Coming Clean

Not quite dark.

The area was bathed in the ambient light from other parts of the city, but, in that area, the streetlights refused to work. The asphalt was cracked and pockmarked. The sidewalks were crumbled from age and heaved by weather. The buildings were dilapidated. At one intersection there were four derelict apartment houses, each with at least one wall that had collapsed. All up and down the blocks there were buildings suffering from the same neglect. Brick and mortar, infected with the cancer of decay, littered the streets or sat precariously on top of one another as part of a wall that could crumble at the slightest provocation. Any hint of glass for the windows had long since been broken or stolen. Any sign of human habitation was absent.

She knew this part of town well. Drunks and addicts hid in the basements along with rats and other assorted wildlife. The homeless shared space there out of necessity. As she lengthened her stride she knew she would be relatively safe for another couple of blocks. As before, her sweatsuit was black. The pants had a drawstring that was cinched tight. The jacket once had a zipper that was white but had been replaced. No need to have anything stand out in the darkness. Her hair was braided behind her head and secured with dark elastics, then tucked under the jacket. There was every reason to hide her identity her as female. Her running shoes were also black. She’d painted over any color that would reflect light or otherwise give away her position. Even the soles were dark. She wore thin, dark gloves over her hands. On her face she had smeared the kind of black paint that soldiers use when they go on a mission at night. Only her teeth and the whites of her eyes would betray her. At that time of night her breath didn’t cloud in front of her, and she took that as a blessing. The days were getting longer, and the daytime temperatures were rising. But still the nights were cold without being so brutal. Not for long, she knew.

She was on Jefferson south of Tenth. Around her was the section officially known as Boynton, and unofficially known as Derelict Alley. She had run six blocks through the ten block area, and knew she would soon be on the turf of the Sharks. They were one of a number of street gangs that “owned” a piece of the city. And they used violence and intimidation to extort everything from anyone unlucky enough to be on their turf.

She picked up the pace.

Two blocks along she saw the first one. He was crouching behind a pile of trash bags on her far left. While the way ahead was clear, she knew it would soon not be. The Sharks were a lot like wolves in the way they stalked and cornered their prey. Twice before they had tried to catch her and failed. Tonight they’d try something new, she told herself. And I’ll be ready yet again.

At the next intersection she cut a hard left. The street was empty, the buildings in just as bad shape as anywhere else. She’d scouted out the area during the day, and developed a plan. As she raced down the center of the street she knew she was being watched from somewhere above. Not many buildings still had roofs, and many second and third floors had fallen down over the years. But some places were still safe enough to climb and sturdy enough to hold at least one person.

She raced along two blocks at nearly full speed and felt the blood course through her veins and the sweat flow freely down her body. Ahead was another intersection. Three gangbangers stepped out into the street and blocked her way. Without a break in her stride she cut left again and darted into a tenement. As she went through the open doorway she elbowed a support beam. A pile of lumber crashed down in a cloud of dust. The doorway was blocked.

She cut left yet again and doubled back. Behind the tenements was an alley. The way was barely wide enough for a single body. She was able to sprint along without touching the side walls. As she ran she heard shouts behind her. She reached a cross street and turned left to complete the circle. Four strides and she literally ran into a gangbanger. He wasn’t expecting it, and felt the page of her forearm and elbow as it crashed into his chest and threw him flat onto his back. He scrambled up and sprinted after her.

She knew he would. She raced kiddiecorner across the street at full speed and slipped into another building. This one used to be a cafe, with a counter top and floor tile arrangement that reminded her of an ice cream shop. She zipped through the shop and was out the back door without hesitation. The gangbanger raced after her. Two steps onto the tile and the floor collapsed under him. He yelled aloud as he landed in a pile of rotted wood and a nest of rats.

Behind the shop was a long alley just wide enough for her to use. She sprinted straight ahead and let her senses stretch out for signs of pursuit. On a whim she flexed her fingers and pulled up the sleeves of her warmup jacket. Short, cone-shaped spikes protruded from her knuckles. Sharp saw blade teeth lined the straps on her forearms.

