Cry Me a River (18 page)

She set her jaw. If he was recruiting, she was going to kick his ass from here to Tulsa.

The warning bell rang and students hightailed it through the arched entryway. The two younger kids broke away from Jamal and rushed to make it to their classes. Still buying into the system, then. Still caring what their grades were.

Good.

Jamal saw Grace descending toward him. He took off his rag and stuffed it in his backpack. Then his big-ass necklace. If they searched his pack and found that shit, he’d be expelled. She wondered if he cared anymore.

“How’s Daddy D?” he asked her, eyes wide and fearful.

“The same.” She chewed the inside of her lip, trying
to read him, see if he already knew what she was here to tell him.

“There was a fire yesterday,” she began. “In your neighborhood.”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah, I know.” He looked up at her through his lashes. “And?”

“It’s all gone, man.”

“Shit!” he yelled. He flung his backpack at her. She caught it like a basketball. “You lying to me!” He was talking street; he’d gotten all A’s in English. Every year.

“We’re investigating it—”

“You’re not doing shit!” He balled his fists and looked around for something to hit. Back, forth, he pivoted, like a caged animal. He ran over to a spruce and rammed his fist into the trunk. Roared from the pain.

She let him rage for a while; then, sensing someone behind her on the stairs, she turned and saw a school security guard. Unhooking her badge, she flashed it at him. He nodded, but he didn’t go away, just moved up a few stairs and watched.

“Oh, God, God,” Jamal whispered; then he began to pant. He hit the tree again. It had to hurt like hell.

Had to hurt worse to lose all your worldly possessions.

“Everything we had of Malcolm’s,” he said. “His stuffed animals, and his chemistry set. His
baby blanket
…” He dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and keened. He wailed and he screamed and he sobbed.

Grace waited, watching his hand bleed.

“I’m going to kill those suckahs,” he hissed. “Get that gun and blow ’em away.”

“Come with me to the hospital,” Grace said. “Come see your grandfather. We can get your hand looked at at the same time.”

“Is he awake?” Jamal asked without looking at her. He flexed his fingers. “Does he know?”

“No,” she said. “But when he wakes up, he’s going to need you, Jamal.”

“He hates me.” He hung his head.

“He hates that you’re in a gang. Because he loves you. Come on.”

She could see him wavering. Then he scowled at her, backing away.

“You came to my school, man. Everybody saw you. If
they
saw us talking, they’ll kill me.”

“Then come with me.” She held out her hand. “I’ll protect you.”

“Like you protected our place?” His laugh was bitter, derisive.

“The Sons of Oklahoma are ramping up,” she said. “They’re going to try to start a war. You can’t fight a war if you’re not in the army.”

“Tyrell X got my back,” he informed her. “We’re gonna get it done.”

“All you’re going to do is die.” She walked down the rest of the stairs and held out both hands. “I am asking you, for your grandfather’s sake. Get out
now.”

“If I die, it’s your fault, because you came here.” He clamped his mouth.

She kept walking toward him. “If you kill someone, you’ll get your Full Patch, am I right? And once you’re a full member, there
is
only one way out. It won’t be like it is now. It’ll be worse. Much worse. You have to stop.”

“You don’t tell me what to do, you—you white bitch!” Spittle erupted from his mouth and he raised his hands, balling them as if he might actually hit her. She gave him a cop’s hard eye, more to keep him from hurting himself again than anything else. “Everything I have is gone!”

“You’ve got your grandfather.”

“Shut up. You just shut up!” he screamed at her.

Then he turned and ran into the gray, windy day.

Grace ran her hands through her hair and sighed heavily. She started down the stairs; then something made her turn around.

The security guard was standing still, watching her. He’d been there the whole time. And when she met his gaze, his eyes were cold and mean; maybe Jamal had a point. Maybe this guy was a gang member. If you were smart you could get through the screening. Guys who got jobs doing security had a lot in common with cops and, weirdly enough, cops had a lot in common with criminals. A fun fact you learned in the academy.

Grace walked to the curb, where she’d double-parked Connie—a perk of being a police officer and not a criminal—climbed into her Porsche, and started looking for Jamal.

She figured he couldn’t have gotten far. But she must have figured wrong. He had melted into the shadows like an expert. Calculating his walking speed, then running speed, Grace pulled over a number of times and searched.

“Damn it, come out,” she called. “Jamal, don’t do this!”

