All dogs went to heaven. Earl had promised.
Steam rose around her; the water was as hot as she could stand. She poured some scented bath oil over her shoulders and let it run down her arms and breasts. Her face got wet and she wasn’t exactly crying; maybe she was shedding the anger, like a lizard sheds its skin … no. Away from the uplifting chitchat in the kitchen, she felt as heavy and as burdened as when the paramedic had stopped the CPR in that stinking, filthy alley. Grace had taken off her jacket and laid it over Haleem’s face. Had touched his cheek. The EMT had told Grace that he was sorry, as if Haleem were someone special to her.
“I’m going to make him pay, Haleem,” she said aloud, making a gun with her hand and shooting off a round. “Nothing’s getting in my way of that.”
She wrapped her hair in a towel, got on her flannel pajamas and her bathrobe, and made it back down the hall just in time to collect the pizza from the delivery guy. Cute, plus he clearly liked her jammies. She gave him five bucks extra. Earl and Gus gazed up at her expectantly from the couch.
Then her landline rang.
She took a look at the number. Ham. Sighing, she held the pizza box out to Earl, who received it, looking on. She wondered if he already knew why Ham was calling. Either Ham wanted to get a Grace-fix—he was getting kind of addicted to her—or he had police business to discuss.
“Hey, Ham,” she said.
“Hey, you okay?” he began.
Oh, God, the Sooners lost, she thought with a sickening wrench. Then she realized he was referring to Haleem. “Yeah. I’m good.”
“There’s been a homicide sixteen blocks south of the alley where Haleem was killed. North Rob. Looks like the dealer.”
“Good,” Grace said, and Earl raised a brow. What, did he want her to pretend? She really was glad that the scumbag was dead. “Anybody see it happen?”
“If they did, guess they aren’t talking. People around there are scared.”
“Yeah, they’re getting more than their share of it these days,” she concurred. Street violence in OKC was way up. So were petty crime, vandalism, and the rest of the annoying crap poor people in bad neighborhoods had to put up with. Strip off the layers of graffiti and you could get the entire history as different gangs warred to claim door stoops and cash registers as their territory. The beat cops in the ghetto and the barrio were cranky, overworked, and tense. The city was a pressure cooker, and the temperature was rising.
“An informant linked the dealer’s death to the Cholos Ricos. Says he saw it. The dealer was in the Snake Eyes.”
“That’ll mean payback,” Grace said. “The Snake Eyes will strike at the CRs.”
The Snake Eyes were an all-black gang. The Cholos Ricos were Hispanic. They kept track of all the various infractions and insults they committed against one another in a complex system. In a different life, they could all be accountants.
“Maybe it’s payback for a previous payback,” Ham said. “Escalation.”
“Terrorism,” Grace said. “More bullets for innocent bystanders to dodge. Could the informant link either gang to Haleem’s killing?”
“No, but maybe Rhetta can,” Ham replied. “Night crew is catching it,” he added. “We can stay home.” Meaning that they weren’t being called in to work it. Grace had mixed feelings about that. She wanted to see the face of the man who dealt slow death to boys and their mothers. But she was also overtired, starving, and wondering why Earl had smiled when she’d talked about the game. Anyway, with any luck, the dealer would be in the medical examiner’s freezer tomorrow, and she could visit him then.
Grace’s stomach growled. “I gotta go.”
“Yeah, okay.” Ham sounded surprised, a little hurt. “I get it. Rough night. That kid …”
“Haleem,” she said. “That was his name. I’ll see you in the morning, Ham.” She made her voice gentle, then firmly disconnected. Hustled on over to the party and took the pizza slice and the paper napkin Earl offered.
“They got him,” she said. “But you already knew that.”
“I already did,” he confirmed.
She appraised him. “Were you his last-chance angel?”
He took a bite of pizza. “Who, Haleem? Or the dealer?”
“Take your pick.”
“Nope.”
As she flopped onto the couch, Earl aimed the remote and the game zapped onto the screen—two teams of burly, padded college players whaling on each other. There’d be penalty flags and injuries, but by the end of it someone would actually win.
Must be nice.
