City of Saviors, page 11
“Lou—” Pepe began.
“Nope. Not today.” I stomped out of the staging tent with the fury of a thousand dragons. Because I didn’t wanna go back into that house. I didn’t wanna don industrial plastic and face gear just to bump against towers of papers and islands of cat crap. Really: don’t complain about your job to another cop dressed in a damned bunny suit. Don’t do it.
“I was pulling prints off the fridge’s door handle,” Zucca told me in the hallway, “and I just decided to open the freezer out of morbid curiosity.”
“Okay,” I said, “but I wanna go back to the den really quick.”
“For?”
Eugene Washington’s soiled armchair sat in the room, waiting for a butt that would never sit on that cushion again. With my flashlight, I searched beneath the seat—dust and vermin, both dead and alive. I stuck my gloved hand between the cushions.
“We searched yesterday,” Zucca said.
“I know but . . .” My hand slipped into the torn fabric— coins, pens, crunchy things that weren’t pistachio shells. As I dug, I told Zucca that Washington was wearing the bracelet in the fishing trip picture. “Where is his current medic alert bracelet?”
Zucca shrugged, then added, “We haven’t found any EpiPens anywhere, either.”
“You guys should look again,” I said. “Really: if he was allergic enough to wear a bracelet, then he must have a bracelet and those shots around. Okay. So. Tell me about the fridge.”
Colin, finally suited up, met us in the hallway. “Pepe’s skipping this part,” he told me.
“Oh, yeah?” The intense need to careen out the house and scream, “Gimme your badge, Kim,” clawed at my skin.
“Yeah.” Colin sighed. “I guess that’s that.”
“That is so not that. First things first, though.” I forced a smile to my face, then turned back to Zucca.
As we followed Zucca into the kitchen, he said, “I’m gonna start wrapping up soon. Everything else is too dusty, and I can’t pull anything cuz I can’t see anything. But we took pretty good pictures and video.”
Yesterday, the firemen had cleared a pathway from the front door to the den. That had allowed Brooks and his team to safely remove Eugene Washington from the house. But now those ordered columns had collapsed because of the cats, reuniting vinyl records with ancient Life magazines, and cat food tins with empty shoe boxes.
The kitchen resembled everything and nothing—like those puzzles that make you find hidden objects. This puzzle, though, was stinkier and more toxic.
We did a quick search through the cabinets for anything “coconut.” We found shattered jars of clouded this and dented cans of rancid that. The refrigerator door was covered in souvenir magnets and caked-on grease and dirt.
I made the mistake to look down—a troop of earwigs wiggled near my feet. A shiver zigzagged up my spine, and I tasted the Pop-Tart from breakfast.
“Well, I guess you should open it,” Colin said to me.
“I guess so.” I pulled the freezer’s door handle.
Stacks of freezer-burned meat. Tupperware of every size. Loaves of bread and who knows crammed into the shelves. One plastic tub had been labeled SOUP with black marker.
“Go ahead,” Zucca said. “I already took pictures.”
I eased the tub from its spot and pulled off the lid. “Oh, boy.”
Gold coins filled the container. Some had buffalo imprints; others had imprints of eagles and Native American chiefs.
Zucca whispered, “Wow.”
“How many you think are in there?” Colin asked.
I shook the tub and the coins jangled. “More than fifty.”
“There’s more,” Colin whispered, pointing inside the freezer.
Behind the crushed container of ice cream sat two more tubs marked SOUP.
Footsteps clomped somewhere behind us. “Anybody in here?” a big-voiced man shouted.
“Who’s that?” Zucca asked.
“Where the hell is Pepe?” I snapped.
Colin happily darted out of the kitchen. “You can’t come in here,” he told the intruder.
The tall black man now standing in the hallway clutched trash bags and wore black Wellingtons and Dickies. An elegant figure. Silver Fox, Mod Squad Uncle Linc with a sensible haircut. He was also the man in Eugene Washington’s fishing boat picture.
“Sir,” Colin said, “who are you and why are you here?”
