City of Saviors, page 12
He had organized the coins into stacks of twenty. “We have 375 total.”
My skin flushed. “That’s almost a million dollars.”
Colin whistled. “Bernice is about to become a very rich lady.”
“Not if she killed him.”
We took pictures of the coins. Completed more forms about the coins. Told Luke and Lieutenant Rodriguez and anyone who cared to listen about finding the coins in the freezer. Then, we carried the tubs down to Evidence. On the way back to the squad room, Colin said, “I’m not one of them, all right?”
I nodded.
Done for the day, he grabbed his bag and trudged to the exit.
I also rounded up my things but stopped at Pepe’s desk. I scribbled on a sticky note, then slapped it on his dark monitor. We need to talk in the morning. Lou
Back in March, the rain had never ended. The constant moisture meant Los Angeles soon wore a coat of moss and mildew—and we cursed it all. Now, months later, dust and ash covered the city, and we all prayed for water, for heavy fog, for anything wet to wash off the scum, to wash away the dead carcasses, to make us sparkle again. Everyone on my drive from the station to my condo all looked shriveled, like Shrinky Dinks left in the oven too long.
In my driveway, Syeeda McKay slouched on the trunk of her Benz. Even though my friend topped out at five foot six in the wedges she now wore, her smooth brown legs were Naomi Campbell long. With that car and those legs? Postcard ready. Just chillin’ beneath the white disk, hangin’ out in ninety-degree heat, moments away from spin class or hot-tub book-club to discuss Ta-Nehisi Coates’s latest book on the State of Us in America.
She offered me a reluctant smile as I pulled the Porsche into my second parking spot. After our big fight back in March, we hadn’t spoken much—Syeeda, too, had wanted to bring awareness to the murders of teenage girls in our childhood neighborhood. Rumor had it that convicted sex offender Raul Moriaga—and neighbor to one of the dead girls—was responsible. Without doing enough background checking, Syeeda and her assistant editor, Mike Summit, published a misleading article about Moriaga being a suspect—even though I (the lead detective on the case) had not named him as a suspect. As a result, folks in the neighborhood took up torches and pitchforks, and Raul Moriaga, the wrong monster, was killed. Syeeda had been there, though, after my accident. She’d brought me food and changed my bandages, acting like the friend she’d been to me since elementary school. But we hadn’t officially made up, nor had we been alone together since that fight.
Guess that was about to change.
Syeeda held up a four-pack of ginger beer and a frosty bottle of Grey Goose vodka. The tangy scent of barbecue wafted from the greasy bag sitting on the Benz’s trunk. “The Moscow Mule fairy left this under a tree in my backyard,” she said. “Hope you have some mugs and lime juice.”
I smiled. “I do. I even have mint.”
She slid off the trunk and held out a greeting card. “And the Hallmark fairy left this. Congratulations on your promotion. You deserve it, of course.”
I took the card and hugged her. “Thanks. Yes. I do deserve it.”
Her eyes darted around my face, taking in the scars, bags, and general weariness dusted about me like talcum powder. “You look . . . You look . . . So you said you had mugs and lime juice?”
Inside, I opened the patio door for fresh air. Syeeda started on dinner and cocktail prep.
I padded to the bathroom and stripped. As I showered, the tight bundles in my neck and shoulders unwrapped and slipped off of me like soap lather. I pulled the blood pressure machine from the cabinet, but then decided against checking my status. False readings with the shower and all that. Instead, I checked the wound in my hair. It was dry and starting to scab over.
Relaxed now in shorts and a tank top, I retreated to the patio. The sun sat in its six o’clock position, and the bruised nectarine sky had darkened with the pinks and purples smearing the golds. Surfers threw their boards into white water, catching one last wave before they all washed out. Filled copper mugs sat on the coffee table alongside a slab of beef ribs and a tub of macaroni and cheese.
In between sips of Moscow Mules and mouthfuls of hickory-smoked rib meat, I recapped my date with Fireman Dominic. “He sent me a dick pic this morning.”
Syeeda shrieked. “Lemme see.” Together, we admired Dominic’s gift that kept giving and giving until there had been six kids with his eyes. “God is good—”
“All the time,” Syeeda said. “Are you gonna text him back?”