They ate pizza. Gus got the crusts and a few hunks of sausage. He rested his gigantic head on Grace’s knee and she lovingly scratched behind his ears. Earl munched and watched the game. They were the Three Bears: Angel Bear, Sinner Bear, and Doggy Bear. The Sooners were ahead. Gus celebrated by burping and Grace did the same.
When the commercials started up, Earl turned to her. “I gotta tell you something, Grace,” he said. “Things are going to get tough for a while.”
She hesitated, then chomped down rebelliously on her third slice of pizza. “They already are tough, Earl. Okay? I don’t need tougher.”
He gave her a look and shook his shaggy head. “I don’t have any say in it, any more than you do. I’m just letting you know.”
She swallowed. “Why?”
“Because you’re going to be in a position to do something about it.” He picked up a bread stick. “I love these things.”
“That’s great, Earl,” she said tiredly. “That’s just great.” She took another bite of pizza and watched BYU make a touchdown. She groaned. Gus emitted a sympathetic sigh.
Actually, the simplicity of sports was not so nice, if the wrong guys were the ones doing the winning.
“You shouldn’t stay up too late tonight,” Earl added. “Get some rest.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Can’t you just tell me what’s going to happen?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know, either. All God told me is that heavy winds are gonna blow. Time to batten down the hatches.”
She took a swig of beer. “Or turn into kites.”
CHAPTER
THREE
That night the wind rattled Grace’s window, threatening to pry off her roof, and shook her to her bones. Gus complained a bit about it but she urged him to lie across her feet, and then she kneaded his thick neck with her toes, and that soothed him. As she drifted, she had a dream about Leon Cooley, brought into her life by Earl and, as it turned out, a friend of her since-deceased sister, Mary Frances. Grace had run over Leon while driving drunk—or hadn’t; it turned into a dream or a vision or something. Kneeling beside him, performing CPR, she had asked God for help.
Then and there Earl had appeared before her, informing her that he was her last-chance angel, and warning her that if she didn’t mend her ways she was going to go to hell. It had turned out that he was Leon’s last-chance angel, too. Grace didn’t know if Earl had accomplished his mission with Leon—Earl said he had—but she did know Leon was dead, and that her own brother, Johnny, who was a Catholic priest, had arranged for his burial.
But in her drifting dream, Leon was still alive, and he wasn’t wearing prison clothes. He looked like a regular bald person, not a dead felon. He had on the same long-sleeved shirt and trousers that he’d worn to Clay’s baptism, and she thought her heart would spill out of her chest: He had started out so well and ended up so badly.
The gray winds were blowing, threatening to twist into a tornado, and her purple kite was plastered against the slanted, shingled roof of his house. It was a little house, and it looked suspiciously like hers.
Then it transformed into a house made of bricks. Then into one of sticks; and one of straw. The straw flapped in the wind, rippling like a yellow curtain, too insubstantial to withstand the air current. But it was still topped by a brick chimney, and her kite was still stuck to it.
“It’s a dream,” she said.
“Life. Life is
but a dream,” he told her. Then he opened his arms and flew like an angel to the straw rooftop, grabbing up her double triangle of thin, fragile paper. If someone put a hole through that, the weather would shoot right through it, pour right out of it like gray blood … so much blood … red blood.
I lost that kid. He died beneath my hand.
“Hey, Leon, you can fly now,” she said.
“I shed my burdens. But you haven’t. So be careful not to fall. And don’t jump into a bottomless pit without a parachute, you got it?” Leon said as he let go of the kite.
The purple triangle drifted toward her. Grace grabbed it and held it against her chest, then raised her free hand up to Leon, who was still crouched on the straw roof.
“Let me help you down,” she said.
“You got your hands full.” He gestured with his head at the kite. “Besides, once you’ve had up, down’s just not the same.” He grinned at her with his boyish gappy teeth. The house became brick again, solid and substantial, more appropriate for someone who weighed as much as Leon.
“Where you are, is it good?” she asked.
