“I need to ask you something personal.”
Tears flooded her eyes. Right away, I could tell there was more to this relationship than business. She was definitely Mayhem's woman. I could see it all in her eyes and it was written all over her face.
“Was your relationship more than business?”
She hesitated before she spoke. Her lips trembled, and she bit the bottom one and nodded. “We done broke up now though. That mulatto-looking heffa, Appolonia, found out and came down here and raised hell a few weeks ago. David cut me off”âshe snapped her fingersâ“just like that. I never thought he was that pussy whipped. Just because she one o' his babies' mamas and 'cause she raisin' them other two kids, that don't make her his wife. She just wifey.”
I didn't say anything. Now I was getting curious about this wifey, Appolonia.
“You don't understand. I love David. That gold-digging bitch don't love him like I do.”
Something inside told me Chutney didn't know anything about my brother's disappearance and I didn't press the issue, either. So Mayhem had an outside woman, but I wasn't that surprised. Drug dealers possessed rock star celebrity status in the ghetto.
I finished the evening talking to the bouncer, Bone, but I couldn't pick up any information from him. He was the muscle at the club, but he wasn't too informative. I could see why they called him Bone, because he was truly a bonehead.
I decided to try the massage parlor next.
Chapter Thirteen
I drove over to the massage parlor, not knowing what I would find. The first thing that surprised me was what looked like a crew of cameramen. They were pushing high-definition digital camera equipment and looked like the crews I would see on the streets whenever a Hollywood movie studio was shooting a film on location in L.A.
“What are you doing here?” I asked a man standing nearby the door. He ignored me. Then I noticed a former police officer I used to work with named Officer Leonard Jackson. I gave him a knowing look. Jackson gave me a sheepish grin. I could tell the way he was dressed that he was not on a security job, but on a pornography job. He was wearing suspenders with a pair of tight Speedo pants.
“Hey, Jackson, is it?” I asked. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” He answered a question with a question. He slid his hand over his bald head in a nervous gesture.
“I'm here as part of an investigation.” I flashed my ID and I could see his eyes almost jet out his head, almost cartoon-like. “Who is the manager ?”
He stammered when he spoke. “That's Mr. Dickinson, but he's not here at night.”
“Well, who is the night supervisor?”
“His name is Lester.”
“Where is he?”
“He's down the hall.” He pointed down a corridor.
“So are you working here?” I probed.
“Sort of,” he mumbled.
“You still with the department?”
“Yes.” Then he thought of a way to try to back me off. He didn't want me to know he was a porn star during his down time from the police department. “I heard what happened to your partner and what happened with you. I'm sorry to hear about it.”
I wasn't sure if he was talking about my getting fired or my getting shot in the line of duty. I studied him and realized he was referring to me being fired. The old me would have been too ashamed or embarrassed to talk about it. He wasn't going to be able to back me down with that one. I was no longer ashamed.
Not one to be deterred, I didn't let it floor me. “Well, it's all good. I've developed a second career from that tragedy, so not everything is a curse. I'm here tonight because of a case I'm working on.”
He nodded.
“So they shoot pornography here?” I shot from the hip. I pointed at the cameras, which went behind closed doors.
Jackson didn't answer. He just rushed into a back room and closed the door.
I walked down the hallway and noticed most of the doors were closed where patrons were supposedly getting massages. I could smell incense and scented candles. Soft music played over the intercom.
I tapped on a back door to Lester's office.
“Come in,” a voice called out.
I opened the door into what looked like a typical corporate office. Lester was working on a computer. He swiveled around in his chair.
“Hello, my name is Zipporah Saldano. I'm here regarding my brother, MayhemâI mean, David. I understand he owns this place.”
Lester, a slightly built man, jumped to his feet and held out his hand. “Yes, how may I help you?”
“Have you seen my brother?”
“No. I was looking for him earlier today. Generally he comes through on the weekend.”
“When did you last talk to him?”
“I talked to him Monday or Tuesday. We were going over the books. Why? Is everything all right?”
“Yes. He's fine.” I decided not to alarm him. I got the vibe that he didn't have anything to do with Mayhem's kidnapping and he didn't know anything. “If you hear from him, have him contact me.”
Lester gave me his business card, and I left.