“No.”
“You have to say something.”
“I ain’t gotta do nothing except stay black and die. Did Lena tell you about Chauncey?”
“Every time I try to root for that man.” Syeeda frowned and shook her head. “What the hell does that mean, would you mind having my baby for me and my husband?”
“He needs to have a seat.”
“He needs to have all the seats,” Syeeda said. “I told her she cannot say yes to that.”
I stabbed a clump of macaroni noodles with my plastic fork. “What’s scary is, she’s actually thinking about it.”
“That’s Lena, though. Drama mama, bless her heart. And what’s up with you?”
Syeeda licked the barbecue sauce off her fingers. “Writing a feature about the Eriksens.”
“The family we thought had fled to Mexico but turned up dead in the desert?”
“Yup.”
We sat in silence and watched the water.
Out there, the ocean did what it always did. Crash, foam, undulate. Smooth as a mirror in some places. Chaotic and spiky at the rocks. Like life on solid ground.
Syeeda shook the ice in her mug—she wanted to ask, “What are you working on,” but she knew better. Instead, she cleared her throat and asked, “And you’re feeling . . . ?”
I one-shoulder shrugged. “It hurts when I do that.”
“And it’s not going to get better at this rate. Maybe you shouldn’t have rushed back to work.”
“I didn’t rush. And I feel bad cuz of the heat. Everything is worse when you’re sweaty.”
“So sweat is your excuse?”
“Yup.”
“I’m glad you’re going to therapy,” Syeeda said, “but you need more time off. And if they’re being assholes, then you need to call your union rep. See what your rights are.”
“Yeah.” I sipped my Mule, then said, “Some say I didn’t deserve my promotion.”
Syeeda grunted, then slumped in her chair.
“Okay, fine. I couldn’t ride the desk anymore. It was driving me effin’ crazy, riding the pine like that.” I swallowed the lump forming in my throat. “I had to go back, Sy.”
Her head rolled in my direction. “I know.”
“I feel like . . . like they’re all watching me, waiting for me to fail just so they can say, ‘Well, we tried.’ ”
She sighed. “I know.”
“Then, throw in all the race baloney,” I said. “Ferguson, Baltimore, New York. A lot of them are pissed because they think they can’t do their jobs anymore.”
“Without being accountable to the people?”
“Without beating up the people.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “You keep saying ‘they.’ ”
I smirked. “A black woman with two degrees? I was never a ‘they.’ The gap’s just becoming more of a canyon. And sometimes it feels like Colin’s on that other side, too, judging me.” I lifted my mug to drink. “Something’s going on with him. Pepe, too.”
She squinted at me. “And something’s going on with you.”
“Yep.” I drained my mug. “Not enough of these in my life.”
Down on the bike path, a teen boy tried to climb a palm tree. The girl, wearing that cute floral sundress we all wore at sixteen, captured the boy’s show with her phone.
Syeeda sat a rib on her plate. “I’m . . . You . . . I . . .”
“Yeah?”
“When Lena called and told me that you were in the car accident . . .” She took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. “You and me—we hadn’t made it right before that and I was so . . .” Her voice quivered—she wanted to cry. “Nothing is worth us being angry at each other, Lou, and I’m sorry, okay? I just wanted to do the right thing, and I shouldn’t have trusted Mike Summit and I only wanted those girls to be honored and avenged and . . .” She unwrapped a napkin from a slice of white bread, then used it to dry her eyes. “I’m sorry. For everything.”
I entwined my arm through hers. “I love you, Sy, and I’m sorry this went on as long as it did. Thank you for helping me recover.”
“But you’re still recovering, from injuries inside and out, and . . .” She tapped my knee. “Just don’t sent send him away. Don’t you dare.”
I unwrapped my arm from hers, then grabbed my mug. Sadness blistered in the back of my throat and I choked out, “Sam’s . . . We can’t right now. Soon, though. Really.”
“I said that all the time with Adam, remember? Kept finding things to keep from moving forward. And now look at me.”
“Gorgeous and successful as ever,” I said, crunching ice. “Sam’s keeping himself busy. Isn’t he going out with one of the mayor’s advisors?”