    Another day over. It had started raining again, and the holes in their barn roof were spreading like puddles. Maybe Ronnie was right; they should sell before any more things broke.

After Rhetta finished putting the kids to bed, she steeled herself for her nightly meeting with her husband in the kitchen. What would it be tonight? They had already gone over the bank statements and checkbooks-all the things he had been hiding from her. What was left? She was sure she’d find out soon enough. Then she’d drink a couple of glasses of wine and wind up crying in the barn.

Only, tonight, Ronnie wasn’t in the kitchen. She stood alone, caught off guard, and went into their bedroom.
He was in bed, and by the sound of his gentle snoring, he was asleep.

Her heart softened. She looked at the lines on his face, the light spilling from the doorway on his hair. For better or worse, and these times were bad.

She could go to him. Be comforted by him …

She was too angry. And besides, every time they’d … tried, nothing had happened. They were both too stressed.

But there was holding each other. Just being together.

No
. She just couldn’t.

Feeling defeated, she shut the door, went back into the kitchen, and mulled what to do next. She thought about going to check on Speckles. She’d wait five minutes; maybe the rain would die down.

She reached into the fridge to get another glass of white wine, then changed her mind and grabbed a water bottle instead. Unscrewing the cap, she glanced over at the calculator on the counter, sitting on top of the file folders containing the evidence of their financial ruin.

Then the landline phone rang. Rhetta jerked and automatically glanced at the clock. Ten. As she rushed to grab it, she made a mental inventory—
kids safe; Ronnie safe; it might be Grace but she doesn’t call this late on my landline; maybe it’s our parents; what if it’s someone in Grace’s family, because something has happened to her?

She grabbed the phone.

“Hello?” she said, holding her breath as she put the receiver to her ear. The frenetic thump of heavy metal whooshed across the line like horrible static.

“Mrs…. mmmm …” It was a girl’s voice, very muffled, followed by some sobbing. Rhetta blinked as, just as rapid-fire as before, her mind sought to make connections:
a wrong number; one of Mae’s friends; Grace’s niece, Sayre—

“Missus? Rodriguez?” The words were barely audible over the music. And very slurred. Whoever had called her was drunk.

Rhetta knit her forehead. The voice was familiar, but she couldn’t place it, and she was unwilling to identify herself until she knew who it was.

“May I ask who’s calling, please?”

There was a pause. “Oh, mm so sorry, shouldn’t a called you—”

“Wait.” Rhetta blinked. She shifted her weight and laid the water bottle against her chest. “Is this … Jeannie?”

The reply was a heavy sob. “Shelter’s all full up. I don’t even know where I am, lost my shoes an’ my purse.” She cried some more. “’N these bikers’re asking me if I wanna place to get outta rain.”

Jesus, Joseph, and Mary
. Rhetta blinked.

“Jeannie,” she said. “Can you call someone?” Then she heard herself and realized that what she meant to say was, someone
else?

“Yeah, s-sorry, sorry, t’ bother you.” She started crying harder.

“Wait, wait.” Rhetta put the cold bottle against her forehead. “How did you get my home phone number?”

“I calla direct’ry,” she said. “Pu’ me through.”

Rhetta was surprised. Their number was supposed to be unlisted.

“You gotta husband name Ronnie, right? The lady said Ronnie ’n’ Rhetta Rodriguez.”

“It’s okay,” Rhetta said, even though it wasn’t, and she would have to talk to Ronnie about it. Another item on her list of annoyances.

“Lissen, I’m sorry a bother ya. I jus’ …”

“Are you in a bar?” Rhetta asked. Judging by the decibel level, if she wasn’t, then she was in somebody’s car. Rhetta wasn’t sure which would be worse.

“I’m inna bathroom,” Jeannie said. “These guys were lookin’ at me funny.”

“The bikers,” Rhetta said.

“No, ma’am. Th’ bikers are
nice.”

I gave her my business card
. Rhetta figured she had kind of brought this on herself. No good deed went unpunished, and tonight it was her turn to prove it. Driving in the pouring rain to a biker bar … “I’m going to come and get you,” Rhetta said. “But I need the address. Are you on a pay phone?” A few such beasts still existed, especially out in the country, where technology changed more slowly and cell phone coverage was spotty.

“Yes’m. Oh, please, come gimme,” Jeannie pleaded, weeping. “He beat me up so bad.”

“Oh, my God,” Rhetta said under her breath. “Hunter? He’s not with you now, is he?”

