Shakedown

Chapter Thirteen

With Troy’s gag order, I was reduced to relying on the media to keep up with my case. I knew that press coverage was often sketchy and slanted, whipsawed by selective leaks and pressure to goose ratings with sensational stories, but it was all I had for the moment. My DVR allowed simultaneous recording of two stations. I set it to tape the news broadcasts on two of the local network affiliates that had built their audiences with ceaseless coverage of grisly crime.

The murders were a big enough story to warrant team coverage. The station I’d been watching was still working its way through its roster. One reporter had just finished interviewing Marcellus’s mother when I hung up the phone, the woman dissolving in tears when asked how she felt after discovering that her son was one of the victims. I wondered who she’d be crying for when we searched her house, as we certainly would before the sun set. She had cooked both his dinner and his crack and would end up serving time that should have been his.

The camera cut to another reporter standing in front of three people, turning to them for comment, the name of each appearing on the screen as they answered the reporter’s questions. LaDonna Simpson, the white-haired, elderly neighbor who lived next door clicked her tongue in regret about the decline of a neighborhood she’d lived in for over fifty years. Tarla Hicks, the girlfriend of the jailed neighbor on the other side of the house, posed for the camera like she was auditioning for the pole position at a strip joint, describing the Winston brothers as good dudes she’d partied with in the past and would miss.

Latrell Kelly, who lived in the house directly behind the victims, was the last one to be interviewed. He had round shoulders, a pudgy middle, and a soft voice. Ammara’s description of him had been dead-on. Mass murderers came in all shapes and sizes. Meek and mild didn’t rule anyone out. I turned up the volume when the reporter asked Latrell what upset him most about what had happened, keeping the microphone close to his mouth to make him heard.

“That little boy,” Latrell said. “Nobody takes care of a little boy, you see what happens.”

It wasn’t a confession. It was a reminder, his words pricking the dull ache I carried for my dead son. The reporter threw it back to the anchors, who nodded somberly and promised to stick with the story, telling viewers to stay tuned for Triple Action Weather with ESP Doppler and the latest from the RV show. I turned off the TV as the phone rang. Kate’s name popped up on the caller ID.

“Welcome home.”

“Thanks. I haven’t had time to unpack,” she said. “What’s up?”

“I need your advice on something. Wendy already turned me down for dinner. I’m hoping you won’t make me zero for two. I can only take so much rejection in one day.”

“Second choice has never sounded so good. How about one of those soulless chain restaurants that you suburbanites find so sophisticated?”

“You mean like IHOP?”

“I have visions of a Belgian waf?e with my name written on it in whipped cream.”

“There’s one at 119th and Metcalf. I’ll call ahead and have them reserve our usual booth. I should warn you that the violin players are off tonight.”

“We’ll make our own music. I’ll see you in an hour.”

After Joy moved out and filed for divorce, my phone conversations with Kate had edged into a new intimacy, both of us saying that we missed the other and looked forward to being together again. There was no heavy breathing, no suggestive questions about what she was wearing, just a quiet acknowledgment that things had changed. She was on the road, in the middle of a trial. I was here, in the middle of an investigation, both of us feeling the pressure of getting it right. If this was to be our first date, neither of us had said so. I arrived ten minutes early, found a booth along the windows facing 119th Street, and took deep breaths every few minutes, hoping that would keep the shakes off the table.

Kate was on time, stopping for a moment inside the door until she caught my wave from across the restaurant. She was wearing her dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, a lime green tank top under a black jacket and jeans. A tremor shook both of us as we embraced. She pulled back and searched my face for an explanation.

“This isn’t about one of your cases, is it? This is about you.”

“Let’s at least order our waf?es first.”

“Why? Are you afraid I’ll lose my appetite?”

“You live downtown. I’d hate to make you drive all the way out here and then cheat you out of your waf?e. We’ll eat. Then we’ll talk.”

She kept her eyes on me while we ordered. It was like being x-rayed. The tremors were humming just under my skin, waiting for their cue. The waitress left and they took center stage doing a one-minute number that rivaled the latest hip-hop moves. I tried to talk as I shook, my words garbled in a strangled stutter.

Kate studied me like I was a test subject. “How long has this been going on?”

I shrugged and took a deep breath. The tremors became distant ripples, my voice tripping over them until they faded.

“Like this, about a week. It started a couple of months ago, low key at first but lately it’s been picking up steam.”

“Have you been to a doctor?”

“No. Didn’t think I need to until now. I’m off duty until I can walk and chew gum at the same time without shaking. I was hoping you’d know a doctor I could see.”

“The University of Kansas Hospital has a movement disorder clinic. I’d start there. You said the symptoms started two months ago. That’s when Joy left, isn’t it?”

“You think there’s a connection?”

The waitress delivered our waf?es. Kate paid no attention.