“He told me he’s just biding his time until he’s freed from the Crase case.”
My heart shimmied. “You talked to Sam?”
She shoved a piece of bread into her mouth. “I saw him at that Community Coalition fund-raiser last week. He had a little too much to drink. I did, too.”
“The Beverly Hilton does give a generous pour.”
“Yeah, and so it all just . . . Blah. You were a part of Sam’s word vomit.”
“Alcohol may be a man’s worst enemy—”
“But the Bible says love your enemy.” Syeeda lifted her mug.
I raised my own to complete our toast to Frank Sinatra.
We lingered on the patio until the sun dipped below the horizon, until the sky turned Yankees blue and the waves resembled soggy tissue paper. When we retreated inside, Syeeda read my commendations, then kicked off her wedges.
I marched to the bathroom and pulled the blood pressure cuff around my bicep. After squeezing and squeezing, the machine beeped its verdict. 130/90.
Progress.
I tossed Syeeda a T-shirt and boxer shorts, then watched as she pulled the bed out from the sofa. She popped popcorn. I melted butter. We slipped beneath the comforter in the sofa bed and watched bearded Kirk Russell rescue a suspicious Husky lost in the Arctic. My nerves were soothed by all of it, all of tonight.
Friends again.
And when I screamed from being chased in the dark forest by a man in a gold mask, Syeeda woke me from my nightmare, and whispered, “You’re okay. I’m here.”
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 3
17
IN THE LIVING ROOM, SYEEDA CONVERTED THE BED BACK INTO A SOFA. SHE nattered on about something, but from my place at the patio door, I couldn’t hear her over the crash of waves and squawks of sea birds. The pain between my eyes moved like those waves and hung low like those clouds in the sky.
Back in my bedroom, the early-morning news anchor announced, “Another scorcher in the Basin today.”
Didn’t need specifics—“scorcher” at ninety-six degrees was no different than “scorcher” at one hundred. But I let the meteorologist ramble on about humidity and low pressure as I stood in my closet, hands on my hips. Wondering. Waiting. Yellow linen pants? Lime green silk shell? Black slacks? Black T-shirt? Get dressed? Climb back into bed?
I missed clouds. Not the angry, humid ones filled with hurricanes and thunderstorms. Not the ones that gave you headaches and made 70 degrees feel like 148 degrees in the shade. No, I missed the friendly spring clouds. Puffy, tall, and white like bunny tails. Cool breezes and crisp blue skies came with those clouds.
The clouds in today’s early-morning sky hated humanity and had conspired with that famous rock star in the sky to cook us like frogs in a slow-to-boil pot of water. The ocean looked flatter than usual, a murky blue-gray. A few surfers stood in clumps on the shore with their hands on their hips. Wondering. Waiting. The doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” Syeeda shouted.
I grabbed those yellow slacks and green shell, then considered the inaccurate nightstand clock: six thirty. Which meant it could’ve been midnight. I dressed, then padded into the living room. The aromas of cinnamon, warm sugar, and fresh-brewed coffee greeted me. “It smells like Christmas in here.” The scent wafted from the basket and cardboard carafe now sitting on the breakfast counter.
Syeeda tugged on my gray Gap hoodie, then readjusted her ponytail. “So Lena was telling the truth. Food fairies do exist.”
“You know,” I said, “in some cultures, Satan is depicted as a type of fairy.” I aimed the remote control at the television and found Good Times. Penny’s mother was back, this time, wearing a fur coat.
Syeeda smirked. “Well, Santa spelled backward is . . .”
“Atnas.”
She read aloud the greeting card that always accompanied the food delivery. “Lulu, I know we haven’t settled things between us, but a good breakfast will make you feel better. You loved cinnonomin (that’s what you used to call it) as a kid. Love, Dad and June.”