“Ike Underwood,” the man boomed. “Gene was my . . .” He gawked at our bunny suits. “Y’all from . . . NASA?”
I told him that earth was our realm and that we were at the house to investigate Eugene Washington’s death.
Colin stayed with Zucca to catalog the bullion, and I escorted Ike Underwood to the big magnolia tree in the front yard.
“Gene and me,” Ike said, “we been buddies for over twenty years. Thick as thieves. We were in Vietnam together. Came back here and worked construction together and . . . Can’t believe my brother’s gone.” He pulled a baseball cap from his back pocket but didn’t slip it on his head. He glanced back at the house. “I came to start cleaning up, and to find his dress uniform.”
“When was the last time you saw Mr. Washington?” I asked.
“At the church picnic back on Sunday.” He rubbed his stomach and grimaced. “I didn’t stay long. Ate something that didn’t agree with me.”
“Any idea what that was?” I asked.
Ike squinted in the distance as he recalled Sunday’s dinner. “Potato salad, baby-back ribs, fried chicken . . .”
Listeria, e-coli, and salmonella—all mixing together on one of the hottest days of the year. It was a wonder Ike Underwood now stood before me.
“Did Mr. Washington eat any of those things?” I asked.
He chortled. “He ate all of those things and more. By the time I left, he had piled another helping onto his plate. Gene liked him some potato salad.”
“He have a food allergy?” I asked.
Ike shook his head. “He ain’t ever mentioned one to me.”
“So eggs, wheat, mango, coconut,” I said, “he could eat all of that?”
Ike nodded. “I’ve seen him eat all of that.”
“He got any family?” I asked.
“Nobody I know of. He ain’t ever married. All of his brothers are dead. No nieces or nephews. Just the church. And me. I’m paying for some of his service, but since he’s a veteran, the government will cover his plot.”
I canted my head. “What about his girlfriend?”
Ike snorted. “I told Gene to stay away from Bernice. She’s a gold digger whose field is the church. But he still liked having her around—she’s younger than us, understand. Can’t blame a man for wanting to feel young and vibrant.”
I tried hard not to roll my eyes. “How long were they together?”
“Oh . . . A few months.”
“They get into it recently?”
Sadness draped over Ike, and his shoulders slumped. “He called me—I guess it was late Saturday night. He caught her with some man she’d been passing off as her cousin. Argued with her and did all that carrying on that young men do.” He scratched his gray head, then toed the heap of tangled wires near the tree trunk. “Guess they made up cuz they was holding hands at the picnic the next day. She made his plate, carried him drinks, and . . .” He bit his lower lip, then clapped the cap against his thigh. “Got him on tape. Wanna see?” Ike pulled out his cell phone, then swiped at the screen.
In the video, Eugene Washington appeared fuller than the swollen shell I’d met back on Tuesday. Maybe it was the sweat on his face or his buck-toothed grin. He sat at a picnic table with a plate loaded with chicken, monkey bread, and potato salad. Seated behind him, a woman shoved a chicken bone into her mouth. Over to his left, a neon-orange Frisbee glided and a grade-school girl danced to a Chris Brown song.
And he wore his medic alert bracelet on his left wrist.
“You got enough to eat there?” Ike’s off-screen voice had asked.
Eugene Washington had smiled at the camera. “Almost.”
Charity Tate had entered the shot with a red cup in one hand and a small bowl in the other. She wore that huge diamond ring as well as diamond earrings the size of lima beans. With those rocks, she weighed an extra ten pounds.
“What’s all that, Sister Charity?” Ike had asked.
She placed the cup and bowl before Eugene Washington. “Sweet tea and more potato salad for the birthday boy.”
“Ain’t got nothing I can’t touch, do it?” Eugene Washington asked.
“You can eat ‘delicious,’ can’t you?” Charity asked. “Cuz that’s all I have.”
The old man laughed. “If I keep eatin’ all this food, y’all gon’ have to put me in the grave. I won’t be around to see seventy-four.”
Charity smiled, then squeezed his shoulder. “You’re not going anywhere, Brother Gene. Solomon said, ‘For through me your days will be many, and years will be added to your life.’ ”
“Bishop said that?” Ike had asked.