A tall and muscular gangbanger stepped directly into her path. He smiled and his teeth looked like fangs.

“Chequita!” he said.

Instantly she knew she was outmatched. This young man probably weighed over two hundred pounds. But, she knew, he had his vulnerabilities.

Two strides and she jerked her knees up to her chest, then snapped her heels out hard. The young man grunted and went over backwards. His head hit the concrete and his skull cracked. Blood flowed onto the street.

She took no notice. She was up and sprinting again in an instant. Two blocks later she was on a well lit, well traveled thoroughfare. She recognized the surroundings. Halfway down the block was a luxury hotel. She raced down the sidewalk, up the stairs and into the lobby.

At that hour the lobby was quiet. The concierge desk was empty, and only a couple of people were on duty at the check-in counter. As she ducked into an alcove she bent over and tried to get her breathing under control. The tile floors had already been cleaned and the carpeting had already been vacuumed. The chairs and occasional tables were immaculate, and the lighting was muted. And to the left, at the far end of the counter, was a uniformed policeman. She’d seen him there before, and knew he would be there at that time of day. He had taken an interest in a young woman behind the check-in counter, and chose to spend some of his duty time “chatting her up”, as it were. He was tall and slim and had a square jaw under lively eyes. The nameplate said his was Officer Bartholomew. Her badge read Sandy. She was blond and pretty and had a pleasing smile. No wonder they appealed to each other, she thought. Another version of Barbie and Ken.

It took a few minutes, but her heart rate calmed down to something approaching normal. Her sweatsuit, and the tanktop and shorts underneath, were soaked with perspiration. She slipped off the gloves and arm straps and held them behind her back as she approached the counter.

“Could you call a cab for me?” she asked.

Sandy nodded and picked up the phone.

Thirty minutes later she was home and in the shower.

The hot water felt good as it washed away the sweat and the fear. As she dried off she couldn’t keep the smile from her face. One more night of living. One more trip through hell and back to tell the tale. She dressed in pale blue pajamas meant for a man, then sat down on the couch in her living room and opened a bottle of her favorite beer. The cold brew felt good all the way down her gullet.

“Here’s to me,” she said in the darkness.

CHAPTER TWO

Daylight found her still on the couch.

She had slept in an awkward position. Her head rested on the back of the couch while her torso rested on the bottom cushion. Her feet were flat on the floor.

The curtains across the windows at the front of the room were thin enough to filter any light that came through, and did not allowed a direct beam of light to penetrate the living room. That was, of course, until the sun reached a precise spot in the heavens and shot a square of light directly onto the couch. She opened her eyes to find that square of light covering her face. Temporarily blinded, she grunted, then rolled to her left. Her hips slipped off the cushion and she landed on the carpet with a thud.

A small squeak escaped her lips, followed by a robust expletive.

There was a knock at the door.

She grunted, then slowly levered herself to her feet.

The knock was louder.

“I’m comin’,” she said as she straightened up. The room swam momentarily. “As soon as I can walk.”

“Sherrie?” The voice came from the other side of the door. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she replied, “I’m here.” Two steps and she turned the handle on the door. It wouldn’t open. She stared at it a moment, then remembered to turn the deadbolt. The door swung open with ease.

“Sherrie!” Lorraine Thomas said in that concerned parent voice. “Sherrie Jones, have you been out late at night again?”

Sherrie rolled her eyes and turned away from the door.

“You know all that drinking and carousing will be the death of you,” Lorraine went on as she came into the apartment.

“Coffee,” Sherrie murmured. “Can’t face the day without coffee.” She shambled toward the kitchen.

“And look at you,” Mrs. Thomas continued, “stumbling about like a zombie! You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Sherrie found the coffeemaker. She patted the top with the same affection she might show to was a family pet. The filters were in the cupboard above the appliance. The zip-lock bag holding them seemed to argue with her. She struggled momentarily, then pulled hard. Filters popped out of the bag and into the air. She snatched the nested cluster in mid-flight and glared at it as if to scold a child. She opened the top of the coffeemaker, then took a moment to peel away a single filter. She placed it in the basket and was careful to make sure it was seated properly. The can of coffee was next to the filters. She opened it carefully and was relieved when it didn’t jump into the air like the filters. The scoop was inside the can. She used it to count one, then two, then three scoops into the filter. She felt so unsteady that she did everything slowly, deliberately.

