What You Don't Know, page 19
* * *
Lieutenant Sharon Donahue: For the most part, there was nothing that stood out about the family’s activities.
* * *
Lieutenant Dimitri Cora: Except, that Friday morning, we found something unusual in Blair Gilbert’s movements.
10:45 p.m.
Cookie was screaming. Bloody murder screaming. Cookie must have woken up and seen they were gone and was now sounding the goddamned alarm and that meant they were seconds from running downstairs and catching them. Stopping them.
Blair cursed to herself as she ran into the garage and unlocked her car, Malcolm following behind, Farrah still in his arms. He stopped to hoist her up.
The voices were growing louder. Closer. They were probably only seconds away.
She opened the back door so they could slide Farrah inside.
She glanced up.
The kitchen door was standing wide open.
“Malcolm, the door. The door! Shut the fucking door!”
He grunted, putting Farrah down on the steps, before reaching up to slam the door shut.
Tree’s foot blocked him.
Malcolm leapt up the steps and pulled at the door. Tree’s arm shot out from the crack between the doorjamb and door like a branch, clawing at air, trying to make contact with Malcolm. Farrah’s body sagged down the length of the steps, as Malcolm tried to avoid stepping on her. Behind him, Blair could hear Cookie and Dio screaming. Her eye fell on a shovel propped up in the corner. She grabbed it and bounded up the steps, raising the shovel over her shoulder and slamming it against Tree’s hand. He screamed and retracted his arm a little. She hit him again while Malcolm kept pushing against the door. Over and over, she smashed the shovel into the dogged appendage, which kept flailing but refused to yield.
She grunted and brought the point of the shovel down on Tree’s foot, like the proverbial sword into stone. He howled and fell backward. Farrah slid down the steps and Malcolm reached down with his burnt hand to grab her, groaning as he did so.
The handle of one of the wooden spoons from her kitchen drawer jutted out from the door crack. Malcolm threw his free hand against the door, but it was too late. In that second, Dio and Cookie jumped over an ailing Tree and pushed the door open. Cookie fumbled for her gun in her waistband, clumsily whipping it out. Blair swung the shovel against the girl’s hand, sending the gun skating across the garage, while Malcolm punched Dio square in the jaw.
Dio stumbled, then charged for Malcolm. Both men tumbled over the banister, smacking against the floor below. Cookie bolted for Blair, who landed a blow against her shoulder with the shovel. Cookie yelped and charged for her again, this time grabbing the handle of the shovel, pushing Blair back.
Below her, Malcolm and Dio were easing their way back to their feet. Malcolm got there first and managed to land another blow to Dio’s cheek. The younger man staggered to his feet and reared back with a shaky fist.
The garage exploded with a single gunshot.
Everyone froze.
Tree dragged himself through the door with one hand, his other hand pointing the gun toward the ceiling of the garage. He lurched to his feet, heaving, his face twisted with pain and rage.
“Everybody back in the house,” he said, his voice low and controlled. “Everybody get in the house or the next bullet I fire from this gun—” he shook the gun at Blair “—is gonna go right between your eyes.”
She gripped the shovel, swaying a little. Sweat raced down her back. She could hear Malcolm’s ragged breath behind her.
“In the house!” Tree shouted.
Blair reluctantly dropped the shovel, the clang of it reverberating across the garage. Frustration and defeat flooded through her like a tidal wave. Her head plummeted to her chest as Cookie, having retrieved her gun, put it to Blair’s spine and pushed her back into the house.
What were the chances someone heard that single gunshot, would call the police?
Not with a thunderstorm roaring outside.
Tree fell against the kitchen island, grimacing. Blair had to hide the smile of satisfaction she felt at his agony. Dio had his gun on Malcolm, who was carrying a surprisingly still-sleeping Farrah in his arms. Dio shut the door behind him, which beeped, taking any hope of freedom.
Tree sniffed and pointed his gun at Malcolm. “Put her down right there.”
Malcolm reared up as though he were going to challenge Tree. Instead, with some effort, he bent down and gently propped Farrah against the kitchen island.
Blair made a motion to join Farrah, but Cookie yanked her ponytail, snapping her back.
Tree attempted to pace but was stymied by his mangled foot. He had to settle for leaning against the kitchen island, his head in his hands, his breathing still broken and heavy. Cookie kept her grip tight around Blair’s arms. Dio’s gaze flipped between Malcolm, Farrah on the floor, and a grimacing Tree.
“So,” Tree finally spoke, looking up. “Thought ya’ll was gonna get out of this, huh? Thought you were going to pull one over on me, didn’t you?”
Nobody said anything. Blair looked at the floor, fighting back tears, while Malcolm stood stock still, staring straight ahead.
Tree pushed himself off the counter and hobbled over to Malcolm, his bad foot hissing against the floor as he dragged it behind him. The two were toe-to-toe.
