A better part of valor, p.16
A Better Part of Valor, page 16
part #3 of Valorie Dawes Thrillers Series
Val grimaced. In her opinion, all tattoos were stupid.
“Let’s say,” Shannon said, “I wanted to get this particular tattoo, and I wanted to be…discreet.”
Luis whooped with glee. “You mean you want it on your ass? Or on your boobies?” He laughed. “Let’s make an appointment, Seňorita.”
“Seňora, if you don’t mind,” Shannon said. “And no, thanks. Say, on my leg, where my slacks would hide it. Where should I go? If not you, which of your competitors might help me out with this?”
He shook his head. “I’m not ratting anybody out,” he said. “Anyways, something like that, anybody could do it. You could practically buy it on Amazon.” Val snickered at the joke, but Shannon didn’t even break a smile.
Val closed the ledger, caught Shannon’s eye, and shook her head. The ledger showed no sign that any of the victims—including the three she’d culled from her case search—had signed in, as required, for a session at Heats Ink.
“I see,” Shannon said with a heavy sigh. “Well, Seňor Morales, thank you for your time. If you happen to remember anything in the future…” She handed him a business card. “Let’s go, Dawes.”
Val set the ledger down, but before she walked away, a piece of mail on the desk caught her eye. The hand-inscribed envelope had been mailed to Heats Ink at a different address, on a residential street on her old beat in Liberty Heights. She committed the address to her memory and followed Shannon to the door.
Val turned back before exiting. “Seňor,” she said. “How often do you work from home?”
Shannon, already out the door, halted and stepped closer, putting Morales in her line of sight.
“Perdone?” Confusion and surprise filled his broad face.
“How often do you see clients at your house on Woodland Avenue, instead of here?” she said.
“I, uh…I don’t,” he said, his face reddening and his eyes lowering. “A long time ago I did. Nowadays, all my work is in the shop.”
“I see,” Val said. “Is that true of your competitors, as well?”
He took a breath, elbows bent, his hands held palms-up. “I…don’t know,” he said. “You’d have to ask them.”
She smiled at him, her eyes narrowing to slits. “I see.” She let her gaze linger, noted his body language: biting his lip, eyes darting, feet shifting. “Just curious.”
“Nice catch,” Shannon said once she’d restarted the engine. “Give me the address. Time for a home visit.”
They arrived at Morales’s cottage-style house within twenty minutes. The home needed some painting and loose roof shingles replaced, but nothing serious. A kid’s bike and a tricycle guarded each side of the tiny concrete porch. Two young children played on the hard-scrabble lawn. They froze in place and stared once the cruiser halted in front of the property. “Mama, mama!” one of them yelled. “Policià!” They threw down their toys and ran inside.
Shannon sighed. “So much for the element of surprise.” They strolled toward the front door, taking in the surroundings. Density-sized lots, about fifty feet wide. Each hosted 1980s-era or earlier single-family homes, duplexes, and triplexes, all in roughly the same level of repair as the Morales’. No driveways—people parked their Nissans, VWs, and Fords on the street.
A plump, dark-haired woman in a house dress emerged before they reached the door and smiled at them. “Bienvenidos,” she said. “How may I help you officers today?”
Shannon signaled for Val to wait. “Is Seňor Morales at home?”
Val hid a smile behind her hand. Shannon knew better, but she played innocent like a pro.
“No, he is at work,” the woman said. “I am his wife. Is there something I can do to help you? Can I get you some tea or coffee?”
“Coffee would be terrific,” Shannon said, and smiled.
“One minute.” Seňora Morales bustled inside, leaving the door open. Shannon followed her in, Val right behind. They stood inside the door, surveying the living room. They saw the usual sights one sees in a house with kids: a flat-screen TV, a lumpy sofa, a few toys and a coloring book with crayons on the floor, and family pictures everywhere. Not the kids, though. Val guessed that Seňora Morales had banished them to their bedrooms, just in case.
She returned with steaming mugs in each hand. “Would you like cream and sugar?”
“Black’s fine for me,” Shannon said.
