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  Tyrone grinned. Then he dropped her leg and spun her around quickly. When her back was to his chest he pulled the sharp knife across her jugular vein.

  No sound came forth when Rhonda tried to scream. Her throat felt white hot. As her mouth filled with blood she gurgled. She tried to call her mother, brother, or anyone, but her voice box wouldn't obey.

  Like a lover breaking the embrace with his woman, Tyrone gently released her. He watched her round ass as she staggered past him into the hallway. He shook his head.

  Rhonda made it to the stairway banister before she collapsed. Desperately she tried to recite the Lord's Prayer, but her voice was still on the blink. The pain closed in from all sides, then it began to subside. She finally was able to remember how the Lord's Prayer began, but it was too late.

  19

  “OKAY SMITTY, WHAT YOU GOT?” DETECTIVE CARSON grunted as he sipped steaming coffee. He grumbled a string of curses when he scalded his tongue with the scorching liquid. He absentmindedly stubbed a half-smoked Marlboro in an antique china ashtray on the dusty mantelpiece of the brick fireplace. He braced himself to listen to Officer Smith's annoying nasal voice.

  The patrolman shifted nervously through his notebook for the relevant details. Smith hated being the first officer on the scene at a homicide—that meant he would have to deal with the homicide dicks.

  Officer Smith cleared his throat. “One victim. Female. African American. Her mother is one of ours. She has already identified the deceased as one Rhonda Haskill. Age nineteen. College student. Obviously suffered severe sexual trauma before death. No motive. No known enemies. No boyfriend. Victim was home alone studying. Forced entry. The perp or perps obviously gained entry via the back door. The mother is Sergeant Hazel Haskill, badge number 1372. The father is dead—suicide. The mother found the victim's body. She said there were no vital signs when she found her. We responded to a possible 187 from dispatch.”

  “Has the coroner been notified?” Detective Winters asked.

  “Yes. They're on the way.”

  “Good work,” Winters said before Smith could give her a long answer to a simple question. She put her arm around Officer Smith's soggy shoulders. “What we need you to do is clear everybody out of here. We want the physical evidence to remain intact. I just saw two officers go up the stairs—I need you to get them down here. This is a homicide investigation, and if they contaminate the crime scene they'll receive written reprimands in their files.

  “There were some news trucks pulling in when we got here. Keep them curbed. If any one of them crosses the perimeter, arrest them for obstruction. Warn them first. Are the EMTs still upstairs?”

  “Yes, but they're just hanging around until the coroner gets here,” Smith said.

  “Grab us a couple pairs of latex gloves from them. Where is the mother?”

  “Sergeant Haskill is sitting on the back porch. We tried talking to her, but she seems to be in deep shock.” Officer Smith smirked and used his index finger to make circles around his ear.

  Detective Winters gave him a stony glare and Smith hurried off to find the detectives some examination gloves. He was gone only for a few moments before he returned and handed the detectives the rubber gloves. Smith mumbled something about “crowd control” and left.

  “So what do you think, Winters?” Carson asked. “I think it's safe to rule out coincidence. That's just too much luck of the draw for someone to do her after all the shit her brother has gotten himself into.”

  “Sounds like a reasonable assumption, Carson. I say we take a look at the body, talk to the mother, and see if we can't get a jump on this thing. You know, it's hard when something like this happens to somebody from our side. Next thing you know, you've got half the guys at the precinct ready to wipe out civilians.”

  “You said it.”

  The detectives trudged up the stairs. Rhonda's body, covered with a sheet, sprawled a few feet from the top banister. The carpet surrounding her corpse was thick with brown-red clotted blood and the expression frozen on her face seemed like she was gasping for breath.

  Carson and Winters knelt beside her body to examine it closely. Carson lifted one of her hands and looked at the fingernails.

  “Bingo,” Carson said. “Let the lab boys know after the coroner gives us a T.O.D. that we've got some skin under her nails. You see anything?”