“And what’s this?” Mrs. Thomas walked into the kitchen carrying the empty beer bottle.

Sherrie filled the carafe with water, then poured it into the coffeemaker. She placed the pot in the correct place, closed the lid, and turned it on. Again she patted the machine like one might pat a dog. Within a few moments it began brewing the coffee. She nodded to herself and grinned.

“Have you been having men over here?”

“No,” Sherrie answered. “No men here.” There was a cheap dinette set in the center of the kitchen. Sherrie pulled out a chair and sat down. The run last night had drained her of energy. It always did. And it would take a few minutes, and at least two cups of coffee, to get her back to normal.

“So what’s this beer bottle doing here?” Mrs. Thomas asked.

“I drank it, Lorraine. I like that brand.”

Mrs. Thomas looked at the bottle like it was filled with slime.

“Here,” Sherrie said, and held out her hand. Lorraine passed it over. Sherrie got up, slowly walked to a cupboard next to the stove, and put the offending bottle into a bag with several others just like it.

The coffeemaker finished. Lorraine got two mugs out of the cupboard and poured. She handed one to Sherrie, who immediately sipped.

“There’s a new tenant moving in today,” Lorraine said. “His name is Phillips. John Phillips.”

Sherrie’s attention was focused on the coffee.

“He’s a doctor.”

Sherrie knew where this was going and did her best not to react.

“He seems like a nice fellow.”

What was that about having men over to the house? Sherrie thought. She slurped her coffee loudly in protest.

Lorraine sat down opposite Sherrie. “Just before your mother died she asked me to look after you.”

Sherrie waved absently as if to say “I know I know I know”.

“And I’m concerned about you.”

Here is comes again, she thought.

“You really ought to think about settling down and starting a family.”

In times past, Sherrie had placated her with promises and excuses about not finding the right man. But in truth she really didn’t want a husband or children. And the men she knew in her life all seemed to be interested in one thing. It was rare to find a man who wasn’t. Even gay men looked at her, at least momentarily, with carnal thoughts. None seemed to rise above the base instinct of procreation. Who’s to say a new tenant would be any different?

“You need some structure, some stability in your life.”

Sherrie finished the last of her coffee, then got up and poured herself another.

“Please don’t ignore me, Sherrie.” Lorraine’s voice had become a little cross.

Sherrie sat down and looked at Lorraine. “We’ve had this discussion eight times since my mother died. I know how you feel. I’m fine, Loraine, really.”

“No you’re not. Staying up til all hours, drinking beer.” She said the last word like it was some unpardonable sin. “And when was the last time you had a job?”

“I finished a case last week.”

“A case?” Lorraine showed her distaste. “That’s not a real job.”

“Have I missed a rent payment?”

“Yes,” was the immediate reply.

Sherrie shook a thought a denial from her head. “But we’re square now, right?”

“For the moment.” Her face showed her doubt that the next payment would be made any time soon.

There was a noise downstairs. Lorraine got up immediately and went out the door. Sherrie heard what sounded like a large truck pull up out front. She sipped her coffee a moment longer, then got up and went to the front window.

Lorraine was having an animated conversation with a well dressed man. He was of medium height, perhaps five ten, with short brown hair and a pleasant face. He was slim, perhaps a hundred and ninety pounds, and wore jeans, running shoes, a plain button-down shirt, and a solid blue windbreaker. The truck turned out to be from one of those cut rate moving companies. Sherrie grinned.

“And how many knickknacks will be broken when you open the boxes?” she said in the empty room.

He certainly didn’t look like a doctor. And he didn’t dress like one. If he was a doctor, he wouldn’t have hired a cut rate moving company, and he certainly wouldn’t be renting. And he wouldn’t live in a dump like this. She huffed and turned away from the window.

CHAPTER THREE

Her cellphone rang. Sherrie jerked in surprise.