“Cream, please,” Val said. This time she meant to drink it. She ignored Shannon’s exasperation and, once Seňora Morales exited, shuffled into the hallway that led to the bedrooms. A bathroom at the end of the hall and three shut doors—bedrooms and a closet, Val guessed. And an open door—the one closest to the living room.
Shannon cleared her throat, alarm in her eyes. Val waved her off and peeked inside the open door.
The chemical-and-antiseptic smells confirmed it before her eyes did: Morales used the third bedroom as a home studio. The room contained a stool, recliner, and two tables, one of them filled with inks and a few tattoo pens.
She hurried back in time to give Shannon a thumbs-up before the Seňora returned. They accepted her offer of a seat.
Shannon ran the same spiel with Morales’s wife as she did with Luis: showed her pictures, asked if she recognized any faces or names. Every time, they received the same answer: No, no. And her husband no longer practiced his art at home.
“Never?” Shannon said.
“No, no,” she insisted. Her voice wavered.
“You’re sure?” Shannon said. “So if we were to search the premises, we wouldn’t find any evidence of tattoos—”
“For a friend, sometimes,” Seňora Morales said with a rush of air. “Not for a long time. One year, or more. Two years. Yes. A very long time.”
“Such as, say, this girl?” Val showed her a picture of Yolanda Garcia, the young Latina victim she’d unearthed in the database.
Seňora Morales glanced at the picture, shaking her head. “No, no,” she said. “I have never seen her.”
“Now what?” Val asked when they returned outdoors.
“Now we canvass the neighbors, see if they recognize either of them,” Shannon said. “You go left, I’ll go right. Meet back here in an hour.”
That produced more of the same: nothing. The few people that answered the door denied ever seeing any of the victims, and nobody ever, swear to God, saw anyone resembling a customer enter or leave the Morales residence.
“You know what that means,” Shannon said when they regrouped at the car.
Val nodded. “Yeah. Nobody in this neighborhood talks to the police. So, what do we do?”
Shannon held up the car keys. “We go to a different neighborhood, of course. You said you knew how to find Gunner Washington?”
Val grinned. “Him, or someone else who can. Let’s go downtown!”
***
Shannon steered the squad car along Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard until Val signaled her to pull over a few blocks before their destination—the parking lot of an abandoned theater on the corner of Albany Street. “Gil trained me to approach The Disciples on foot,” Val said. “If we pull the car into the lot, they’ll disappear.”
“And they’re always there?” Shannon asked, turning off the engine.
“Someone is,” Val said, “and they’ll know how to find Gunner.”
The two women walked at a brisk pace toward the theater. The weather had turned warm with little humidity, a beautiful spring day that made Val miss walking her beat. Many of the shops they passed had planted flowers in window boxes and planters, perfuming the air with floral aromas and bright colors. With every step, the sound of rhythmic drumming got louder. When the lot came into view, they spotted a small group of Black teens, sitting in a circle, rapping on a variety of overturned plastic buckets, metal trash can lids, and crates with their hands or wooden rods. Shannon grinned and clapped along, even dancing a little as they walked.
“Hot damn, girl,” Val said, laughing. “You gonna bust a move?”
“Gotta find the fun in this job wherever you can,” Shannon said, bumping Val’s hip with her own.
“You never cease to surprise me,” Val said, but she got into the rhythm for the final fifty feet of their stroll, too.
The drumming reached a crescendo when they got within five yards of the nearest drummer. Val whipped out a couple of one-dollar bills, tossing them into an open suitcase that held mostly loose change.
Shannon whooped and clapped her hands. “Thank you, guys!” she said. “That was great!”
The drummers and their friends stared at her, wide-eyed. “Thanks,” said a tall kid of about seventeen with a temp fade haircut and a single gold earring dangling from his right ear. Val recognized him—he went by Pip, and must have recently earned the earring, a sign of rank within The Disciples. He wore a “Black Lives Matter” T-shirt and baggy shorts that hung several inches below the knee. “Didn’t know you were such a connoisseur of street tunes, Copette,” he said to Val. “Who’s Officer Barbie here? New boss?”