A fierce gale blew, scudding clouds between the two of them; Leon and the house disappeared, and Leon’s smile was the last thing to go. As the force died down, Grace found herself on a wide dusty plain surrounded by elms. The Survivor Tree was an elm; it had survived the Oklahoma City bombing, and had become a beloved symbol of the city’s endurance. The inscription read:
The spirit of this city and this nation will not be defeated; our deeply rooted faith sustains us.
I don’t have faith, she thought. I’ve seen too much.
Then a shot rang out, sounding for all the world like a jag of lightning, and Grace rotated in a circle, looking for its source. Strangely, she was not afraid. Somehow she knew the bullet was not meant for her.
I put that girl in a coma, Grace thought, remembering the zing of gunfire before Coma Girl’s aka Neely’s shit-head boyfriend put a bullet in her brain. I tried to talk to her and she got shot in the head to keep her from spilling his secrets. How come all this crap keeps happening? Why doesn’t God stop it?
With a sharp jerk, she woke up to a buzzing alarm clock and a rumble of thunder that vibrated through her rib cage. She felt for her bathrobe and touched Gus with her toes to reassure him. He hated thunder. Groaning deep in his barrel chest, he flopped onto his other side, pressing against her shins as she drew up her legs.
“It’s okay, Gussie,” she said. He chuffed tentatively in response.
Gently she extricated herself as she sat up, amazed that she was coming up negative on the hangover meter. Grace had a lot of hangovers. That was what came with being fond of booze. No heartburn, though, ever, despite the greasy pizza.
Earl wasn’t around. Tequila shots had accompanied the annihilation of the BYU Cougars. Well, actually, she’d killed the tequila and Earl had nursed a couple of longnecks. She’d like to get him really drunk sometime, find out if he ragged on his boss or got real silly.
Grinning sleepily, she dragged her ass into the kitchen and microwaved yesterday’s leftover coffee in a cup that had previously contained some orange juice; she found the pizza in the fridge and pulled off two hunks. As she ate, she smiled at Gus, who was ready for a potty break and some breakfast.
She hustled him out into the dawn-streaked turbulence, picked up the remote, and turned on the morning news. Butch’s hottie fiancée Kendra Burke stood in front of City Hall. Very pretty, even more sincere. Yeah, Grace was pretty sure she’d had a boob job.
“… the mayor and the chief of police are both on record as stating that the gang problem in Oklahoma City is finally turning around. Levels of street violence are decreasing—”
“What the hell?” Grace cried. What an incredible crock.
Her cell phone rang. Moving fast, she opened the door and kept it open with her bare foot so Gus could come back in quick—which he would, since he was not a fan of harsh weather—and grabbed the phone off the breakfast bar. It occurred to her that she hadn’t yet had her morning cigarette.
She checked the number. It was the office.
“Hey, Captain Perry,” Grace said, even though at one time Perry had always been “Kate” and they’d worked Vice together. Grace switched back and forth, addressing her more formally most of the time. “Are you watching this bullshit on TV?”
“When you get in, come to my office,” Captain Perry said in an even, neutral tone. “Something’s happened.”
She went cold. “It’s not Ham—”
“Nobody on the squad. And no one in your family. But yes, there’s been a death.”
“Jesus, Kate—”
“Best you come into my office when you get here.” Captain Perry hung up.
“Someone else died, Gus,” Grace told her dog. Then Grace became a whirlwind, dressing in jeans, a long-sleeved peasant top, and her black leather jacket; feeding Gus and making sure he was settled for the day; holstering her gun and fitting her badge on her leather belt with the decorative rivets.
The wind pushed at her as she raced down the walk to Connie, her beloved Porsche 911. She drove too fast; she was so rattled, she put that first morning cigarette in her mouth but forgot to light it. She realized the error of her ways just as she pulled into the police parking lot behind 701 North Colcord Drive, and lit up for the few precious seconds she had until she hit the smoke-free zone. Trash and leaves cartwheeled across the pointed tips of her boots. She stubbed out her Morley with her heel and scooped up the carcass to dump in the trash. Her hand was shaking.