“Do you think you could possibly tear yourself away from your busy schedule to have a look at something for us?” It was Lieutenant Carlson.

“I can be there in an hour,” Sherrie replied.

“I’ll send a car to pick you up.”

Sounds serious, Sherrie thought. “I’ll be ready.”

An hour later the black and white showed up. Sherrie was indeed ready. Dressed in a white man’s long sleeve button-down shirt, charcoal dress slacks and black flat shoes, she came out the door moments after the car pulled up. As she walked down the driveway she made eye contact with Phillips. His eyes were brown and his skin was a little more ruddy than she first thought. He had the shadow of a beard on his cheeks and chin, and his mouth had a slight pout to it.

Loraine was standing next to him. When she saw Sherrie, she said “And here is your upstairs neighbor . . . ”

Sherrie walked right past without saying a word and got into the back seat of the patrol car. John and Loraine were speechless as the car pulled away.

“So,” Sherrie said to the officer in front. “Where are we going?”

“Lieutenant said not to tell you,” came the reply.

The voice wasn’t familiar. There was no nameplate she could see, and the wire mesh between them made a visual identification very difficult. His voice sounded more Midwest than East.

“What’s your name, Officer?”

“Williamson,” he replied. “I usually work the north end of the city but they shuffled people around and now I’m in this part of town.”

She sat back and crossed her legs at the knees. “Can you see me?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Camera embedded in the frame of the cage.”

She saw the little dot at the center top of the roof and nodded. “This your first squawk of the day?”

“No.”

“I bet I can tell you who was in here last.” She looked around. “Ten bucks.”

“You’re on.”

She hesitated a moment. “Male . . . African descent . . . no, Caribbean . . .” She sniffed, then examined the floor. “Picked him up for soliciting a prostitute. Probably nabbed him while he was en flagrante dilecto . . . or getting a b.j.”

There was silence from up front.

“Got it right, didn’t I?” She smirked.

His head started to move slowly from side to side.

She giggled slightly.

“I don’t have ten bucks on me,” he started to say.

She thought of Mrs. Thomas and the fact that rent was due next week. “So go to an ATM.”

He started to laugh.

They pulled up to a crime scene.

Sherrie got out and looked around. The intersection was the same one she’d run through last night. The buildings were in the same sorry state. Williamson led her through a small crowd to see the body of the gangbanger who called her Chequita. He was lying on the pavement in almost the exact spot where she’d left him. A pool of blood had spread out under the spot where his skull had struck the pavement. His arms were stretched out wide, and his empty eyes stared at the sky.

Lestrade came over to Sherrie. “What do you make of this?”

Sherrie turned to the Lieutenant. Nancy Carlson was short, blocky of body, and dogged in her determination to solve a case. She had a chubby face framed by dark curls. Her manner was so intense that it hid her wry sense of humor. She knew police work backwards and forwards and solved many cases just because she never gave up on them.

Sherrie walked around the body. “Probably not yet twenty . . . probably part of the Sharks gang . . . sweatshirt, jeans, maybe even his running shoes were stolen . . . ” She stopped short. “Two holes in his chest probably made by a nine millimeter handgun fired at close range.” She leaned over the body. “Probably even point blank. Powder residue around each wound.” She straightened up, glanced about, then looked at the Lieutenant. “A gangbanger shot dead on the street for reasons unknown. Not exactly a difficult crime to solve, Nancy.”

“No,” she replied, “not that difficult. But this is the third gang member we’ve found dead this week.”

Sherrie shrugged. “Gangs get into it with each other all the time.”

“We have a task force assembled back at the station,” Nancy said. “And the Mayor has become concerned. We don’t want another gang war to start up again.”

Sherrie nodded. She remembered the last gang war. For weeks gunshots rang out in the city like the wild west. Seventy three young men dead, twice as many wounded. The tabloids shouted the headlines and sold papers like crazy.

“We want you to help us solve this,” Nancy said, and nodded at the dead man.

It was not the kind of case she had hoped for.

The body was carted away.

After the crime scene people were finished, the sidewalk was scrubbed with a power washer. By the middle of the afternoon there was no evidence that anyone had ever been there.