While Victor Starr had paid for the deliveries, I’m sure Good Eats had been his second wife’s idea. June had probably heard about it on a morning show or at her book club meeting, and had truly believed that freshly prepared French breakfast delivered to my house three times a week would feed my heart, not fuel my hate. Ha! Victor Starr had abandoned my mom, sister, and me decades ago. He hadn’t contacted us once, even after Tori had been kidnapped. Not a card, not a check. Silence from him up until a year ago, when he elbowed his way into my life and tried to make me accept him. Food was now his ploy. On Thursdays, I received cinnamon buns; on Sundays, chef’s-choice quiche; and on Mondays, fresh brioche, applewood bacon, and a variety of cheeses. Each basket was delivered by a slight blond man named Rory who drove a butter-colored Fiat and always threw in an extra jar of raspberry preserves.
Syeeda didn’t care who had arranged the hot buns or the coffee. She moaned as gooey frosting and melted brown sugar covered her fingers. She shoved dough into her mouth, moaned again, then tore another strand from the roll. “So . . . question: do you do that every night?”
I squinted at her. “Do I do what every night?”
“Have nightmares.” She licked away a glob of frosting lodged beneath her fingernail. “Lena said that—”
“You and Lena really like talking about me, huh?”
Syeeda blanched.
I sighed, then said, “My shrink says it’s normal. That they’re caused by some really big words and sophisticated concepts too early in the morning to try and describe. He said I’m just like any other person who suffers the trauma of almost being killed twice in one day.”
“Have you tried sleeping meds?” she asked. “They don’t let you dream.”
I grabbed two coffee mugs from the cabinet and set them on the counter. “Not dreaming leaves me slow. And then not dreaming means I wouldn’t be able to sleep with Idris Elba. That’s all kinds of jacked-up.”
Syeeda poured coffee into both cups. “You’re not gonna indulge?”
“I drink the coffee, but this?” I waved to the rolls, then grabbed the last two Pop-Tarts from the box. “Anyway, I’m about to be very full after eating this strawberry-flavored breakfast square.” I tore away the foil packet, nibbled the pastry from its corner, then rubbed my belly. “Yum. So good.”
Syeeda licked her fingertips. “I’m not saying that you need to integrate Victor Starr into your life. All I’m saying is this: don’t deprive yourself of delicious fresh pastries to prove a point to someone who doesn’t know you’re depriving yourself of said pastries.” She pulled off a piece of sweet dough, then offered it to me. “Seriously: it’s the most wondrous thing you’ll put in your mouth today, unless it’s Sam’s—”
“Yeah. Okay. You do know that sugar goes straight to your gut.” I tossed a quarter of my Pop-Tart at her, then retrieved my bag and badge from the living room coffee table.
“That’s what lipo’s for.” She coaxed another roll onto her plate. “Since you don’t want the food, have you told your father to stop sending the food?”
I clipped my badge to my belt loop, then scooped my leather shoulder holster from the area rug. “I told Mom to tell him since she insists on answering the phone every time he calls. And I never waste the food—I take it to Colin, Luke, and Pepe.”
Syeeda considered me with soft eyes and whispered, “Elouise, maybe if you ate some of these weekly offerings, you’d recover quicker. Emotionally. Physically. Think about it.”
Lightness trickled over me, and I laughed. “Next time on Dr. Phil . . .”
A nerve twitched at the corner of her mouth. “See, that’s why black people can’t succeed.”
“That, and O. J. Simpson.” I wandered back to my nightstand as she continued to rant about Our People’s Problems. I said, “uh huh,” when she asked if I was listening, then grabbed the Glock from its new home on the nightstand.
“We can’t expect Jesus and Obama and the ghost of Malcolm X to fix our problems,” Syeeda was saying as I returned to the kitchen.
“Why don’t you write an editorial in that paper you run,” I suggested. “I pay attention better if it’s in print. And everything sounds doable on paper.”
She grabbed her purse from the couch cushions. “Keep mocking me. I know things.”
I pushed her toward the front door. “The world needs an enema, Sy. Sorry to say, but I’m part of the shitty problem.”
Syeeda followed me in her car as I sped east. The glass and aluminum headquarters of M80 Games glinted in the sunshine. The parking lot was almost empty—it wasn’t crunch time, so folks wouldn’t start rolling in until ten. No lights shone in Greg’s corner office on the second floor. The urge for me to turn into the parking lot had diminished some since last week. One day, I’d drive by M80 and feel the same as I did while driving past a storage warehouse or a business that sold rope.
