Out a Order Read online

  “No.”

  Campbell changed tactics. He sat back down. In a friendlier tone he asked, “Who shot up your bedroom tonight?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Any idea why someone would feel the need to plaster your bedroom with bullet holes?”

  Shannon shifted uneasily in his chair. Lombardo listened intently on the other side of the glass. Shannon tossed a hostile look at the mirror on his side of the room.

  “Maybe they don’t like my decorating. Actually, I was hoping you might tell me that. You’re the investigating officer.”

  Campbell got to his feet. He paced the room. “I’m growing weary of playing these word games with ya, black. Just so ya know.”

  Shannon warmed to the sound of the street code. Finally this cop was speaking his language. “Now we’re on the same page, my brother. ’Cause I’m getting sick of you and Rambo pissing off in the wrong direction.”

  There was a discreet knock at the door.

  Campbell opened it. He stepped into the hall. A policewoman handed Campbell a sheet of paper. “There’s no sheet on the wife. She’s clean. She’s a very hardworking young lady. Holds down a respectable managerial position in the bank. Appears to have married wrong, though. I guess you already know the husband has a different story.”

  “Yeah. It’s pretty much what I expected. But I can’t afford to leave any rocks unturned. Know what I mean?”

  The policewoman nodded. Lombardo appeared. He was itching to get in Shannon’s face. “Let me take a shot at him, Campbell.”

  Campbell and Lombardo entered the interrogation room together. “I have a couple of questions for you,” Lombardo said.

  Shannon stood up. “I ain’t got no answers for you.”

  Lombardo ignored him. “You have plenty of quirky little incidents that I could drive a tractor trailer through. For instance, why would someone shoot at you after your little girl’s funeral?”

  Lombardo paused, then continued. “And why would Spence Parkinson’s body be dropped into Jasmine’s grave?” Lombardo shrugged. “Like maybe Spence killed Jasmine. Revenge or a deal gone bad.”

  Shannon refused to utter a word. Lombardo moved closer to Shannon. “And maybe you hired my boy at the cemetery to kill Spence. A little revenge of your own?”

  Shannon’s eyes shot sparks. “Are you charging me with something?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have a reason to hold me?”

  “Not yet.”

  Shannon smiled. “You want me, hunter?”

  Lombardo shrugged. “Not unless you step out of line.”

  Shannon walked to the door. “You don’t draw my lines, Little Italy, I do. You’re barking up the wrong tree, hunter. You should be out beating the bushes. Any young rookie knows that.”

  It was Lombardo’s turn to smile. “Don’t let it worry you. I’m there too.”

  “Well, make sure you don’t step up behind the wrong bush,” Shannon issued him a veiled threat.

  Campbell stepped in. “You’ve got eight untraceable years, supposedly clean, Shannon. My advice to you is to keep it that way.”

  “When I want your advice I’ll be sure to run right down to get it, my man. Count on it.” Shannon stepped through the door, closing it behind him.

  “Any word on the street?” Campbell said to Lombardo.

  “Not yet.”

  “I want to know who killed Jasmine Davenport and why.”

  “Yeah. It’s going to be a sad day if we find her father on the other side of the trigger.”

  “I guess we better start beating the rookie bushes,” Campbell said. “You never know what you might shake out of one.”

  They both grinned.

  Chapter 10

  Tawney sat behind her desk in the bank staring at the untouched game of solitaire. Her fingers played out a rhythmic tap dance against her mouse. Her concentration was nonexistent, a thing of the past.

  Her office was full of assorted flowers from her colleagues as well as her staff showing their sympathy. Just looking at them made her want to throw up. She practically gagged at the smell of them.

  But it would be rude to just throw them in the trash, which is what she felt like doing, while screaming at the top of her lungs. She had never been this edgy in her life.

  The loss of her daughter made her feel as though she were walking around in a nightmare. Waves of blackness covered her skin like a veil.

  It was hard to believe she would never hold Jazz again in her arms. Or nuzzle the warm spot in her neck. Or watch her run down the street. She wished she hadn’t gone there with that thought because it conjured up images of her child being gunned down like a dog in the street.