CHAPTER FOUR

They rode back to headquarters in the Lieutenant’s car. Sherrie remained quiet. It made her depressed and angry that she would have to work on this crime. And she wondered how she might be able to resolve it. How would she keep her name, and her presence in that area at that time of night, out of the case, and out of the press? On a stray thought, she tried to catalog the feeling so that she could remember it later. It would make for a good song.

In the Lieutenant’s office, Nancy sat back in her chair and it groaned under her. “So what are you gonna need on this?” she asked.

“For the moment, just the autopsy results and toxicology. None of the gang members will talk to any cop, and that part of town is famous for being deserted. Canvassing for witnesses will get us little to nothing.” Sherrie recognized her own manipulation of the case, but also knew Lestrade didn’t have the knowledge she did. While there may have been the usual collection of bums, winos, addicts, and homeless people in the area, none of them would be reliable witnesses. And anyone with any common sense at all would have quietly moved on once they realized a crime had been committed.

“The meat wagon was right behind us when we pulled in,” Nancy said. “Why don’t you go down and take a closer look at the body.”

Sherrie nodded, then turned to go. She turned back. “Nancy,” she began, “on the level. Why am I here?”

The door to the office was closed. “It’s an election year, Sherrie. The mayor’s concerned that he won’t be re-elected if there’s another gang war.”

Sherrie nodded. “Can’t hold a political rally while the bullets are flying?”

“Something like that.”

She hesitated a moment longer. “My rate isn’t negotiable.”

“I don’t think there’ll be a problem.”

“And I won’t do it for the mayor,” Sherrie continued. “I don’t give a damn if he gets re-elected or not.” She glanced away. “I’ll solve the case to save lives, not save some politicians job.”

Nancy nodded. “I know.” She leaned forward and settled into her chair. “Go,” she said with a flip of her hand, “go work your magic.”

Sherrie smiled. “Didn’t bring my magic beads with me today.”

“I didn’t either. Didn’t go with my outfit.”

By the time she got down to the morgue the body had been offloaded, stripped naked, and laid out on one of the metal tables. Once again she noticed how the sight of a dead body could make her feel oddly depressed. The man’s face was frozen in an expression of complete surprise. His skin was very pale for a man of Hispanic descent. His wrists and ankles were bound to the table to prevent any latent muscle contractions. They would interfere with the autopsy. His chest had two large bruises where her running shoes had struck him. In the center of each bruise was a bullet hole. Around the holes were puddles of blood that had bubbled up from the wound, then dried in place. One of the medical techs was getting a tray of instruments ready.

She knew she couldn’t watch. It still made her sick. So many times she’d attended an autopsy yet she still felt the urge to upchuck once they started to cut into the corpse. She reached into a concealed pocket of her slacks and brought out her collapsible magnifier. The she began to examine the epidermis. There were no tattoos or other markings to tell her he was part of any gang. He was certainly a Hispanic male, not yet twenty, and had weighed in excess of two hundred pounds. He was not in good physical shape. She noted the soft outline of his body and the layers of fat under the shoulders and especially in the gut. She examined his hands and his fingernails, then his feet. She examined his head full of dark hair. Then she examined his elbows and knees.

When she was finished, two med techs went to work. She busied herself by looking at the man’s clothing. There was a green t-shirt without any lettering or graphics on it. The label was a popular brand sold almost everywhere. The jeans were also a popular brand. But both garments looked new. The shirt was extra large, the pants 44 waist, 32 inseam. There was nothing in the pockets. No keys, no wallet, not even a pocket comb. The pockets seemed to have little to no wear at all. The socks were cheap white tube socks sold at discount stores. They appeared to be new as well. The shoes were name brand running shoes not all that dissimilar to her own. There was some wear on the tread, but the colorful uppers showed little creasing or wear. The laces hadn’t frayed at all. She didn’t bother examining the underpants. She knew how soiled they would be and decided not to brave the smell or the stains.

Behind her the autopsy was in progress. She kept her back turned as she put the clothes back into the plastic bag, then studiously avoided the techs as she left the room.