“Not my Solomon,” Charity said. “King Solomon.” She kissed the top of Eugene Washington’s head, then said, “Save room for dessert.”
“Good stuff?” the birthday boy had asked.
“Your favorites,” she said, nodding. “Sock-it-to-me cake, cupcakes, and peach cobbler.”
Eugene Washington had then tucked into his bowl of potato salad as Ike said, “Here’s to another happy birthday to my buddy.” From the right edge of the shot, Bernice Parrish, arms crossed, had glowered at the camera.
“That’s it,” Ike said to me now, turning off the phone.
Just an hour ago, Charity Tate had acted as though she’d never met Eugene Washington, but here they were solid, like Ashford and Simpson.
“Did you ever talk to Mr. Washington about his living conditions?” I asked.
“Oh yeah,” Ike said. “Before I retired, I owned a construction company, and Gene worked for me. Carpentry, electrical, a few other things clients needed done. But he told me to keep my hands and tools off his property.” Ike scratched his head. “It was worse than this, believe it or not. He had a few old clunkers sittin’ around and some dangerous broken appliances. I’d sneak and clean up a little here, a little there, but he knew where everything was and he’d get mad and wouldn’t talk to me for days.” He chuckled. “But on Sundays? He’d show up to service in a nice suit, clean, and shaved. If you didn’t know Gene, you’d never think he lived like . . .” Tears welled in his eyes, and a single drop slipped down his grizzled cheek. “Where’d you find him?” he asked as he swiped at his face.
“In his armchair,” I said. “Watching television, drinking a beer, eating peach cobbler. Maybe from the picnic?”
Ike shrugged. “If you look in that fridge, you’re gonna see food in there that’s been expired for months. He’d eat it, too. Hell, knowing Gene, that cobbler coulda been from last Christmas. Bet you won’t ever see me eating anything from that kitchen.” He held up the trash bags. “So can I get to work?”
“Soon.”
“Soon, like an hour? Two hours? I know the neighbors gonna be happy.”
“Possibly,” I said. “But no promises.”
Ike nodded, then frowned. His temples twitched, and he swiped at his face again.
I squinted at him. “Is there some kind of time crunch?”
His face brightened some. “No, not at all. I’ll just hang around a little while longer. I got a cleaning crew coming. And then, I guess, a funeral to plan.”
I offered my condolences, then left Ike to himself.
Dying alone . . .
Eugene Washington had not been surrounded by a daughter or a wife. No. His last companions had been parasites, rodents the size of roosters, sick cats, and old things. He had been a sick man—not physically, perhaps, but certainly mentally ill. What kind of church family allowed someone to live like this? What kind of girlfriend? What kind of fishing buddy?
And who cared enough to want this man dead?
16
OSWALD LITTLE HAD NOT CALLED ME BACK, AND NOW I WONDERED IF I’D LEFT messages for the right man. Bernice Parrish had also broken her promise to stop by the station and leave her fingerprints. Luke called her again—no answer. I called her, but she wouldn’t pick up. I left a message using my inside voice, really nice-like and ended my message with, “Don’t make me send a squad car over there.” But real nice-like.
Colin watched as Ike Underwood found his friend’s army dress uniform in a bedroom closet. Protected by a suit cover, the gold buttons gleamed, the ribbons looked crisp, and the soft cap looked clean.
I took a trip over to the barrier tape and the prophetesses. Two days ago, where were they with their outstretched arms and prayers and Bible verses? They knew so much, why didn’t they warn Eugene Washington about the killer cobbler?
“Who says we didn’t warn him, Sergeant Norton?” Dorothea said to me with soft, shimmery eyes. The lace hankie she clutched today was pink with green bows on the edges.
“Tate will receive his due,” Idell said, lightly tapping the tambourine.
“For treating us like this,” Dorothea said.
“Portraying us as demonic,” Ebony added.
Then, together they said, “And say to them, ‘O dry bones, hear the word of the Lord.’ ”
“You’ve only just begun,” Ebony said to me.
