officer McCreedy paid me a visit this evening.”

  “Ah,” Gianna said.

  “You knew he was coming?”

  “Yes,” Gianna said.

  “Would it have been so terrible if you’d told me?”

  “How could I have done that without involving my private life in my professional life?” Gianna asked, and it was a genuine question.

  “Gianna, we’ve got to find a way to share our work without violating our professional ethics. I don’t want to hide my work from you. I want you to know what I’m doing, I want to share that with you, and I believe I can do that in such a way that I don’t compromise either of us. I wish you shared that belief.” Mimi watched and waited as Gianna processed her words and processed her own thoughts and formulated a response.

  “You know what my first thought was when I saw your number written on the black board, Mimi? I wanted to know what the hell some other woman was doing with it.”

  “Sounds like a jealous hissy fit, which I’d have loved to receive, by the way, but it honestly doesn’t seem like private life threatening the work ethic.”

  Gianna let a small grin turn her lips upward as she continued. “Then I was pissed off that you were involved in this case, and then I got scared that once again we’d find ourselves on a collision course...”

  She didn’t need to complete the thought because she knew they both remembered vividly their parallel investigation into the murders of four wealthy and deep-in-the-closet gay people a year ago that almost destroyed their relationship before they’d really gotten it going. And since then, they’d avoided, at Gianna’s insistence, discussing their work beyond surface issues; and for a year, that tactic had worked. Until now. Until, once again, they were investigating the same case.

  “I had dinner with Sylvia because I like her, yes, but also because I’d asked her to help me gather some information.”

  A wide range of emotions swept across the soft contours of Gianna’s face and plumbed the depths of her hazel eyes, the final one being recognition. Perhaps five seconds had elapsed. “The Washington Center for Spiritual Awareness,” she said, and it was a statement and not a question.

  “Damn, Lieutenant, you’re good,” Mimi said with admiration and respect in the laugh that she couldn’t stop from coming.

  “And?” Gianna raised her eyebrows awaiting a response.

  “And you’d already beat me to the punch and the Center people not only won’t talk to me, they won’t talk to anybody. So, it’s back to square one for me.” Mimi sighed.

  “What about your friend, Baby?”

  Mimi almost giggled. “Baby wants to get paid.”

  “So? Pay her,” Gianna said.

  “Reporters don’t pay for information, Gianna,” Mimi said almost rudely, and was instantly glad that she’d restrained herself when she saw the look on Gianna’s face.

  “They don’t? What about all those investigative programs on television and the tabloids—”

  “That shit’s not journalism,” Mimi snarled, “it’s all hype and sensationalism and it’s got nothing to do with what I do!”

  Gianna quickly and solemnly apologized. She realized that she’d made a major error and wished to correct it immediately. It took several moments before Mimi’s calm was restored and they could continue their conversation, one they both were working hard to keep free of anger or recrimination.

  “McCreedy saw your photograph on my bookshelf.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “That’s what I said. That’s what he said.”

  “Oh, shit,” Gianna said again and got up to pace a few steps before coming back to stand before Mimi. “I suppose if I’d let you know that we’d found your phone number...”

  “That I’d have stuffed your photo into a drawer before McCreedy’s fine self appeared at my door?” Mimi grinned and shrugged. “I don’t know, darling, but I do know the guy wouldn’t have caught me by surprise. And yes, if I thought it really mattered to you, I’d have moved the photo.”

  Gianna regarded her intently, then sat down close beside her and took her hand. “You’re right, of course.”

  “I am?” Mimi widened her eyes in an exaggerated display of surprise. “Hallelujah! Write this down: date, time, and place. The lieutenant said I was right about so
mething!” She laughed as Gianna grabbed her, pushed her back into the sofa, and bit her neck. “So if I’m right, does that mean you admit to being wrong?”