  “Yeah. Looks like semen in and around her vagina. On her face, too. I think we've got more than one perp unless this guy's tank was full. We'll know for sure when forensics runs some tests. The trail of blood leads into that room.”

  Winters pointed to Rhonda's bedroom.

  The detectives went to check it out. In the room they noted the telltale signs of a struggle—the shredded panties and T-shirt, bed in disarray, and CDs strewn everywhere. Carson almost stepped in Michael's vomit before he noticed it.

  “Goddammit, Winters. Look at this. Someone puked. Make sure we have the lab boys bag and tag this shit. If we're lucky and it's the perp's vomit, we might find out where the bastard ate. It's a long shot…. There's not much else we can do until they dust the place and do the lab work. Let's have a go at the mother.”

  Winters followed Carson down the stairs to the back porch. She needed to get her head together before she talked to a fellow officer about the rape and murder of her child. To her, this was always the most difficult part. She hated interviewing the mothers; they always cried and sometimes she would end up crying with them. She found it hard to establish a professional wall between herself and a victim's mother, so she thought it would be best if she let Carson do the talking.

  Rhonda's mother sat on the bottom step of the porch. Her white uniform shirt was covered with blood and her copper hair was a mess.

  “Sergeant Haskill,” Carson said softly but firmly.

  There was no way she couldn't have heard him, but she didn't respond.

  Carson forged ahead, as was his style. “Sergeant Haskill, I know this is a bad time, but we would like to have a word with you. We want to get these assholes for what they did to your daughter.”

  Hazel Haskill looked up at the detectives, her eyes slightly out of focus.

  “Sergeant Haskill, my name is Detective Carson and this is Detective Winters. I'm really sorry but I have to ask you these questions. We need to know anything that may help us get these guys. Did your daughter have any enemies? Did she ever talk about meeting any new guys?”

  Hazel ignored his questions. “My son isn't home and Rhonda is out with her friends. I'm expecting her home at any minute. She knows that she has a curfew and she's really good about keeping it. Rhonda is a good girl. You know she's majoring in business or financing or something. That girl has changed her major so many times I just can't keep up with it.”

  The female detective crouched down until she was at eye level with Hazel. “Sergeant, Rhonda is dead. We're trying to find out who did this. Do you understand?”

  “When you see Don-Don, you tell him I'm going to whup his behind,” Hazel said dreamily. “The nerve of that boy. It's bad enough that he started getting high, now he done went and got his sister killed. Now how is she gone pass her midterms? I'm going to beat that boy's butt real good. That's what he need. I can't wait until his father gets home. I'm going to tell him he better do something with that boy before I send him to Job Corps or somewhere.”

  Carson gently pulled Winters to her feet. He signaled it was time to leave; Sergeant Haskill could offer them no assistance in her condition. When they left the porch she was mumbling something about her husband.

  The forensics team had arrived with their bags, powders, and cameras. Winters gave them instructions while Carson looked on. When she was through the detectives headed for their car.

  In the car Winters sighed. “I hate to see this type of shit. No matter how many times it happens, I'll never get used to it. These guys have got to be inhuman to do what they did. One thing we do know is that when Don gets word of this— and he will”—she no
dded at the reporters berating the patrolmen for not letting them past the yellow tape—“he's going to come out of hiding. He'll show his face and we'll be waiting.”

  20

  DON WAS BORED AS HELL IN HIS CASKET-SIZED ROOM AT the Zanzibar Motel.

  Television was his only link to the outside world. The programming wasn't the greatest, but it gave him something to do besides smoking crack. News programs were his favorite. He loved the lopsided reporting of the networks—all drug raids, murders, and atrocities against children. It was no wonder other races perceived Blacks as animals, thanks to the daily reports.