Shannon added a few dollars to the suitcase and waved at the group. “I’m her partner, Detective O’Reilly. How’s it hanging, guys?”
Several of the guys responded to her greeting with shrieks of laughter. “Long and hard, Officer Barbie,” one of them quipped, and they laughed again, harder.
Val reddened. Shannon had a big heart, but not the best social skills. Still, she seemed nonplussed by the Barbie dig. “Don’t stop playing on our account,” Val said, scanning the group. “We’re looking to talk with Gunner. You’ve heard about his sister?”
A solemn silence overtook the lot. A few gang members stepped back toward the assortment of broken-down bicycles and garbage dumpsters adjacent to the old, abandoned theater. Pip eased forward into the center of the circle, arms crossed. “We ain’t seen him in a coupla days,” he said. “Dude’s grieving, you dig?”
Val nodded. “As are we. My partner and I are investigating Charlene’s murder, and we were hoping—”
“It’s aight,” said a voice emerging from a crowded array of abandoned cars in the corner of the lot. A shorter, stocky youth of about twenty strolled toward them. Two gold earrings dangled from each ear. Gunner. “I didn’t have nothing to do with Char’s, um…” He stopped and covered his mouth with his fist, his eyes clenched shut.
“Understood,” Val said, paying no mind to Shannon’s frowning face. “We spoke to your parents this morning. We were hoping you might have seen her before she disappeared. Who she was hanging out with, or if she said anything…”
Gunner stared at them for a moment, then nodded and strolled back to the cluster of dead cars. Val and Shannon followed him, passing too many discarded needles and used condoms along the way. When they reached a distance that put them out of earshot of the group, Gunner faced them again.
“I saw her the weekend before, uh…” Gunner paused, collecting himself. “Char and me, we meet up—sorry, used to meet up—Saturday afternoons for a coke or something and hang out. Sometimes we’d listen to music on her phone or something.” He shuddered out a deep breath. “I don’t know why anyone would want to hurt that girl. She was good people, man.” He gazed off into the distance, tears forming in the corners of his eyes.
“I don’t either, Gunner,” Val said. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Did she mention some new friends, a boyfriend maybe, that she wouldn’t have shared with your parents? Any new people in her life?”
Gunner thought a moment, shook his head. “Char wasn’t into, like, dating or nothing,” he said. “This dude Jamal asked her out once or twice. He was like this jock sort of dude, not too smart. I told him not to get any ideas about getting in her panties and all, and poof, he gone.” He allowed a tiny smile. “I mighta scared him off or something.”
Val glanced at Shannon, who mouthed “tat” to her. Val nodded, taking the cue: keep taking the lead. “As far as you know, did she recently get a tattoo, or did she talk about getting one with you?”
“Hell, no,” Gunner said, laughing. “The Rev woulda killed her if she ever came home with ink on her. Dude expected her to stay a virgin her whole life, I ’spect.” He laughed. “Fucking Daryl.”
“That Saturday, did she talk about any new interests or hobbies?” Val asked.
Gunner leaned against the hood of an old, rusted-out Buick and folded his arms across his chest. After a few moments’ thought, he held up one finger. “She said something about this club she’s in at school. Got some kinda award or scholarship or something.”
“Association of Future Entrepreneurs?” Shannon asked.
“That’s it!” Gunner clapped once and pointed at Shannon. “She said she’d be getting this new job out of the deal, ’cept for no pay. I told her she’s crazy to work for nothing. She goes, ‘It’s an internship. That’s how it works.’ Pfft. Slavery, if you ask me.”
Shannon jumped in again, excitement edging her voice. “Did she say anything about having to meet with anyone, or having to get the money, or—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Gunner said. “She had to talk with some college dudes about her ideas and shit. She was gonna do that last week or something. Don’t know if she ever did, ’cause like I said, I haven’t seen her since that Saturday.”
Shannon and Val exchanged knowing glances. Val’s heart grew heavy, but she needed to ask. “Did you catch the name of those college guys? Either of them?”