“What kind of punishment should I give you for that shit, Mally Mal? What do you think I should do?”
Blair strained against Cookie, while Malcolm pursed his lips, his eyes locked with Tree’s.
“How bad do you want that money on Monday, Tree?”
“What?”
“I said … how bad do you want that money on Monday morning?”
“Oh, I want it real bad, Mally Mal. Real bad.”
“Then I don’t think you’re going to do anything to me or to my family. That’s what I think you’re gonna do. Not a goddamned thing.”
Tree landed a blow to Malcolm’s stomach with the butt of his gun, causing him to double over. Blair writhed against Cookie, managing to get one arm free, but the girl retaliated by putting her in a chokehold and wedging her gun to Blair’s temple.
Malcolm coughed, his hands on his knees, his head hanging down. Tree bent down until they were eye-level.
“Say that again.”
Malcolm straightened up. “Tree … you and I need to reach an understanding here.”
“What?” He sprang back, offended. “An understanding?”
“You make things bad for me and my wife and daughter, the worse it’s going to be for you? You feel me?”
Tree laughed. A hearty, belly-shaking, tear-inducing laugh. He wiped a tear away before he stopped and looked Malcolm square in the eye.
“You about to find out how much worse things can get.”
Interrogation
Suspect #1, Terrell Winters, Continued
Note: DC is Lieutenant Dimitri Cora; SD is Lieutenant Sharon Donahue; TW is Terrell Winters
* * *
DC: Why the Gilberts?
* * *
TW: What?
* * *
DC: Come on, Terrell. Why the Gilberts? Why them? Why their house?
* * *
TW: It’s complicated.
* * *
DC: Simplify it for us.
* * *
TW: It wasn’t supposed to be the family. It was just supposed to be her.
* * *
SD: Her who?
* * *
TW: Wifey. Blair. Somebody hired me to show up, kidnap her and take her out.
* * *
SD: Who?
* * *
TW: I—shit. I don’t know, all right. I have no idea.
* * *
DC: You have no idea who hired you to kidnap Blair Gilbert?
* * *
TW: No, I—look, this what happened, all right? One of my boys called me, said he had a job for me, said it was gonna pay a lot. He said he couldn’t do it on the day the person wanted it done, otherwise, he would’ve done it himself—
* * *
SD: What’s this guy’s name?
* * *
TW: Trip. I mean, Traymond. Anyway, he says he got this job and tells me to call this number, but says I have to do it on one of those burner phones. And he was out after that—
* * *
DC: So you called this number that Traymond gave you.
* * *
TW: Yeah.
* * *
SD: When was this?
* * *
TW: February.
* * *
DC: And what happened when you called this number?
* * *
TW: So, I call this number and first we’re just you know talking. Not about anything really, just talking. (Chuckles). Almost like we was on a date or something.
* * *
SD: Was this a man or a woman you were talking to?
* * *
TW: A man.
* * *
DC: What did this man sound like? Did he have an accent or any phrases that he used, any particular speech pattern?
* * *
TW: Naw. Just a regular sounding dude.
* * *
DC: So this man told you he wanted you to kidnap Blair Gilbert. Did he say why?
* * *
TW: Just said I had to be there on Saturday morning by a certain time.
* * *
SD: So what happened when you got to the house on Saturday morning?
* * *
TW: Man, she was supposed to answer the door. Her husband was supposed to be gone, so she was gonna be there by herself. I was supposed to wear a suit and a tie, act like I was looking for some street, you know, like I was lost or something. I was supposed to ask if I could use her phone. Then we was supposed to force her into the van and take her to this warehouse out South, and you know, tie her up, buy a lighter and burn her fingers with it, or whatever for a little while. Then we was supposed to kill her on Sunday night, be back in touch Monday morning.
* * *
DC: For how much?
* * *
TW: Was supposed to be ten thousand. Ten thousand to kidnap her, take her out.
* * *
SD: When were you supposed to get paid?
* * *
TW: Two thousand up front. The rest when it was over.
* * *
SD: And did you get paid?
* * *
TW: Picked it up from a locker at Union Station a few days ago, no problems. Was supposed to get the second payment the same way next week.
* * *
SD: So, you said Blair Gilbert was supposed to open the door and you were supposed to kidnap her, but the plan changed.
* * *
TW: Hell, yeah, the plan changed. Was pulling up just as some old ass lady with a shopping bag walked out. Had to wait for her to leave—
* * *
SD: After that.
* * *
TW: Man, I’m getting to that. Anyway, first thing that happened, damn Malcolm opened the door. He wasn’t supposed to be nowhere near that house. Was supposed to be long gone. Playing golf or some shit. Then the damn daughter came downstairs.