  Whatever.

  It was just inconceivable that Jazz was gone. Wrenched from her grasp, while she had been sitting in some damn office, having a normal day. Probably in some mundane meeting, while the life was being snuffed out of her child. It was a complete travesty.

  There was a light tap on her office door. She looked up to see Shonda Hunt, who was a member of her staff. Shonda looked at her timidly, “I’m really sorry to disturb you, Tawney. I just wanted . . .”

  Tawney waved her into the office. She was trying hard not to be the witch on wheels she was feeling like. She really wanted to tell Shonda to get the hell away from her door.

  But that was just not appropriate. Instead she said, “Come on in, Shonda,” her voice relaying a calm politeness she did not feel.

  Shonda perched on the edge of the chair in front of Tawney’s desk. She cleared her throat. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry for your loss. If there’s anything I can do . . .”

  “No. There’s nothing. Thank you for offering.”

  Gazing at Tawney, Shonda wondered what the hell Shannon Davenport saw in this cardboard, wannabe fashion statement. So she was player hating. So what? She had met Shannon Davenport at last year’s office party and she couldn’t help but wonder. He was fine as wine.

  Tawney’s skin, while a carmel brown, was surrounded by a halo of blond hair that flowed past her shoulders. Cat-green eyes completed the picture in a face accented with high cheekbones, indicating a possible Indian heritage somewhere in her genes.

  Shonda wanted to throw something at this Oreo cookie, which was all black on the outside and white on the inside. Tawney was tall and slim with a shapely build. She gave off a picture of flawlessness.

  Shonda knew better.

  Tawney was in fact smooth, intellectual, and corporate with the hots for gangster-type men. Her image was a facade for corporate America, so she could get paid, but it didn’t fool Shonda one bit.

  Shonda would bet her bottom dollar that Tawney’s IQ test—and she was rumored to have an IQ that was extraordinary—hadn’t revealed her penchant for slumming in the hood.

  After an awkward moment Shonda said, “I know this probably isn’t a good time, but I wanted to talk about the written warning in my file. It’s just that my performance review is coming up and—”

  “Shonda, I’m here, but I’m not really here, if you know what I mean. As soon as I’m able to deal with this I will. Okay? You have my word.”

  Shonda nodded. “Thanks, Tawney. I’m sorry. I know it’s not a good time.”

  Tawney rose from her desk, stifling the urge to physically throw Shonda from her office. “No, it isn’t a good time, but it’s not your fault.”

  Bright tears shimmered in Shonda’s eyes, making Tawney feel guilty for thinking about physically hurling her from her office. She hugged her, hoping to ease the girl’s awkwardness and pain, even though her own pain was slicing through her like a knife.

  “I’ll be okay soon, sweetie. Don’t worry about your performance review. It’s going to come out all right. You’ll be happy. I promise.”

  Shonda brightened. She swiped at a falling teardrop. “Thanks, Tawney. I’m here if you need me.” She stepped from the office.

  Before Tawney could recuperate, Dominique St. James, her best frie
nd, stuck her head in the door. “You gonna make it girlfriend?” She hugged Tawney.

  “Domi.” Tawney used her pet nickname for Dominique. “I need a cigarette in the worst way and some fresh air. Let’s get out of this building. Can you break?”

  “Yeah. Let’s go.”

  Outside the building strolling along, Tawney lit her cigarette, taking fast, short puffs. Dominique observed this but didn’t say anything.

  They walked along for a while before Tawney said, “Dominique, I feel like I’m living in a nightmare. My only child has been gunned down like a dog in the streets. And I don’t know why. And then some boy got killed at Jazz’s funeral. You saw that. And someone brought his body to Shannon.”

  “I didn’t see who it was because Shannon was on top of me. There was so much confusion. But I can’t escape the feeling that . . .” Tawney took a long drag from the cigarette. She stopped walking.

  “What?” Dominique said.

  “I don’t know. I thought Shannon had really changed. But lately I just don’t know. What if he’s been doing things I don’t know about? What if his past or present has cost me my child? I don’t know that I can live with that, Domi.” Scalding tears rolled down Tawney’s cheeks.