“Naw,” Gunner said. “I told her it sounded like a scam, like some white dudes trying to steal her award money. She said, naw, it’s legit. Anyway, I guess one of ’em’s Black, so, you know. Less likely. Sorry, I don’t mean nothing by that, Copette.”
“No worries,” Val said. “Could I try to jog your memory, though, about these guys? Was one of them by chance named Kent?”
“Kent? Hmm.” Gunner’s face lit up. “Yeah, Kent, Carter, Kevin, something like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Colin, maybe.”
Val’s chest grew heavier and she couldn’t keep the dread out of her voice. “And the other…was it Diego?”
Gunner pondered, then shrugged. “I don’t think she said both dudes’ names. Sorry.”
“That’s okay,” Shannon said. “Mr. Washington, you’ve been very helpful. We appreciate it.”
Gunner’s face soured. “My name ain’t Washington,” he said. “That’s The Rev’s name. He ain’t never became my daddy.”
“Sorry,” Shannon said. “I assumed—”
“Just call me Gunner.” He pushed away from the Buick and took a few steps, then glanced back. “In fact, don’t call me at all, unless you got the name of the dude what got my sister.” He sneered. “But you ain’t gonna do that, are you now, Officer Barbie?” He sauntered away, hands stuffed into his pockets.
Shannon signaled to Val, and they departed in the opposite direction.
“Guess I screwed up there,” Shannon said. “I should’ve let you continue taking the lead. Are you sure you can find him again if we need him?”
Val nodded. “If he wants to be found.” She fell silent again.
“At least we got a lead, back to those college guys,” Shannon said. “Our Sunday evening chat with Mr. Collier ought to be interesting.”
Val took a deep breath. Diego’s puppy-dog charm and irrepressible enthusiasm for dating her seemed like a big act now. She felt used, and a little sad. She’d found him fun and attractive, and as awkward as their time together had been so far, she’d enjoyed his attention, if only to feed her ego. That hadn’t happened often in her life.
Interesting, indeed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
VAL KNOCKED FOR the third time on the front door to Gil’s house the next morning and once again got no answer. He hadn’t answered her multiple calls or texts, all sent within the last hour, including two on the one-mile walk from her apartment. She couldn’t imagine that he’d forgotten their planned get-together. They hadn’t missed a Saturday morning together since he’d come home from the hospital.
She glanced around. Nothing seemed out of order: lawn mowed, flowers watered, walkway swept, garden hose wrapped around its caddy hanging near the spigot. His Ford Explorer sat in the driveway, as always. All signs of him being home.
Val knocked and rang the bell again, then listened with her ear to the door. Nothing.
She checked the time on her cell phone—8:50 a.m., making her ten minutes early—and for messages. None. Shannon had agreed to a noontime start to their workday out of respect for her time with Gil. “Give him a hug for me,” Shannon had said late Friday afternoon when they’d quit for the day.
“Friend of Gil’s?” A bent, white-haired Latino waved from the porch of a neat, two-story bungalow next door. A lit cigarette dangled from the man’s free hand, its acrid scent reaching Val in the gentle morning breeze. His other hand held a wooden cane, which seemed to support most of the lithe man’s weight. An orange tabby jumped down from the broad, flat porch rail, startled by the man’s sudden activity.
“I’m his former partner,” Val said. “Have you seen him this morning?”
The old man took another drag on his cigarette and shook his head, then exploded into a mad coughing fit that lasted fifteen or twenty agonizing seconds. He waved the cigarette at her again. “Nope,” he said in a raspy voice. “Not since lunchtime yesterday.”
Val glanced around the neighborhood, a dense collection of modest mid-century homes on fifty-foot lots decorated with tiny patches of grass and flower gardens. A few other neighbors paused their outdoor chores to eavesdrop.
Val banged on the door again. “Gil?” she called out, fighting to keep the anxiety out of her voice. “Are you in there?”
“Try the back door,” the man said. “There’s a light on in the kitchen. I think it’s been on all night.”
Her heart pounding, Val dashed the short distance toward him and around the side of the house—only to discover her path blocked by a six-foot-tall cedar fence.