Chapter Fourteen
After I left the massage parlor, I felt downhearted and discouraged. I really hadn't learned anything there, other than it could easily be a modern brothel, a house of pornography, and it was scheduled to close at 2:00
A.M.
I could tell how each room was closed that this was a private dance between the client and the female masseuses.
I had to get out of L.A. and it was almost two in the morning. Time was running out. My plane was scheduled to leave in the early afternoon. Since 9/11, you had to be at LAX at least two hours early. And I still needed to go by the office and then get home and pack. Even though G-Man didn't admit to knowing that my brother had been kidnapped, I felt he was hiding something. He was acting innocent, but inside, I felt he had motive to sell Mayhem out. I wouldn't put anything past him, now that he was acting like Big Willie.
As I was trying to get to my car, so I could drive to my office in Santa Monica and get home to pack, I thought I heard footsteps. I sensed someone was following me, but I wasn't sure. I stopped walking. The sound stopped. I eased my piece out my slingshot and let it drop down to my side.
Whenever I stopped walking, the sound would stop. I looked around me and for the first time noticed that the street was dark. The streetlight was at the far end of the street. Why had I parked so far away? I wondered. Then I remembered. I had parked down the street because the parking lot had been full when I arrived.
I decided to pretend I was unaware of anyone following me. Step. Step. Step. Stop. I swallowed a lump in my throat. Once again the shushing sound stopped. A susurrus sound in the tree branches whooshed overhead. I could smell alcohol in the air. Whoever it was following me had been drinking.
I clicked my car door opener, and that's when my stalker attacked. Whoever he or she was jumped me and attacked from behind. Even though I thought I was prepared, my assailant still caught me by surprise. I dropped my gun in the tussle.
Whoever it was seemed to be as tall as me because I was able to fling him off, and toss him over my shoulder. I did a long-legged kick from tae kwon do. I grabbed the person, who turned out to be a man, and cold cocked him in a barrage of punches. I picked up my gun and pulled it on him. In a swift move, I disarmed him of his gun. In the dark, I could tell it was a Latino guy.
“Stop, stop!” He held up both hands in surrender and locked his body into a fetal position.
“What do you want? Who sent you to kill me?” I demanded.
“I wasn't going to kill you. I was just supposed to shake you up. Scare you off.”
“I'm going to ask one more time. Who sent you? Otherwise I'll put this bullet right between your eyes.” I cocked my gun and held it between his eyes.
“I'm one of Bonzo's boys. He heard you been asking about him. He just wanted me to shake you up.”
“What's your name?”
“Jorge.” He pronounced it “Hor-hay.”
“Where is my brother? Do you know who has Mayhem?” I balled up my fist and started to sock him again.
“I swear on my mother's grave, I know nothing.”
I held my gun to his face and pressed it by his nose. “Tell Bonzo if anyone harms my brother, I'll come after them. Now
get!
”
I watched Jorge run off into the darkness without his gun. I let out a deep breath and tried to gather my composure. Feeling paranoid, I picked up Jorge's gun, then climbed in my car.
Chapter Fifteen
Still feeling discombobulated, I drove off from the massage parlor aka house of prostitution. For all of its front, it was still a brothel. I could still smell the candles and the incense used as aromatherapy. I could tell more was going on than massages, but that wasn't my concern. My concern was the attack on me. Obviously, someone was following me. Who had already gotten on to the fact I was out seeking answers?
After this surprise attack, I almost changed my mind about going to my Santa Monica office. I reprimanded myself as I drove. “You're in enemy territory.”
“Be careful,” I whispered out loud to myself. I didn't flip on the radio because I wanted to be alert to any more attacks. I was behind enemy lines and the next time I'd have to disguise myself better. Just to be on the safe side, I kept my gun on the seat. I wiped my prints off Jorge's gun and dropped it down a drain near Venice. Maybe it wasn't worth it to do any more snooping. I needed to get ready to get out of town and do what I need to do without further mishap. I decided to go to the office, but I had to tie up loose ends. For one, I had to cancel the contract with the missing starlet Lolita's family. I needed to mail back their check. I also wanted to see if I could see who the owners were on papers of the Kitty Kat Koliseum and the Soft Touch Massage Parlor.