* * *
DC: So Malcolm was there, Farrah was there—
* * *
TW: Yeah! They wasn’t supposed to be there. You feel me?
* * *
DC: So what did you do?
* * *
TW: (Scoffs) Man, I’m not gonna lie, it threw me. All of it threw me. Made me all kinds of mad. And nervous, too. So I’m trying to think, trying to figure out what to do. And then Malcolm starts offering me all this shit—take my cars, take my watch, take my wife’s jewelry. My Super Bowl rings. And I’m thinking, okay, okay, I can take this thing over here, I can take that thing over there. Then he says, he’s got ten G’s in the house, another two on him. But, I’m like, there’s got to be more paper in this house.
* * *
DC: Okay.
* * *
TW: So, I start looking for paper. Searched everywhere.
* * *
DC: Then what?
* * *
TW: So then Mally Mal says to me, we go to the bank and I’ll give you thirty G’s. That’s twenty more than I was gonna get for poppin’ Wifey. Hell, yeah, I was gonna take that shit.
* * *
SD: So you and Malcolm go to the bank.
* * *
TW: Damn bank was closed. All I could do was wait. I was like, yo, hang out at the crib until Monday, bank opens up, boom! Grab the cash, everything else, and split.
* * *
SD: Did you reach out to your contact to let them know about the plan changing?
* * *
TW: Man, I tried calling and texting him all weekend. Couldn’t get a hold of him. I just had to figure it out. I didn’t have a choice.
* * *
DC: So what about the rest of the original plan? Were you supposed to leave a ransom note, make a call, what?
* * *
TW: All he said was kidnap Ol’ Girl and then send him pictures of her after I iced her, you know to prove I’d done it or whatever. Didn’t say nothing about no note or call.
* * *
SD: What happened then?
* * *
TW: (Sighs). Everything went wrong, that’s what.
11:00 p.m.
“Whatever you’re thinking about doing, Tree, don’t,” Malcolm said.
Blair swung her head between Malcolm and Tree, her breath suspended in her chest, her limbs heavy with fear and exhaustion.
What now?
“Put Ol’ Mally Mal in a chair and strap him in real good. Real tight,” Tree instructed Dio. He paused, rubbing his bottom lip with his thumb. “And tape his eyes shut, too. Real tight. I don’t want him to be able to see even a crack of light. Nothing. Don’t forget his mouth. Be sure he can hear. Don’t put no tape over his ears. You got me?”
Dio nodded before dragging a kitchen table chair over to the island and shoving Malcolm into it. Blair flinched along with Malcolm at the screech of duct tape as Dio unwound the long strips from the roll, over and over. Tree’s weight sagged against the kitchen island the entire time as he watched, grinning and nodding.
“Don’t do something you can’t take back, Tree,” Malcolm said as Dio hovered over him, intent on carrying out his mission.
“‘Don’t do something you can’t take back.’” Tree laughed at his mimicry. “Let me tell you something, bruh, I don’t regret nothing. Only a sucker regrets things, and I ain’t no sucker.”
“Tree, please—” Blair whispered.
“You know what, Wifey? You talk too damn much. Does that—does that drive Mally Mal crazy? Huh? Does it make him want to straight up sock you in the mouth?”
“Shut up,” Malcolm said.
“You tellin’ me to shut up?” he scoffed. “No, what you need to be doing is you need to be telling Wifey to shut the hell up. I don’t see how you stand it. My woman talked as much as your woman, man, I’d want to shoot myself.” He looked down at his gun and burst out laughing. “Maybe I’ll just put you out of your misery and do it for you.” Blair’s heart leapt as he pointed the gun at Malcolm and mouthed, “Pow!”
Dio held up the cardboard oval, stripped of all its tape before he placed it on the kitchen table and stood back expectantly, waiting for his next set of marching orders. Tears poked Blair’s eyes at the sight of her strapping husband, his bulk cocooned in silver, including strips across his eyes and mouth.
Tree nudged Farrah with his toe.
She didn’t stir.
He kicked her. Blair flinched.
Still nothing.
“Get some ice water,” Tree said to Dio. “A big bucket of it.”
Dio hesitated before jogging over to the refrigerator and pulling out the ice drawer, brimming with fresh cubes. He filled it with cold water then came to stand over Farrah. He waited.
“Come on, bruh. You know what to do. Wake that bitch up.”
Cookie held a crying Blair back as Dio tipped the tray over, water and ice cascading down, pelting Farrah on the face. Her eyes popped open and she screamed. Malcolm’s muffled howl was almost as loud as Blair’s as she continued her useless push/pull against Cookie, tears stabbing her eyes, her own screams burning in her throat as she watched her daughter flail. A still-bound Farrah flopped against the floor, disoriented, the shock of the icy wake-up, bewilderment over being in the kitchen, and the tape binding her wrists, all stamped across her face.
