Devilish Details Page 8

“Cleavon? Ain’t you got enough trouble without this? You need to be keeping a low profile, dude,” Jazz shouted back. In the small house to her left an elderly woman sat on her screened in porch, her profile outlined by the lit window behind her.

  “Y’all better stop all that cussin’ and mess out here,” the lady called out.

  “Woman, get in here and shut the damn door,” a man, most likely her husband, called out.

  “Ma’am, go inside before bullets start flyin’,” Jazz said in a harsh whisper, not sure the woman would hear.

  “They better not shoot at you,” the woman came back in a feisty tone.

  “I’m gone start shooting at them,” Jazz replied.

  “Lawd have mercy. Take care of business, baby.” The woman scrambled from her chair and a door slammed shut a second later. The light in the window went out.

  “Nobody better call the fuckin’ police,” a deep voice shouted to the houses on the small dead end street.

  “Just us now, girl. You ready to talk?” Cleavon called.

  “Don’t be stupid, the police will show up. I hit 911 fool. I know you’ve heard of hands-free calling.”

  Cleavon barked a laugh. “You ain’t called cuz you got your own problems. Besides, I’m off the hook. The police got nuthin’ on me.”

  “The police need to do their damn jobs better,” Jazz muttered. Sweat stung her eyes as she blinked hard. “You know they got forensics these days, so don’t get too comfortable. Now go on ‘bout your business, and I’ll go on ‘bout mine.”

  “You gonna help your Filipe’s boys to take me out. I can’t sit around waiting for trouble to come to me,” Cleavon replied. The driver’s side door and a rear door of the Land Rover swung open at the same time. “Now join me for a little chat. I got a bar in here, some smooth scotch and good sounds on the system.”

  “Yeah, sure. Give me a minute to fix my make-up,” Jazz yelled.

  In a quick motion she stuck the .380 out of the car window, aimed, and fired straight ahead at the dead end. Gun still in her right hand, Jazz jammed into reverse gear and hit the accelerator. Her rear bumper crashed into the front grill of the Land Rover even as it screeched in reverse seconds later. Shouts came from both sides of the Land Rover. A scream of pain echoed in the night air as one open door of the big SUV thudded against a thug’s tender parts. Jazz braked but fired a second shot as more incentive for them to get out of her way. The tat-tat of gunfire blasted behind her. Glass pelted her as the back window of her Explorer shattered.

  “Hell, I’m gonna die on a dead end street for something I haven’t even done yet.”

  Jazz fired again out of frustration. Then trees, shotgun houses, and her Explorer lit up with blue flashes. Another crash sounded as the Land Rover tried to ram past a police cruiser. When that didn’t work everybody bailed out of it. The sounds of feet hitting pavement came as cops went after Cleavon and his buddies. Bright white spotlights turned dark into artificial daytime.

  “Show your hands,” a female cop boomed from a loudspeaker. When Jazz complied, the woman continued. “Now exit the vehicle. Keep your hands visible, get on your knees and then lie on your stomach with your arms out. Do it now.”

  Jazz knew when to hit the mute button on her smart-ass mouth—this being one such situation. Jittery cops circled all around the area chasing thugs. Not the time to pop off. Without saying a word, Jazz followed instructions. Sweat made gravel and dirt stick to her face, yet she said nothing. The hard pavement smelled sour. Jazz still held her tongue.

  “You got anything sharp on you that might stick me like needles or razors, a knife?” the female cop asked.

  “Nothing like that,” Jazz replied.

  A pair of hands roughly pulled down her body to make sure. “Arms behind your back, ma’am,” a male cop said.

  Now they decided to be polite? Jazz gasped when hands jerked her wrists together and plastic cuffs snapped on. Seconds later she was yanked upright by a cop on either side lifting her by the armpits. Jazz grunted, but didn’t complain. First leaning against it, and then seated in the back seat of a police cruiser, she answered questions for an hour. People who lived in the houses stood on their front steps or porches watching. After a while, only a couple stayed. No doubt observing police action had lost its novelty in that part of Baton Rouge.

  “This your gun, Ms. Vaughn?” The female cop held up the .380.