  Dominique gathered her in her arms. “It’s going to be okay. Just cry it out, girlfriend. You’re entitled. Don’t you ever forget that you’re entitled.”

  Dominique sincerely hoped that Shannon’s bad attitude and street antics hadn’t cost them the life of little Jasmine Davenport.

  Chapter 11

  Shannon walked over to the neighborhood nightclub called the Dome. The glittering lights flashed above a neon sign that had the club’s name on it. It was a tightly built structure with a glass dome top. He could see the kaleidoscope of colors reflecting through the glass roof.

  He reached in his jacket pocket for a cigarette. He lit it with his monogrammed lighter. The one Tawney gave him for his birthday. Just looking at it reminded him of her. Her pain over the loss of Jazz was wrapping around him like a blanket. Her pain mingled with his own, felt like a hollow hole in his chest.

  He pushed open the door to the club. He stood inside adjusting his eyes to the smoky, dusky atmosphere before approaching the bar. Smokey, who had been the bartender for as long as Shannon could remember, hurried over to him.

  People were playing pool and watching TV. The jukebox was playing on a low volume.

  “Sorry about Jazz,” Smokey said before Shannon could speak.

  Shannon looked around the club. “Yeah, man. But death doesn’t automatically end things. You know what I mean?”

  Smokey nodded.

  He poured some gold liquid from a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in a glass. He passed it to Shannon. Shannon downed it in one shot. He put the glass on the counter. Smokey automatically refilled it. “Yeah. I know.”

  Shannon looked at him closely, taking another sip from the glass. “What’s the word? My past is haunting me, man. I need answers.”

  Shannon drained the glass. He snuffed out the cigarette. Smokey refilled it. He leaned close to Shannon, after taking a quick look around. “Michael Claybay is T-Bone’s brother. T-Bone works for Rico. A bottle of this”—Smokey lifted the Jack Daniel’s bottle—“will loosen his tongue. Nothing happens in this city that he don’t know about.”

  Smokey lifted his head toward Michael where he was sitting at the end of the bar drinking cheap wine. “You know him, right? From back in the day?”

  “Yeah. I know Michael and I know Rico, who’s a stupid young street punk with nothing better to do than hang out on street corners.”

  Shannon lit a cigarette; he swigged from the Jack Daniel’s bottle.

  Smokey shook his head. “Rico used to be that. Now he’s a dangerous, deadly young entrepreneur who’s getting serious paid. He’s clocking, man. No joke. If you ain’t noticed, my man has lost his puberty.”

  Shannon narrowed his eyes. “Is that right? No more gangbanging?”

  Smokey wiped the bar nervously. “He’s graduated. Turf wars. High stakes and lots of green stuff with Solomon’s Temple pictured on the back.”

  He hit a button on the cash register, pulling out a dollar bill. He pointed to the temple on the back. “Solomon was a wealthy and wise man. These boys ain’t wise and they want to be wealthy. A dangerous combination.”

  Shannon swigged a long, healthy gulp directly from the bottle. He pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket, handing it to Smokey. “Here you go, man.”

  Smokey refused. “This one’s on the house, man. I’m buying.” He gave a slight imperceptible nod toward Michael Claybay, and then moved on to serve other customers.

  Shannon made his way down the bar to Michael. He sat on the stool next to him, plopping the bottle of Jack Daniel’s between them. Michael eyed the bottle with appreciation. He was a skinny little dude with a fast, quirky way of talking.

  “What’s up, Michael?”

  “You black. Sorry about your kid.”

  Shannon slid the bottle over to him along with his glass. Michael poured. He swallowed the liquor in one gulp.

  “Yeah,” Shannon said. “Me too. Drink up. A man with a lost child doesn’t like to drink alone. You know what I mean?”

  Michael poured another shot. He downed it. Then another. They sat in the kind of companionable silence one can only find in a bar.

  After a while Michael fidgeted in his seat. He poured another glass. He reached in his pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes, searching for a light. Shannon gave him his lighter.