What else would I find out? I knew Mayhem was an entrepreneur. So now I knew he didn't make all his money from drug money. What was that the Feds said about him selling illegal cell phones in prison? I thought about Tank's mention of his Internet businesses and my brother trying to get into producing rap. He was more multi-dimensional than I would have ever guessed.
I'd never known about his massage parlor or the strip joint. I wondered whose name they were under.
I wouldn't have time to follow up on Bonzo before I left, but I'd deal with that later. As I drove, I kept checking my rearview mirror, which was a habit for me these days. Last year while I was tracking down Trayvon's murderer, I was often being followed by the same murderers, so now I always took that precaution. I always checked my back seat before I climbed into my car, whether day or night, too.
I headed back to our office in Santa Monica since I needed to tie up loose ends before going out of the country. Our office had large diagonal marble tiles on the floor, a fancy Louis XVI antique sofa in the waiting room. We each had our own cubicles in the back with our individual computers. Ficus plants decorated the room for the green effect.
I pulled out the cards of the two agents who'd pulled me in and looked them up online. They both sounded legit. I e-mailed Lolita's family and let them know I would not be able to follow up on the case. I reimbursed them $2,000 on PayPal. I looked up Rio de Janeiro and the surrounding favelas and found there was a civil war on drugs going on at that moment where the government was trying to clean up the city. There was a travel advisory, but what could I do? I went on YouTube and saw interviews with the traffickers who had their heads covered with knit ski masks.
I thought about Romero's proposal and decided I'd think about that later. I had too much on my plate.
I held my head in my hands. I was tired and needed to just shut my eyes. What was I getting into?
I dozed off into a fitful sleep. I dreamed about my father, who'd been dead over twenty years. He always came to me in my sleep whenever I was faced with a lot of problems. In this dream, I was a little girl and my father was taking me to his new house he'd just purchased in Compton. I loved this stucco bungalow complete with the little picket fence, the American Dream, and everything was perfect except for one thing.
This was the first time I met his new wife, Ernestine. I could tell, even in my dream, that she didn't like me. She had her own little boy, Dre, who was the same age as me at the time (seven), and she didn't like how my father paid so much attention to me.
I guessed I was spending the weekend. Later that night, my father and Ernestine argued over how much attention he paid to me. I overheard her say, “She's going to turn out like her no-good mother anyway. An apple doesn't fall far from its tree.”
What my father said would shape my path for the rest of my life. “Well, this my seed and she's gonna to be something special.”
In my dream, I heard the doorbell ringing, then a rapping at the office door, and I woke up with a warm feeling. My daddy had said I was special. The words every little girl needed when they were growing up. Probably made a difference in why I wasn't dancing on the pole down to this day. Not that I'm knocking it; I'm just glad it's not my thing.
At first I looked around. Disoriented, I had to think for a moment. Where was I? Then I remembered I had stopped by the office and had fallen asleep on the sofa.
I jumped up to answer the door, thinking it was UPS or FedEx. All the time my mind was on how I needed to get home and get ready for my plane trip. I was wondering who was coming by the office this early in the morning. I glanced at our digital clock and saw it was seven in the morning. I opened the door, my gun behind my back, cocked and ready to be drawn, but no one was there. I glanced up and down the street. Hmmm. The street was empty. In our office district, there were no cars in the parking lot yet. I was getting ready to turn away, when I glanced down and was surprised to see what looked like a wicker basket on the single platform step outside our office.
Without a thought, I opened the basket, thinking maybe it was mistakenly left behind on the doorstep. Truth be known, I really wasn't thinking of anything as I lifted the lid. My first reaction was one of shock. I felt strangely disembodied. I was in that primitive place where there once was no language, no words. I couldn't even think of a word to describe what my primal reaction was.
Then, in the second between what I observed and what hit my brain synapses registered, I recoiled in disbelief and let out a bloodcurdling scream. I'm not the type of female to faint, but if I were, I would have passed out. This was too much. The first thing I recognized was the short fade haircut. Then I recognized the face. It was Tank's face. There was a puddle of blood beginning to coagulate at the neckline. Someone had beheaded Tank like John the Baptist! For a moment, I stood transfixed in horror.