  “Yeah, and I obviously need it in this crime infested city. I happen to have a permit for it, too. You’ll find it in the console.” Jazz struggled to keep heat out of her tone. She had a serious problem with authority, thanks to her mother. No time to act out her mama issues though.

  “Humph.” The officer walked off as she spoke to another officer.

  Jazz sighed and rested her forehead on the steel mesh cage designed to protect officers in the front seat. The heat, hard vinyl seat, and lack of head room combined to make Jazz feel miserable. At this rate, she would be begging for them to take her in for booking. After too long a time, the female cop returned. Without speaking, she checked to make sure Jazz had no arms or legs sticking out. Then she slammed the door shut. Moments later, they were on their way.

  At the police station, Jazz got her first full on look at Cleavon. Jazz sat on a long bench waiting to be interviewed. A brawny male officer with blonde hair pulled Cleavon along. Cleavon kept his head down. He shot a sideways glare at Jazz for a second before the officer not so gently urged him not to dawdle. Jazz sighed when they disappeared around a corner. A tall shadow blocked out the florescent lighting.

  “Why doesn’t seeing you here surprise me?” A deep voice rumbled.

  Detective Armand Miller, once Addison’s partner and now the head of the Homicide Division, looked down at her. He wore the same disapproving expression Jazz had seen from dozens of authority figures in her short twenty-seven years. And he got the same reaction.

  “I don’t know. Cause maybe you’re a damn fortune teller or something? I’m a victim, and by the way, I know my rights. If they ain’t gonna charge me…” Jazz was just getting warmed up when Miller raised a hand the size of Texas.

  “Settle down and come with me. Officer Thomas, do the honors.” Miller nodded to the female uniformed officer who’d been at the scene.

  “Yes, sir.” Officer Thomas had a blank expression as she went about following his orders. Minutes later, the thick plastic had been cut off.

  “This way,” Miller said before Jazz could comment again.

  The female officer walked closely beside Jazz but didn’t touch her. They walked past desks covered by papers. Officers moved around with purpose. No drinking coffee and eating donuts in this place, no time. Baton Rouge had not only grown economically, but the crime had kept pace with more PR worthy milestones. The murder rate was one such nasty flow chart that kept going up. Jazz had no interest in contributing to those numbers, at least not as a victim. Kyeisha was another thing. She’d no doubt sent her crazy lover to take a bite out of Jazz. She’d have to pay.

  Jazz let out a hiss when they entered an interview room. “ Great, I get shot at and now I’m being harassed.”

  “Don’t start before you find out what’s goin’ down,” Miller rumbled. He nodded and the officer left.

  “What’s up?” Jazz rubbed the indentations on her wrists caused by the thick, hard plastic cuffs.

  “You tell me.” Miller leaned back against the chair as though he had all kinds of time and patience.

  Though she knew the game, Jazz was still unnerved by his impassive stare. She heaved a sigh. “Okay, you want the truth?”

  “I come to work every day hoping to hear the truth, Ms. Vaughn,” Miller replied evenly.

  “Bet you get disappointed a lot around this place.”

  “So lighten my load and give me hope in humanity again. Tell me all of the truth. Not just the parts you want to tell,” Miller added when Jazz opened her mouth.

  Jazz studied him. Miller sat calmly allowing Jazz to size him up. “W
hy are you talking to me? Okay, okay.” She held up a hand before he answered. “You’re asking the questions, I’m supplying the answers. I got it.”

  “I’m interested in why a murder suspect was chasing you down like you’re a witness that could get him convicted,” Miller said, dropping a bomb with precision.

  “I don’t know anything about Brandon’s murder. And don’t pretend to be surprised. You’ve talked to Don, Detective Addison,” Jazz added when Miller’s black coffee eyes widened. “You already know I’m acquainted with the players in this tragic story of love gone bad.”

  “Come again?” Miller blinked at her and sat up straight.

  “Well I heard Kyeisha was doing Brandon behind Cleavon’s back, and I mean these dudes ain’t romantic or anything, but they do take having their pride stepped on pretty seriously.” Jazz tossed in this nugget to get his attention back on Cleavon and away from Don. She didn’t want to mess up the man’s career.

  “A love triangle?” Miller’s skepticism came through loud and clear.