“It’s possible. Stress aggravates everything, including movement disorders. And, there are a lot of those to choose from, like Parkinson’s, ALS, MS, myoclonus, dystonia, Tourettes, and tics. The psychology journals I read usually have a few articles each year about them, but it doesn’t come up in my jury work, so I’m not a student.”

“It’s more annoying than anything else,” I said.

“Are you lying to both of us or just yourself?”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that ordering a mocha at Starbucks and the barista doesn’t stir the chocolate so you end up with a latte on top and a layer of chocolate on the bottom that drips on your chin when you try to get it out-that’s annoying. Loss of control over your body, which, by the way, is an apt metaphor for losing control over your life, together with worrying whether you’ll lose your job are definitely more than annoying. And, if they aren’t, fear of dying beats annoying any day of the week.”

I leaned back in the booth. “Which of the wrinkles in my face told you that?”

“All of them. Your eyes are wide, your brow is raised, and your lips are set on full-time quiver-classic expressions of fear. I’d bet you’d rather bust down a door blindfolded than shake and not know why.”

My re?ection in the window was a poker face.

“It’s your micro expressions, Jack. You can’t see them. They come and go in a?ash when you talk about the shaking. If it makes you feel any better, I’m probably the only one you know who can see them. How long have you been off work?”

“About twelve hours.”

“Your idea?”

I shook my head and told her about the murders, about my backyard breakdown, Troy’s suspicions about a leak on the squad, and my suspicions of Colby. I told her more than I would ever have told Joy and more than Troy would have wanted me to tell anyone. She listened closely, asking just enough questions to?esh out the details.

“What makes you suspicious about Colby Hudson?”

“Nothing solid. Just loose threads and gut feelings.”

“I thought you were the Dragnet version of FBI agents, the kind who only wants the facts and leaves the intuitive stuff to more sensitive types like me.”

“I believe in what I can prove-whose blood, whose fingerprints, what motive, means, and opportunity. That’s what puts criminals away. Not a wink and a nod that no one can see. But I’ve been cut off from the real evidence. Suspicion is all I’ve got left.”

“Why not let it go? Let Troy and the rest of your team work it out.”

“Two reasons. I can’t get that boy, Keyshon, out of my mind.”

“Don’t confuse him with your son. Nothing you do or don’t do will change what happened to either of them.”

“That doesn’t pay the debt.”

“Jack, you aren’t responsible for what happened to your son or that boy. The man who killed your son was a classic psychopath. No one, including me, could have seen him coming. It’s no different with Keyshon.”

“Kevin was my son. That makes me responsible.”

“Keyshon wasn’t your son. You didn’t even know him.”

“I knew enough. I knew that he was living in that house. I was watching it every day, putting my case ahead of him. I left him there to take his chances with people who’d buy, sell, or kill you for drugs, money, or sport. It’s like one of the neighbors said on the news.”

“What’s that?”

“Nobody takes care of a little boy, you see what happens.”

Kate folded her arms across her chest, grinning. “You’re a throwback, you know that? One man, standing up, alone. It’s brave, righteous, and sexy. But if you shoulder that much weight, you’ll shake yourself into a million little pieces.”

“I don’t suppose you’d be interested in putting me back together again?”

“Maybe,” she said with another smile. “I’ve never been big on jigsaw puzzles, but you might be worth the effort. You said there were two reasons. What’s the second one?”

“Wendy is pretty serious about Colby. If I’m right about him, she could get caught in the middle. Troy will feel bad if that happens, but he won’t let it get in his way.”

“And you will?”

I straightened, put my hands on the table, looking at her hard. “I already lost one child. I won’t lose another.”

Kate nodded. “What if you’re not the right one to save her? What if your dislike of Colby, your resentment at being forced out, and your anxiety about whatever is wrong with you makes you the wrong one? What if the best thing for Wendy is someone with a clear head?”

She had touched all the bases, just as Troy had. I gave her the same answer as I had about Kevin.

“I’m her father. It’s that simple.”

She reached across the table, taking my hand, her skin warm, melding with mine. “What can I do?”

“You’ve done a lot already. You drove out here and listened to me while letting a perfectly good waf?e turn cold. You warned me not to do what we both know I’m going to do anyway. And you told me who to see about my problem. I can’t think of anything else unless you want to pick up the check.”

She took a twenty-dollar bill from her purse and put it on the table.

“My pleasure. You’ve got enough on your plate. Your marriage is over and, even if that’s a good thing for us, you’ve got to deal with that before you can move on. You’re still blaming yourself for your son’s death and you’re scared for your daughter. Plus, you’ve got to find out what’s making you shake.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“At least you know what’s in front of you and, like G.I. Joe says, knowing is half the battle. Here’s the real kicker. You won’t have ballistics and forensics, DNA, wiretaps, and all the other bricks and mortar you’ve always surrounded yourself with. You’re in my world now. You want to get through this, you’ll have to work the people.”