CHAPTER FIVE

She had to have it.

The cost was significant compared to her bank balance, but insignificant compared to the pleasure she would get from it.

The download finished and she opened the base application. Then she opened the folders and clicked on each sample. She started with the guitars, as she always did, and talked to herself as she went.

First loop: “Pretty standard.”

Second loop: “Boooo-rrrring.”

Third loop: “About the . . . wait a moment.” The tempo was too fast. She adjusted it. The root note was a step lower. She changed the key signature to match. “That might work.” She copied it to the grid, four measures.

Fourth loop: “Okay.” It was a variation on the third. She copied it to the grid and positioned it after the third loop.

Fifth loop: “What the fuck was that?”

Sixth loop: “Oh . . . okay.” It was copied and added behind the fourth loop. She rearranged them, lengthening some strum patterns, shortened others. In a few moments she had the basic eight measures of a song.

Next to the drum loops.

First loop: “Again, standard.

Second loop: “A little bit of syncopation.”

Third loop: “A little bit more.”

Fourth loop: “Overdone.”

Fifth loop: “That’s it.” She copied it to the grid and used it as the basic beat for all eight measures.

“Now for the bass.”

First loop: “Quarter notes. Boring.”

Second loop: “Eighth notes. Also boring.”

Third loop: “Way too low.”

Fourth loop: “Oooh, that’s interesting.” She copied it, used it as the bass line for the first two measures. She felt that spark in her gut and copied out the bass line to the rest of the measures, then changed pitch as necessary.

She played the eight measures. “That’s got it.” She clapped her hands. The guitar line was electrified and in the neighborhood of hard rock. The drum line was a basic driving beat with extra bass drum kicks added. The bass line was syncopated and added a counterpoint to the guitar strum pattern.

She called up one of her poems written on the basic notepad word processor that came with the operating system. The first one was about tender love. “Won’t work.” The second was about the happiness of finding a true love. She frowned at it. The third was about alienation and loneliness caused by the modern world.

“Perfect.”

The melody leaped into her mind and she was off. She copied and pasted and tweaked and added and deleted and added back in again and agonized over the song until she was ready.

The clock said 3:30 a.m.

“I don’t have to get up early tomorrow.”

She got out the microphone ,expensive but perfect for her needs, and plugged it into the computer. When she was sure it was working properly, she set up the software to record.

“Remember to breathe properly,” she told herself. “Don’t want to be hoarse tomorrow.”

She set the microphone a proper distance from her mouth, then decided for this she’d better stand up. She’d found an old aluminum mike stand at an estate sale and had set it the perfect height. She screwed in the mic holder, then set the mic into the stand. Then she put on her headphones, made sure she could see the screen and her own lyrics, then took a deep breath.

And hit the record button.

The song started slowly, building in volume and intensity for eight measures until the drums kicked in with a machine gun cadence.

Sherrie screamed at the top of her lungs.

Loraine Thomas was in the building behind and heard nothing. John Phillips was in the bedroom on the floor below, and heard everything. From a deep sleep he bolted out of bed and went toward the living room. He reached for the knob at the same time his face hit the edge of the door. It was at that moment that he remembered that he’d left the door open so that he wouldn’t walk into it in the middle of the night. And swore and blue streak at the door, himself, and the infernal racket coming from upstairs.

“Prostitute me, prostitute me,” Sherrie sang, “make me do it again.”

John tried to yell and only croaked.

“Prostitute me, prostitute me, make it hurt and then.”

John coughed and hacked and fell onto all fours.

“Make me give you everythiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing. And feel the full force of your stiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing.”

John got a leg up, then managed to stand erect. The room spun.

Sherrie screamed again.

“God in heaven!” John carped.

Sherrie hit the STOP button and the song ended abruptly. She rewound the song, and began fiddling with the settings.

John could do nothing but sit down on the bed. His head swam momentarily. Then it felt like two hands pushed him over on his side and off the bed. He landed on the floor with a thud.

Sherrie heard that thud, pulled off her headphones, then listened silently for a few seconds. She grunted and resumed tweaking her vocals.