“Oh, my God! Tank, what have they done to you?” I hollered. I wondered where his body was. “Who did this to you?” I knew it was useless talking out loud to a dead person, but I had to say something. I knew this was a warning.
Tank's eyes were wide open so I was sure he was conscious when this barbarian cut off his head. I shook my head. Now I was really getting afraid. What the hell was I getting into? This shit was sick! I needed to back out of this mess. I couldn't go on like this. I wasn't up for getting my head cut off. What kind of bullshit was this anyway? Now if I ever needed a drink this was the time.
I guess that's when I saw the envelope. I opened it. There was a note inside which read:
Â
Â
This will be your brother next, so get moving! You have one week from today to get that money back.
Â
Â
I mulled over this for a moment. My mind went blank. I couldn't do anything but sit down at my desk, head resting on my fists, just like I was stumped over a banking problem or something like that, and tried to figure out what to do next. Who could I call? I thought of Romero but I hadn't included him in my plan to go out the country and it would involve too much explaining. Plus, he was a by-the-book officer and he'd call his supervisor, and I'd never get out of L.A. I hadn't shared what was going on in the first place and he was always trying to get me to open up. He would be mad about that.
So I scratched Romero's name off the mental list. Next, I thought about calling Chica, but if she got caught with this head in a basket and she already had a criminal record with two strikes, she could wind up back in prison for life.
Now I had a new dilemma. What could I do with Tank's head where it wouldn't be traced back to me? It was not that I was guilty, but I knew how the law worked. The person who reported a vic was generally the first suspect.
No, I had to get out the country and I didn't have time to give a police report. I steeled myself to do what I had to do. I knew I had to go on. I called F-Loc and left him a cryptic message.
“Loc, I'm going underground. I'll get back with you.” He understood that meant I needed him to be my ears and eyes in my absence.
I put the basket in my car's front seat and prayed the police didn't pull me over. How could I ever explain this one? I drove to the ocean in Santa Monica and left the basket out in the opening near the jogging trail. I made sure there were no cameras around. Big Brother is always watching you now.
Afterward, I went to a phone booth, which was difficult to find, then called 911 and dropped an anonymous tip. I disguised my voice. “The victim can be found at Santa Monica Pier.” I wiped my prints when I left.
I went home and packed my clothes. I called Chica and told her to come get Ben and keep him for me.
“
Mija,
you know I would, but we can't keep pets in our apartment. Besides Riley is allergic to pets. Call Haviland. She's got that big house. And she's been waiting to hear from you anyway.”
As much as I hated to call Haviland, the drama queen, I did. My back was up against the wall. I needed her help.
“Chick, where have you been?” Haviland exploded. “We started to call the popo. Why didn't you call us?”
I almost laughed since Haviland sounded funny when she tried to talk “hood.” “So who put you on the Z Patrol Unit?” I quipped. “Slow your roll. Calm down. I'm okay.”
She backed up then. “Well, you could've called us.” Peeved, she decided to try to “guilt” me. “You go to the Oscars with us and then you just disappear like that. We were worried about you.”
I ignored her remark. “Did anyone we know win?” I was referring to the picture that Trevor had a small role in.
“No, but it has still been good PR. He's already gotten two new scripts to look at from his agent.”
“Great!” Then I went straight to the point. “I need a favor.”
“Shoot.”
“Can you keep Ben? I've got to go out the country. It's serious business.”
“Oh, hell no. Not Benâthat rat.” Haviland sounded adamant.
“Look, that ratâand he's not a rat, he's a ferretâsaved my life. I really will owe you one if you can do this for me.”
Haviland paused, then she pretended to confer with Trevor, as if she were a submissive wife or partner. I guessed she'd been watching how me and Chica acted around our men. “Hon, can we keep Z's pet, Ben?”
Trevor grabbed the phone, happy to be included in the conversation. His voice almost sounded jovial, to know I was involving him in my business. “Z, sure. When do you plan to drop him off?”
“I won't have time to drop him off. You can ask Shirley to let you in my apartment and get him and his cage. Make sure you get his food too. You can go online and look up how to take care of a ferret. You've got to let him out every day to play. He likes to hide under things, so you'll have to be careful. Don't lose him.”