  “Don’t push your luck, Patterson.” Gianna attempted to growl and sound threatening, but it came out more of a giggle instead, and they both knew they’d opened a big door. Opened it so wide that Gianna comfortably settled back into Mimi’s arms and told her all about being a cowboy cop.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  When Gianna opened the door to the Think Tank for the eight o’clock weekly Unit meeting on the second Monday in September all talk ceased and mouths from which words had been flowing freely the moment before hung open at the sight of her. “What’s wrong with you people? Never seen a cowboy before?” Gianna wore loose fitting black jeans, black snakeskin cowboy boots—a wonderfully extravagant gift from Mimi to celebrate what she thought was a big step up for Gianna—a white shirt, and her usual under-the-arm holster. She crossed to her customary place at the head of the long table, sat down, put her cowboy-booted feet up on the table and accepted the mug of coffee Tim gave her; he always had it ready and waiting. She sipped from the cup and waited for Eric to get started, impatient because she had a meeting in an hour with the two undercover cops working the Daniel Boone killings, and she’d promised to make a personal visit to the Office of Latino Affairs to hear firsthand complaints that investigators from the Immigration and Naturalization Service were once again staging illegal raids on restaurants and hotels downtown looking for undocumented workers. She’d also promised to look into why the city’s Department of Public Works, after three weeks, still hadn’t removed the swastikas and other graffiti spray-painted on the wall of the downtown Hebrew Academy.

  “Nice boots, Boss,” Cassie offered.

  “Thanks,” Gianna said shortly, reaching for the ever-expanding stack of files. “And may I assume that there’s something here from the ME’s office?” she asked, even as she found what she was looking for, and it took about three seconds for the gist of the analysis to reach her understanding. “Fuck a duck,” she exclaimed under her breath, and looked up over her reading glasses to chastise whoever had snickered. But her heart wasn’t in it.

  The raw truth staring her in the face had knocked the wind out of her: the three-year analysis of cause of death in females from 1 January 1991 to the present indicated that a total of nine women had died from knife wounds to the chest. Gianna studied the pattern of the murders: one in April of 1991; two in October of 1991; one each in March and October of 1992; then one each in March and September of 1993; and one each in March and April of 1994. In three of the cases, the knives had been removed from the bodies prior to discovery. Four of the cases remained Jane Does.

  Gianna removed her reading glasses and slid them into her shirt pocket. Having to wear them all the time when reading was a new reality in her life and it annoyed her more than she had words to express. Now she’d need to add the Chief to her list of meetings for the day, to let him know that the serial killer had struck nine times, not six, as they’d first believed.

  “Cassie,” she said, standing up, “Meet me at the Public Works Department at two-thirty, director’s office. Lynda, you meet me at Latino Affairs at three-thirty, general counsel’s office. The rest of you and Eric, try to find out how much of a waste of time it will be to reconstruct the case files on these victims.”

  She left them, not caring that she’d not concealed from her voice a single trace of the disgust she felt.

  The notorious Central Cell Block, in the basement of Police Headquarters, was every bit as disgusting as the general public had always imagined it to be. It was old, it was dirty, and it stank. One of the perks Gianna enjoyed as a lieutenant was never again having to process a perp in Central. So, it was accompanied by a wave of not-so-fond memories that she took the elevator to the basement and it was a good thing that the intake officer with whom she checked her weapon knew her and knew why she was there because she’d never have recognized the two under covers she found waiting for her in the interview cell.

  They’d responded to her summons coming directly off shift, and thought it better to meet her in Central where they looked like they belonged. When she’d met them at the training academy a month ago—six year veteran Tony Watkins and four year veteran Alice Long—they looked exactly like the smart, dedicated young vice cops they were. At this moment, they looked like they should be in Central lockup waiting for a court appearance. Tony’s toes were poking out of the holes in filthy sneakers with no laces—toes without socks. His trousers were encased with ancient specimens of grease and grime and were held up with a length of equally slimy rope. He appeared to wear at least three shirts, each more ragged than the other, and a jacket that seemed almost clean by comparison. The color of everything he wore was neither discernible or nor recognizable. He looked exactly like a man who lived on the street. Only the closest inspection would reveal, in the middle of the scraggly, raggedy beard, beautiful white teeth and, above the beard, clear, sparkling, intelligent brown eyes, and Tony Watkins would never permit anyone on the street to get that close to him. His three shirts and jacket concealed the bulk of the 9mm Glock revolver in the holster under his arm.

  Alice, on the other hand, was at least clean, if equally bizarre in her attire. She wore the body-hugging spandex favored by prostitutes—black with black fishnet stockings and six-inch orange patent leather heels to match the two feet of hair that cascaded down her back. She had on so much make-up that her features were totally distorted. Gianna knew she was Alice only because of her distinctive South Carolina coastal accent, and because of the spectacular body hugged by the spandex. Alice was a knockout.