John managed to crawl back into bed. His hand became claws that pulled his body onto the mattress. His legs did not fully cooperate. He found the covers, settled into a comfortable position, sighed heavily, and dropped off to sleep again.

Sherrie listened twice to her vocal track. The full scream caused distortion through the microphone that caused a reverberation and threw the entire vocal track off.

“So not a good idea,” she said to herself.

She reset the software and repositioned herself to do another take. But when the drums pounded like the machine gun, she screamed in a whisper.

Downstairs John snuffled softly.

Sherrie did the entire vocal track in hoarse whispers. When it was completed she wound it back and listened.

“Perfect.”

John snored.

CHAPTER SIX

Six thirty a.m. and John’s alarm went off.

He found the infernal thing and shut it off. As he moved from horizontal to vertical his head throbbed incredibly. His hands went to his temples. A groan escaped his lips. After a moment the throb quieted down.

John let his feet slip off the mattress and dangle over the side. He felt something.

“Floor,” he said quietly. “That’s a good start.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, he rose from the bed. The throb was manageable. He took a step forward as his eyes began to focus. The bedroom door remained open. He found it with one hand and moved it aside.

Then he remembered last night and realized why his head hurt so much. He groaned again, then made his way to the bathroom.

A shower helped a great deal. The mirror showed only the slightest of bruises. He shaved and dressed and found the coffeemaker. Once again he thanked himself for using the automatic setting on that blessed machine.

Dressed and ready for work, he walked out the front door and went to his car. As he strode down the driveway a baseball landed to his right, rebounded off the stockade fence, and rolled to a stop at his feet.

John grinned.

He picked up the ball as he turned back toward the house. The second floor had a three-part bay window that matched the one he had on the first floor. There was a blank wall above the place where John had his front door.

John set down his briefcase, gripped the ball securely, and fired it at the blank wall. It hit the wooden siding with a resounding THUNK.

Sherrie had fallen asleep on the couch again. When the ball hit the house she jerked awake.

The ball rebounded right back to John.

“Hey Mister,” a kid behind him was saying.

John threw the ball again, this time a little harder. It hit the house with the report a gunshot.

Sherrie leapt up from the couch and scurried to the window.

John saw her there. “Good morning!” he shouted cheerfully, then turned toward his car. He tossed the ball to the two kids in the street and chuckled to himself as got behind the wheel.

Sherrie seethed at him until he and his car were out of sight.

“Nice bruise.”

Priscilla was a nurse assigned to help John with his work.

“What was her name?” She gave him a wry grin.

“If only,” he replied. “Woke up in the middle of the night and walked into the door.”

“Ouch,” she giggled.

“And the reason I was up at 3 a.m. was my noisy upstairs neighbor.” He set his briefcase on his desk. “She decided to scream at the top of her lungs, then shout poetry at that ungodly hour.”

Still smiling, Priscilla shook her head. “Your new cases are on your desk.” She nodded to the desktop.

“Thanks,” John replied. After he got settled with a cup of coffee, he started leafing through the files.

Case number one was a white female who apparently jumped from the ledge of the fortieth floor and landed unceremoniously onto the pavement. The pictures were suitably gruesome. Case number two was a black male who died when someone shot a nine millimeter bullet into his right eye. There were more gruesome photos.

Case number three was a Hispanic male who died when his skull cracked when he hit the pavement. The force with which he landed not only caused his skull to fracture, but gave him a concussion from which he never regained consciousness. Head wounds are notoriously bloody, John knew, and the poor man literally bled to death on the street. And someone just happened to shoot two nine millimeter slugs into his chest to make sure he was really most sincerely dead. Among the notations the assistant medical examiner had made to the file was that the victim had two distinct bruises on his chest. Each bruise was in the shape of a shoe. John looked closely at the photos. The A.M.E. suggested that the shoes were made for jogging or running, and were approximately size seven in the scale used for women’s feet.

“Good Lord,” John remarked.

The phone rang. It was Nancy Carlson. She asked about the file on this Hispanic man who was case number three.

“I was just going over the file,” John replied.

“Did you find anything unusual?”