“They banished us,” Idell said. “Will they do the same to you?”
Dorothea touched my arm. “You don’t need them for this mission. You only need Him—” She pointed a pink polished finger to the sky. “To be great.”
“Pray with us,” Idell requested.
“You’ll see,” Ebony added.
I said, “No, thank you.”
The three women considered each other, then turned away from me. Arms out, tambourine and hankie ready, eyes closed, they sang. “Standing here wondering which way to go . . .”
My radio chirped. “Lou,” Lieutenant Rodriguez barked, “you copy?”
I tore my attention away from the trio to say, “I’m here.”
“Release the house.”
I closed one eye, stuck a finger in my ear to block the jangling cymbals. “I didn’t catch that. Come again?”
“You’re done there. Let them clean it, burn it down, whatever. Just wrap it up and—”
“But we’re still—”
“This is coming from the captain,” he said. “One of the neighbor’s husbands called, and the guy is some blah-blah-blah in some blah-blah-blah. You already got the gun, the dish, and the goop and gold. So just call it. Release the house.”
A battered pickup truck carrying six men of Hispanic origin pulled up to Washington’s driveway. Ike waved at the group, then met them in the front yard.
Also arriving: the dull ache in back of my left shoulder and the anxiety that bubbled like a geyser in my gut at each onset of pain. The heat was making the impossible insurmountable today, tomorrow, and three hundred years from now.
“You copy?” Lieutenant Rodriguez was asking me.
“Yep. I’m gone, sir.”
Whatever. Didn’t care anymore.
Just the wind. Just the wind.
Colin did the honors of completing the last bits of paperwork. I directed the patrol cops to tear away the yellow barrier tape; then I shared the good news with Ike and his crew. “But if you find anything weird,” I told them, “anything that will help with the case, call me ASAP.” Then, I handed Ike and four of his workers my business card.
Ten minutes later, Colin sauntered off the property. And, like me, he paused to look at the three women still praying at the fence. “The witches are still here?”
“Don’t call them that, Taggert.” I tossed him the car keys. “You drive.”
I sank into the passenger seat as the ache oozed toward my neck. My breathing slowed as though pain constricted my throat. The heat. The stink, cats, bugs . . . I was done. My hands shook so much that I couldn’t shove the seat belt’s tongue into its buckle. I succeeded on my third attempt, and the click pounded like a sledgehammer and sent concussive vibrations up my arm and to my head.
Colin glanced over at me. “You okay?”
“Uh huh.”
“We’ll count the coins, log ’em in with Evidence, call it a day?”
“Sounds good.”
He clicked on his seat belt, then pulled away from the curb. After a minute of silence, he asked, “What are you gonna do about Pepe?”
I covered my eyes with a hand. “In regards to what?”
“Insubordination. He didn’t follow your direct order.”
“You’re certainly concerned.”
“Friend or not, you can’t let him get away with that. You’re a sergeant now.”
“Wow, am I?”
“You’re not acting—”
“Stop.” I looked at him, so tired. “I’m not doing my job now?”
His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel.
“Don’t worry about Pepe,” I said. “He’ll be handled accordingly.” I gave him the side eye. “What? Are folks gossiping about me again?”
He didn’t respond.
“I’m not hard. I’m too hard. I work too much. I don’t work enough. I kill the guy. I arrest the guy. It’s never enough for you white boys and your moving goal posts.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” His face had turned cherry red.
“None of you think I deserve—”
“None of you? I’m one of them now?”
“Why are you inferring that I’m not—?”
“I just asked—”
“And I answered.”
“I’m concerned.”
“Don’t be.”
“I don’t want anyone taking advantage of you not being . . .”
“Being what?”
He swallowed, then shook his head. “Nothing. Forget it.”
I slipped sunglasses over my eyes, then took deep, deep breaths. For being what? But I knew.
Neither of us spoke as we carried the tubs of gold coins back to our desks.
I logged on to my computer and searched the Web for the bullion’s value. “A one-ounce American Gold Eagle is worth eleven hundred dollars,” I told Colin. “And the buffalo is worth a little more.”