  Both officers stood when Gianna entered the room, and she waved them back down. They’d been awake all night and needed the rest. She noticed that they both had cups of coffee and the remains of food of some kind. They looked tired, and she was glad, when she looked at them, that she’d decided to put Tony in as back-up for Alice. They’d only been out for three weeks, but clearly the job was taking its toll.

  “What’s up, Lieutenant?” Tony threw her a friendly salute.

  “My blood pressure,” Gianna said with feeling, and they both grinned. “But you’re here to help that, I hope.”

  “I think we got somethin’ for you,” Alice said in the soft rhythm of the Gullah people of the islands off the South Carolina coast. She detailed for Gianna the activities of a black Jeep Wrangler that had cruised the downtown streets near the bus station and the convention center and the train station for the last two weekends. Just on Friday and Saturday nights. At least two young white men in the vehicle at all times, sometimes three, sometimes four. Sometimes the top was off and the boys were visible, sometimes not. “I hollered at ‘em one time,” Alice said, “tryin’ to get ‘em to pull over. But one of the other girls said those boys been drivin’ by like that for quite some time and they don’t ever stop. None of the girls had ever seen or heard of them even slowin’ down to talk, to say nothin’ of buyin’ trade.”

  “They’ve been cruising for quite some time, you said. How long, Alice?” Alice and Tony had no way of knowing that Gianna’s laid-back, almost lazy manner of questioning was a sure signal that every fiber of her was on full alert.

  “One of the girls said at least a year,” Alice responded.

  Gianna considered the report she’d read not an hour earlier and wished she’d had more time to spend with it before having to meet Tony and Alice. Would there be a hit in September or would it come in October? And at which of the locations noted for street-walking prostitutes would be the most likely target? She was reluctant to move Alice and Tony at this juncture, but if she had to...

  “You called them boys, Alice. How old?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “I’d bet not a one of ‘em’s over twenty,” she said, and looked to Tony for confirmation.

  He nodded, and picked up the story. “I got up off the bench one night when they passed by and the t
op was down and the traffic light caught ‘em at the intersection of Ninth and G. Walked right up to the truck, stumbled into it, looked right into their faces. Alice is right. Nothin’ but boys. And rich boys, I’d say, by the look of ‘em.”

  Gianna questioned them thoroughly, took them through the paces several times, checking and double-checking their information, and she agreed that the Jeep and its occupants constituted a strong lead. She wrote down the number of the Virginia license plate of the truck and the descriptions of the boys, though she knew Alice and Tony both would submit fully detailed reports. She’d also have them get with the artist later in the day to work up some sketches.

  “What’s the mood on the street, Alice? Are the women nervous at all?”

  “Hard to say, Lieutenant. You know, actin’ tough out on those streets is a major part of survival, so you can’t ever tell for sure when somebody’s really brave or just actin’ brave or so full of crack they don’t know the difference. But I’ll tell you this: the sooner you pull us in, the better. They might not be scared, but I am, and when I come in, it’ll be a long while before I volunteer for undercover unless it’s in a bank or somewhere safe.”

  “Me, too,” Tony said, anger puncturing his easygoing voice. “Some little fucker tried to torch me the other night. I felt him trying to check my pockets, which was all right. I wouldn’t have let him get close enough to touch my piece. Then I smelled something and before I could register it was gasoline, he’d lit the match. Good thing Long Legs here was walking toward me. She saw what was happening and chased him down. Caught him, too, and smacked him upside the head.” Tony almost grinned at the memory, but it was too painful for real humor. “He was a kid, Lieutenant. I mean like seven or eight.” He shook his head. “How can somebody be that depraved that young?” Then a grin did break over his face and the perfect white teeth and beautiful brown eyes sparkled and Gianna remembered that he was quite a handsome man. “You shoulda seen the look on that little bastard’s face when Alice ran him down. She’s a marathoner, you know. That’s why I call her Long Legs. Boston and New York. Ran him down in a flaming red pair of those come-fuck-mes and grabbed him and smacked him so hard I’ll bet his teeth are still rattling.”