  Smoking crack was even getting boring—not that he was considering abstinence. It would have been nice to have someone to talk to. He actually found himself missing Juanita. For the thousandth time since her death, Juanita crossed his mind. In the short time he had known her, she had changed his whole life. He was nothing like the person he used to be, thanks to her. Most of this shit was her fault. If it wasn't for her, he wouldn't be on the run now. Before she died she had transformed him into a complete crack monster. Rena crossed his mind, too. She seemed like she would have really been easy to get along with, but in a heartbeat she was gone, too. Rena hadn't been anything like Juanita. She wasn't motivated by crack rocks so she was still able to express genuine emotion. Just the fact that she didn't care if he smoked but wouldn't touch the stuff herself made him respect her. If she had lived, it wasn't like he was going to try and turn her out either. The last thing he needed was another Juanita.

  Don wished that he could get revenge for Rena's death. She was a sweet soul who was murdered for no reason other than that she had met him. Now she had been shot down in the prime of her life by somebody seeking revenge for a murder that Don didn't even commit. There was no one to retaliate against—the Apostle Clay had seen his opportunity and seized it, murdering Domino and leaving Don without an outlet for his sense of rage and loss. Don knew he couldn't strike at Clay. He owed the fact that he was still breathing to Clay, but that was a double-edged sword, because he knew that the Apostles were probably already hunting him in the streets.

  It was too hot for him in Chi-town. His best bet would be to get out of the frying pan.

  Minnesota seemed to be calling him. Everybody seemed to be migrating to St. Paul and Minneapolis anyway. Since he really couldn't picture himself living in some one-horse, backwater town in Mississippi, somewhere north seemed like the best option. It would be easy for him to lose himself among the millions of people there. Copping crack definitely wouldn't be a problem—lots of dealers from the city had moved there because it was a fresh market for crack.

  He wasn't leaving much behind, only his sister and mother. All of his friends were gone, Juanita was dead, and now Rena.

  Don picked up his pipe. It was time to stop thinking. He didn't need to get emotional in such a tight space. Trying to shut down his brain, Don packed the bowl of his whistle and sucked it clean.

  Pipe in hand, he turned on the television. He flicked through the channels until he came to the evening news. After five minutes he was about to change the channel when the newscast switched from the studio to a female reporter broadcasting live on location; the location was his mother's house. His address flashed across the screen as the reporter droned on. Don turned up the volume as the screen flashed to a high-school graduation picture of his sister. Stunned, Don listened to the reporter.

  A gust of wind blew the Latin reporter's long hair in her face. “We're here live at 6417 South Langley, the scene of a grisly murder. Nineteen-year-old Rhonda Haskill has been positively identified as the victim. From what we have been able to glean from a source in Area 1, the young woman was raped and murdered by an unknown number of suspects.

  “Evidently, Rhonda struggled with her assailants and was murdered during the struggle. As of yet the coroner hasn't established the time of death. Her body was found by Hazel Haskill, a forty-two-year-old desk sergeant at Area 2 headquarters. Rhonda was …”

  In a blind rage Don kicked the television off the stand. His vision blurred for a second. When his eyes focused again Don caught sight of his pipe. His hands trembled as he dropped ready rocks onto the screen of the pipe and took a blast. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead as he emptied the bowl.

  Don blew out white smoke and laughed. “That reporter ho is lying. That wadn't my motherfucking house. That's some bullshit.”

  Laughing, he fell back on the bed. Incessant banging on the room door dried up his insane laughter.

  “Open this gotdamn door!”

  Don recognized the disembodied voice of the motel manager.

  “What's wrong?” Don asked without opening the door.

  “Nigga, I know yo ass is trying to steal the tv! I done already called the police! I said open this damn door!”

  Don realized too late that in any cheap motel if you unplugged the television an alarm sounded in the manager's office. He collected his pistol, pipe, and crack and dipped into the bathroom. The window opened easily and Don dropped out of it onto some rubbish in the alley.

  Through a crack in the boards of the fence surrounding the motel he saw a blue and white patrol car pull up in front of the manager's office. He could hear the irate manager beckoning to them from in front of his room door. The two officers catapulted from the car and headed for the stairwell.