  He lit up quickly, inhaling deeply. “So what brings you out? Ain’t seen you on the streets for a long while.” He leaned back in his chair. He cast an eye on the game on the overhead TV, even though the sound was turned down.

  Shannon studied him before replying. “Answers, man.”

  “About?”

  “Jasmine.”

  Michael shrugged callously as the liquor surged through his body, creating a comfort level, taking control. “What’s there to know? She’s dead, right?”

  It was all Shannon could do to keep from knocking him out of the seat. But this would not be a wise move. At least not yet.

  “I need to know why she’s dead.”

  Michael downed another glass. He immediately refilled the glass. He grinned at Shannon. Shannon flicked open his jacket. He gently fingered a roll of bills. He never looked at Michael.

  “So what if I knew a tidbit or two? What would be in it for me?”

  “Cold hard cash good enough?”

  “Depends on how much.”

  “Two G’s.”

  Michael ran his tongue around the rim of the glass, savoring the taste of the liquor. “All right.”

  “Start talking.”

  The club was starting to come to life around them, and so did Michael Claybay by way of a lethal tongue. “Word is, Rico’s boy Temaine flipped to the other side. He’s tired of being an underling to Rico. He’s hooking up with Ballistic undercover. More profits, less fear, because Ballistic’s one nasty mother. He’s Rico’s most dangerous rival. The man put the D in danger. Trust me on this. Anyway, he wants it all. The turf and the profits.”

  Michael pushed the glass away finally. His jaw twitched. Shannon was silent.

  “Rico found out about Temaine. He hired Spence Parkinson to hit Temaine. A little cash independent contract. Spence was an independent hit man. For the right price.”

  He shrugged. “Anyway, it would look like an everyday rival hit. No big deal, right? Rico is about the money and ain’t getting shut out a’ no profits, right?”

  Shannon nodded. “Right.”

  “Except something goes wrong and Jasmine gets hit, seriously jeopardizing Rico’s position.” Michael shifted. He pulled the glass closer again, taking another sip.

  Pure malice leaped from Shannon’s eyes, but Michael was oblivious of it. “Only the tables turned on Rico because the word is that Ballistic hired Spence to hit Rico, which means that Rico paid for a hi
t he was never gonna get. Spence double-crossed Rico.”

  Michael drained the glass. “Rico’s running scared. So he kills two birds with one stone. One, he has Spence taken out. Two, he sends a powerful message to Ballistic that he ain’t rolling over. A declared war. He pays props for Jazz’s death by taking down her killer. He’s still got time to take care of Temaine. He ain’t suspicious. He thinks the hit was on Rico.” Michael shrugged.

  Shannon beckoned for a glass. He poured a stiff shot, sipping from the liquor. “There’s more.”

  A nervous tick jumped in Michael’s jaw. “Rico wants you out of the way. You’re a liability he can’t afford to worry about. One he didn’t anticipate on having. An angry father with the police watching him.”

  Michael took another sip. He raised his eyebrows at Shannon. “Didn’t your house get hit?” He stood up. He picked up the cigarettes and lighter from the bar, putting them in his pocket.

  Shannon glared sparks of hatred at him. They locked gazes. Michael finally got a sense of something being wrong, off kilter and out of balance, through the alcoholic haze he was floating in. “I can’t afford no leaks, man, or my life ain’t worth two cents.”

  Shannon stood up. He laid two cents on the counter for Michael. “That would be deadly justice.”

  Michael looked at the two pennies. “Yo, man, this ain’t what we discussed, you son of a—”

  Shannon dropped him with a fast right to the jaw. He stepped over him to walk to the men’s room. Down the bar, Smokey frowned at the scene.

  Chapter 12

  After leaving that nigga Michael Claybay lying in his tracks cold-cocked, Shannon walked down the street in a self-inflicted fog.

  The pain was so deep about losing his daughter that it sliced through him in white-hot spasms of flashing electrical currents. He thought he might get lost in this void and never come back.

  He leaned against a pole and doubled over as another spasm shot through his stomach. As he dry-heaved he realized that just this simple act provided some comfort. At least it provided a physical outlet for his hurt and despair.