“No’m, I ran away.”

“And he doesn’t know where you are?”

“Uh-uh. Uh-uh, na now. Oh, God, I love him.” She began to sob again. Rhetta tried not to roll her eyes but it was very late and she was cranky.

“Jeannie, I’m going to call Detective Hanadarko and we’ll come for you, okay?”

“No! No cops, no, no, no, not that scary lady.” She hiccuped. “No one but you. You’re nice.”

Rhetta pushed up her glasses. “Detective Hanadarko is nice.”

“She wanna know stuffa Hunter’s. I don’t know his business, I don’, no, no, no. You come get me, okay?”

Rhetta sighed. She could call Grace, tell her what she was doing, and have her follow her out there. Jeannie didn’t need to know.

“You comin’?” Jeannie whined.

“Yes,” Rhetta said. “I’m coming. So you need to tell me where you are.”

“Oh, God bless you, bless,” Jeannie slurred.

“Jeannie, please, listen. Look at the face of the phone. It might list the name and address of your location. Where you are.”

“Blurry … oh, Mis Rodgriguez … he’s
mad
at me …”

“Look at the phone,” Rhetta repeated.

“’Kay, ’kay, yeah … the Owl Roost … here’s a address …”

Rhetta wrote it down. “Let me read it back to you.”

“You got it, you got it,” Jeannie congratulated her.

“Okay. Now listen. I have to disconnect because I’m on a landline, too. Give me the number and I’ll try to call you back on my cell phone. It might not work.” Some pay phones refused incoming calls; it was an attempt by the phone companies to distance themselves from drug trafficking. But since more and more people had cell phones, it was less of an issue than it once had been.

“You can’ go, you can’t,” Jeannie wailed. “Don’ leave me.”

“I’ll drive to you. It should take me less than half an hour.”

Jeannie hiccuped somewhere. There was a terrible retching sound and Rhetta screwed up her face, realizing that Jeannie was vomiting. She’d be sure to bring extra water.

Finally Jeannie said, “Okay.”

“I’ll be in a black truck. I’m not coming into the bar. I’ll honk my horn and you come out.” Rhetta made sure she was speaking into the mouthpiece. “Do you understand? I will honk.”

“I come out,” Jeannie whispered. “I’ll go outside now.”

“It’ll take me half an hour,” Rhetta reminded her.

“Okay.”

“I’ll try to call you back.”

“Okay.”

She disconnected. Then she attempted to call Jeannie back using her cell phone. As she had anticipated, the call didn’t go through.

She punched in Grace’s number but it went straight to voice mail. “Grace,” she said, “I’m going to a bar called the Owl Roost to get Jeannie Johnson. Hunter beat her up and she’s been drinking. She doesn’t want to see you. But I want you to follow me out there, okay?”

Then she wrote a brief note for Ronnie, gathered her purse, and left.

    “Here we are, seventh circle of Hell,” Butch told Grace, as Connie the Porsche hugged the mean streets. Grace had spent the rest of the rainy day looking for Jamal and asking Ham to do their in-house work. He ran their cases through ViCAP to see if any other crimes in the database kicked out with similar details, MO. She asked him to call the hospital to see how Mr. Briscombe was. Ham caught the forensics report on the rope used to make the noose on the Survivor’s Tree. Not the same as that used in the Catlett abduction or whatever it was. Confirmed the APB on Forrest.

And she kept looking for Jamal. She stopped in at Tacoville, to find Butch and Bobby there, preparing to part ways for the night. Butch seemed a bit out of sorts, and Grace invited him to help her look for Jamal. They left his truck in a nicer neighborhood and drove on back to the crib he and Bobby had followed him to.

It was a part of town so bad that it made the bad part look like Beverly Hills. Blasted-out brick buildings, empty lots littered with rusted shopping carts, mountains of trash, and homeless skels—short for “skeletons,” meaning homeless people—who were lying unconscious or dead in filthy sleeping bags, using cardboard cartons as shelter from the heavy rains.

Diagonally across from the Porsche, there was a building with a boarded-up storefront, the plywood sheets tagged by the Sixty-Sixes. Butch had told Grace that behind that was a narrow alley lined with discarded baby furniture, of all things—the boarded-up shop had been a consignment store for kids’ stuff, someone’s dream gone bust—and on the other side of that alley was a triplex. All three units made up the crib Bobby and Butch had followed Jamal to on the day of his grandfather’s heart attack.