  “Kyeisha ain’t big on loyalty. If a new guy throws a little money around, that’s all it takes. She’s also not too smart. Everybody knows Brandon had a big mouth and liked to brag. I’m sure he had plans to move on Cleavon’s drug business along with taking his woman.”

  Miller nodded solemnly and rubbed his strong jaw. He gazed out through the glass windows of the interview room at the bustle of the squad room. “Hmm. Could be. But why would Cleavon come after you? Unless you were at the house that night and managed to get out before the trouble started.”

  “No way. I’ve got sense enough not to hang out in stank drug shacks with a bunch of gun toting idiots. Besides, ain’t none of that crew my runnin’ buddies. You already know that, too.” Jazz relaxed against the back of the chair. Miller knew she wasn’t involved in Brandon’s murder. So she’d wait for him to get to the point.

  “The truth about why he came after you,” Miller said mildly. He leaned back in his chair.

  “Damn it.” Jazz hated being caged up, and any police station was her second least favorite place in the world. The first would always be foster care. “Kyeisha came to me with some wild ass story about Cleavon and Brandon fighting to become king of the thugs. They think I know about Filipe’s connections to get serious drug shipments.”

  “Do you?” Miller asked as he tapped a large forefinger on the table top.

  “Do I look like I’ve totally lost my damn mind?” Jazz shot back without thinking. She took in a breath and exhaled. “Sorry. Listen, I’m a former exotic dancer turned legitimate business woman. Even on my worse day, I never got involved in Filipe’s business. Never.”

  “You know more about Filipe’s enterprise than you’re willing to admit, even to my former partner,” Miller shot back. “We both know that’s why you’ve got characters like Cleavon coming at you. He won’t be the last either. If you’re straight with me, maybe I can help.”

  “My only crime was I partied with Filipe and other friends who got into some seriously illegal mess. Now you in my face accusing me of crap I didn’t do.” Jazz glared at him.

  “This is the price you pay for hanging with a bad crowd, Ms. Vaughn,” Detective Miller replied dryly.

  “I had that lecture at least a dozen times when I was a kid, so let’s skip it,” Jazz retorted. She brushed off his Sunday School Teacher scolding. She focused like a laser on his lack of reaction to Filipe’s name. “So you’ve connected Filipe to Brandon’s murder.”

  “Is that why Kyeisha came to see you? They think you know where he has inventory and cash stored? I seem to recall something about warehouses on Interline Ave. back when we were investigating Jack Crown’s murder.” Miller lifted one dark eyebrow at her.

  He was getting too close for comfort. Jazz shifted in her seat. She needed a story to steer him to another angle. She had visions of a press conference with him and the district attorney standing next to a table piled with cash. Her cash.

  “Detective Miller, I swear, I don’t know anything I told Kyeisha what I’m telling you, except louder. I don’t know anything about Filipe having money floating around.”

  “You emphasized the point to her,” Miller said.

  “Yeah, but she didn’t believe me,” Jazz replied with heat.

  “Did this emphasis get physical by any chance?” “She understood my position by the time we parted company,” Jazz said. She doubted Kyeisha had complained to the police. “You need to be asking Kyeisha all these questions. She talked like she knew a lot about Cleavon’s connections and how Filipe’s gang tied in to it all.”

  “Interesting.” Miller continued to gaze at Jazz in silence, waiting again.

  “She’s thick with Lorraine Taylor. Try looking for her over at Lorraine’s place, The Sweet Spot. Kyeisha had one of those low rent duplex apartments over on McClelland Drive. Well, if she kept paying rent she’d be over there. She gets evicted a lot. Then she ends up at her mama’s house over on West Garfield in old South Baton Rouge.” Jazz shrugged. “I’m trying to tell you all I know.”

  “She’s moved to a place on Concord. In fact, she upgraded to a three bedroom unit. Been paying her bills on time and she got a car,” Miller replied.

  “Kyeisha rarely held on to a job or money for long, so that’s a clue she’s getting paid on the regular. Why you wasting time on me? Drag her ass in for questioning,” Jazz shot back.

  “We did find her, just not all of her.”

  Jazz shivered at the way he’d said those words. Miller’s brows pulled together as he continued to nod; waiting for her to ask. She didn’t want to, but the words tumbled out. “What you mean not all of her?”