Hanging from the ceiling above Butch’s chair were blue ribbons with what had to be real Viagra pills attached to the ends. Seemingly oblivious, Butch sat forward in his cowskin desk chair. The desk itself was littered with all his Texas Longhorn obscenities—bobblehead, magnets, miniature football—out in broad daylight for decent human beings to see. Bobby was leaning over Butch’s shoulder, and they were both staring at Butch’s computer monitor. They were intent but untroubled. Clearly they had not been called into Captain Perry’s office for bad news; Grace was going to be the first to know.
As she walked past, Butch glanced at her and popped a marshmallow into his mouth. At his elbow, there were several bags of marshmallows mounded into a limp phallic mountain topped with a big blue pill shape the size of a foot-long sandwich. It was drooping, and there was a sign hanging from it that read, DEAR BUTCHIE, YOU ARE TOO SOFT. XO KENDRA.
Grace didn’t smile, even though it was a pretty good joke on short notice. Then she cast a glance around for Ham, didn’t see him, and blasted into her captain’s office.
Kate Perry was coifed and dressed in an oyster-shell-gray jacket and a luminous blue lamb’s-wool sweater—every inch an administrator. There were colorful crime scene photos on her desk, graphic ones, of some black kid facedown in a street, horribly broken, legs and arms askew. Blood pooled around him.
Captain Perry was black, too, so Grace’s mind shot into overdrive, trying to make a connection between Kate and this corpse, wondering if it was a nephew, a godson—
“Malcolm Briscombe,” Captain Perry said, and Grace went completely, uncomprehendingly numb. For maybe ten seconds, she stared blankly at the gruesome photographs. She saw his profile. He was unrecognizable. She lit herself a cigarette. Kept staring. Her mind began turning.
“Hit and run,” Captain Perry added.
“Jesus.” Grace sank boneless into a chair. “Oh, my God, Kate.”
“You can see why I didn’t want to tell you on the phone.” Her voice was an alloy of steel and velvet.
Grace chewed on her lip. “We got any leads? Somebody checking in with Jamal?” Jamal was Malcolm’s sixteen-year-old brother.
The look on the other woman’s face said it all.
“Jamal’s back in the gang,” Grace muttered. “Shit.” She took a draw on the cigarette and slumped in her chair. Then she pulled out her cell phone and called Jamal’s cell. Service had been terminated. Called
his place of employment. He was no longer with them.
“I asked Jedidiah Briscombe to contact us if Jamal shows up,” Captain Perry said as Grace flipped her phone shut. That was Malcolm and Jamal’s grandfather. “He hasn’t heard from Jamal.” She paused. “Mr. Briscombe is not in a very good place.”
“Shit,” Grace said. “Damn it. I’ve got a list of Jamal’s friends. Not the gang ones, of course.” If the gang knew he’d been talking to a cop, she’d be lucky to find him in a filthy alley. “I’ll run them down.” She heard what she’d said and paled. Malcolm is dead. Oh, God, he was such a sweet kid.
There was a knock, and Ham came in. He was wearing a blue cowboy shirt and jeans, looked good, well rested, and worried.
“Butch said you looked funny.” He gave Grace a once-over. “You okay?”
Grace shook her head.
“Malcolm Briscombe. Thirteen years old,” Kate said, gesturing to the pictures. “Younger brother of your sixteen-year-old Confidential Informant, Jamal Briscombe. So far we’ve got a hit and run.”
“Shit,” Ham said, scrutinizing the grisly array of photographs. Normal people would avert their eyes if they saw what he was seeing. But like Grace, Ham was a cop, not a normal person. He tapped the close-up of Malcolm’s head injury like a poker player asking for another card. Then he raked his fingers through his hair and dropped his hands to his sides. “What about Jamal? Is he okay?”
Kate shook her head. “We don’t really know. Jamal’s grandfather thinks Jamal rejoined the Sixty-Sixes. We can’t confirm.”
“The Sixty-Sixes make the Snake Eyes look like pussies,” Grace gritted. “They’re the most violent black gang in the city.”
“Blood In, Blood Out,” Ham concurred. “Kill to get in, die to get out.”
“But he was just a Hang Around,” Grace reminded him. “Last he told me, anyway. He wasn’t even an associate member. Sixty-Sixes have a long trial period. He needs to be an adult before he can become a Full Patch. So he hasn’t taken his loyalty oath.”