  Don turned and ran up the alley until he reached 67th Street. On 67th he walked west to Cottage Grove. There he sat on a bench at the bus stop. He really didn't need to rest; he needed a blast. With total disregard for the few people waiting for the bus, Don smoked a bowl of crack.

  His close brush with the law had made reality smack him in the face. His sister was dead. The only thing he could do was try and find out who did the deed. He would have to go home and talk to his mother. It was a long shot, but she might know something. Maybe the police had told her something. It might have been insignificant to them, but it could be just enough of a clue for him to find out who did this shit to his sister.

  The bus pulled up and everyone got on, except for Don. He took another hit of crack. He decided that he needed a ride, not a bus ride, but in somebody's car. He walked to the corner and waited for someone to pull up to the light. After several light changes, still no luck. The traffic light turned red again and his pigeon pulled up to the light.

  A female driver in a gold Toyota Cressida sat at the light, bobbing her head to music.

  Careful not to attract her attention, Don eased his pistol out and stepped off the curb. He dashed to the driver's side door and yanked it open.

  “Bitch, get out my car!” Don snarled, putting his gun to her head.

  The scared woman made a move to try and peel off.

  With his free hand Don cocked the hammer of his pistol and then grabbed her dreadlocks.

  “Ho, if you get out now you'll live to drive again,” Don threatened.

  This time she saw the logic in Don's approach and threw the gearshift in park. She got out in the middle of Cottage Grove.

  Don jumped in the car, slammed the door, and made a U-turn in the intersection. His last glimpse of the woman was of her sitting on the bus-stop bench with her head in her hands. He left the radio volume loud as he peeled up Cottage Grove. At 71st Street he turned the radio down in front of the police station and turned west, heading for King Drive. On King Drive he swung a right and sped down to 63rd Street.

  He was going home, but first he needed to check out a few things. On 63rd Street he parked the Cressida and hopped out. After making sure the butt of his pistol was in plain view, he strolled into his old hangout.

  The game room was packed. As Don walked to the rear of the establishment, anyone near the front door thinned out. In the rear of the game room there were a few new faces and some regulars. Carlos was there, and his appearance since the last time Don had seen him had totally changed. He had on new shoes, new clothes, and a half-carat diamond shone in his ear. Carlos was perched on some milk crates talkin
g on a cellular phone.

  When Carlos looked up and saw Don standing over him, he stuttered for a few seconds more into his cell phone and then ended the call.

  “What's up, 'Los?” Don asked evenly. He had been extra careful to make sure there was no animosity in his voice when he spoke.

  Carlos didn't sense any malice in Don's voice so he decided to play along and see where the conversation took them. He knew Don had to have heard about his sister. That was the only reason he could see for his old friend to be on the set as hot as his name was.

  “Nothing to it, but to do it,” Carlos replied.

  “I ain't on no bullshit, Carlos. I just want to holler at you about some shit real quick.”

  Carlos stood up. As he followed Don toward the door he slipped his hand into his jacket pocket to grip his .380 Super. Clicking the safety off, Carlos decided it was better to be safe than sorry. He closely watched every movement Don made as he followed him outside.

  Don sat on the hood of his freshly jacked car and lit a cigarette. “Like I said, 'Los, I ain't on no bullshit. I just want to know what the word on the bricks is about my sister. I got to get the …” Don stopped talking because his voice was shaking. He looked away so Carlos wouldn't see the tears in his eyes.

  Carlos looked away too. “We been looking for the motherfuckas, too. That was some bogus shit. Rhonda was like a big sister to us, too. We been knowing her since we was shorties coming to get you for school. She ain't never hurt nobody. That nigga Dre snapped when he heard the news. We tore the Tray up and 61st, but don't nobody know shit. Dre wanna see you, man. Yo moms, too. We looking for the studs, too. You gone be alright?”

  “I'm straight,” Don said as he walked around to the driv-er's side of the Cressida. “Imma bump heads with y'all later. I got to go check on some shit.”

  Don got in the car and peeled out.