  “Fingers, three fingers. Identified them from prints we have from her previous arrests. They’re hers alright. Lots of blood in her apartment, too.” Miller continued to nod like a bobble-head doll.

  “Just her fingers,” Jazz replied weakly.

  “You got something more you wanna tell me, Ms. Vaughn?” Detective Miller wasn’t big on melodramatics or beating home a point once made. He sat watching as the full effect of his disclosure did the work for him.

  Chapter 7

  The next morning, Jazz sat in Willa’s office at Crown Protection. Tyretta had come along to. She felt a little better surrounded by people she trusted. Not to mention the five trained security staff that happened to be in that day. They were meeting with Willa’s handsome chief of operations in a large conference room on the west side of their office suite. Cedric Robinson really wanted to wanted to trade that one in for “Willa’s man”. Protective as ever of Willa, Cedric stuck his head in the office twice to update them that he would join them soon.

  MiMi showed up after dropping Sage off at the fancy daycare paid for with granddaddy’s money. Willa kept sitting down and then popping up to pace around the office. She shot questions at Jazz and Tyretta. Sipping gourmet brew and eating her second donut, Tyretta seemed quite content. She kept glancing around Willa’s office in appreciation. MiMi was uncharacteristically quiet. The mention of severed body parts apparently had dampened her enthusiasm for the money chase.

  Willa pointed a finger with a soft pink polish on the nail. “So tell me again what Miller said, and don’t roll your eyes. I want to know his exact words.”

  Jazz rolled her eyes anyway and started from the beginning. Trying to put on her best streetwise bravado had been a defense mechanism for years. Still, Miller had done a great job quite rattling Jazz down to her bones. As Willa suspected, Jazz could reconstruct Miller’s words down to his non-verbal cues. She didn’t just replay what he’d said, but the way he’d said it. Willa and Jazz had learned that survival skill living with their unpredictable mother, her string of boyfriends, and bouncing around in foster care.

  Willa sat on the edge of her large oak desk. “He waited until the very end to mention the fingers. Then he refused to give you more details.”

  “Said the investigation is on-going. They hope to find more evidence, th
ey’re interviewing witnesses. Blah, blah, blah.” Jazz rubbed her eyes. She’d been unable to sleep the night before.

  “You know he won’t tell you much more. You a suspect,” Tyretta piped up and licked icing from one thumb. “Yeah, you whipped her ass and then drugged her.”

  “Oh my God.” MiMi blinked like she’d just been slapped.

  Jazz hissed in frustration. “I defended myself and tied her up, sure. But I didn’t put a beating on that fool, much as she deserved it.”

  “We got to find that heffa and figure out what’s what,” Tyretta replied and gazed steadily at Jazz.

  “Uh-huh, I know what you’re saying,” Jazz said softly.

  “No,” Willa said and slapped a palm on the desk. “You two are crazy if you’re thinking of going after Kyeisha. Cleavon is waiting for you, or did you forget?”

  “How the hell I’m gonna forget after he jammed me up on a dead end street? But Cleavon got more problems of his own. He’s sweatin’ to find money and take over Filipe’s business.” Jazz looked at Tyretta again.

  Tyretta took Jazz’s cue and began her street level report. “Filipe has a sharp new lawyer. He’s got a good shot at his appeal, so he could be getting out. I mean they didn’t tie him directly to the whole drug deal smuggling ring. That deacon at Abundant Love, the one over the prison and ex-offender ‘ministry’, he got most of the blame.”

  “He won’t be talking or hiring an attorney since somebody killed him before Filipe was charged,” Jazz retorted. “And one of Filipe’s boys got the blame for killing the shady deacon, and then he turned up dead.”

  “All excellent reasons we should let the police do their dirty work and get back to our lives,” Willa put in firmly. “Filipe finds out you’re sniffing the trail of what belongs to him, he’s going to start thinking.”

  “She’s makin’ sense,” Tyretta said. “If Filipe ain’t suspicious you snitched, he will be if one of his gang says you’re after his money. Or anything he owns. I agree with your sister. Leave this mess the hell alone.”

  “Wait a minute. We’re looking for Jack’s money,” MiMi blurted out. “We’ll make that clear. No asking around his gang or any of the ghetto fabulous folks. No offense, Tyretta.”