He read the A.M.E.’s notes to Carlson, including the part about the shoes.

“Holy shit.”

“My reaction exactly.”

“Do you mean,” she asked, “that someone, probably a woman, knocked down a burly young man like that? And did it with such force that she broke the young man’s skull?”

“A very unlikely conclusion,” John replied, “but the evidence, at least right now, seems to support that theory.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Neither do I,” John replied.

“Listen, John,” she said, “I have a p.i. coming over to see you this afternoon.

“Okay,” he said slowly.

“Be cooperative.”

“How will I know who this p.i. might be?”

“Oh,” she replied, “you’ll know.”

At that moment, Sherrie walked through the door. Their eyes met. They each gaped at the other.

“You,” he said.

“You,” she said at the same instant. “I thought . . . Loraine said you were a doctor.”

“I am a doctor.” He hung up the phone and got up from behind his desk. “What, you think someone can become a medical examiner with an associates degree?”

“No,” she said at once. She was a little annoyed at his question. “I just thought you had a private practice.”

“Oh.” His expression softened. “Mrs. Thomas must not have heard me when I said I worked here.”

“Oh,” she said.

They stood in silence for a moment. Then he gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk.

“Nancy Carlson said you’re a private investigator?”

She came a little further into the room. “Consulting investigator, I like to say.” She sat down on the sofa that lined one wall of the office. “And since you’re the Chief M.E., Nancy thought I could get some information from you.”

He sat back down behind the desk. “Yes.” He picked up the file. “She’s particularly interested in this Hispanic male.”

“Name?”

“Not established.”

She nodded. “Juan Doe?” she joked.

He grinned slightly.

“I was at the crime scene,” she continued. “The doc there said the man had a broken skull?” She already knew that, but was testing John’s attitude and honesty.

“That’s right.” John put down the file. “Bled to death while unconscious.”

She made a face.

“What I don’t know,” he continued, “is how it came to be that his head hit the concrete with such force.”

She shrugged and looked about the office. “Gang fight?”

“No bruising on the face,” he said, “so no one, say, punched him on the chin hard enough to knock him down.”

She nodded and continued to look bored.

“Someone with a nine millimeter used his chest for target practice, though.”

“Two slugs,” she said. “I saw the holes at the crime scene.”

He nodded.

“Got everything moved into the new place?” she asked.

“Yes. Lots of boxes to unpack.”

She nodded.

“But last night I was awakened by the most horrendous scream.”

She grinned. “That was me.”

“What?” He looked at her.

“I write music,” she explained, “and sometimes the song requires the occasional . . . sound effect.”

“At three thirty in the morning?”

She almost chuckled. “Sometimes I stay up late writing.”

He glared at her. “Do me a favor and go to bed a little earlier.”

Then she laughed. “Toxicology reveal anything?”

“No. However, the autopsy revealed two distinct and unique bruises on his chest.”

“Oh?” she said and looked at him. “Blows from a baseball bat maybe?”

“Running shoes.”

She let her brows rise slightly.

“The assistant M.E. thinks someone landed both of their feet on his chest.”

“Whilst wearing running shoes,” she said.

“Correct.” He waited a beat. “Someone who wears a size 7 in women’s sizes.”

Sherrie looked directly at him. No way did he know anything about her activities that night.

Nancy Carlson came into the room. “I see you two have met,” she said as she sat down next to Sherrie.

“Yes,” John replied. “Just going over the autopsy results on our mystery man.”

“Juan Doe,” Nancy quipped. She and Sherrie chuckled.

John rolled his eyes.

“So the question is: why did this man die?” Nancy continued.

Sherrie shrugged. “Nance,” she said, “I really don’t know why I’m here. This just looks like another example of gang violence. Quite often it has to do with macho pride and other acts of stupid aggression.”

“We talked about this, didn’t we?” Lestrade looked at Sherrie.

“Well,” she replied, “let’s talk to your gang experts and see what they say.”

Nancy and Sherrie left the room and John went back to his files.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The next day things changed.

“Sherrie,” Nancy said, “two more young Hispanic men died last night.” They were in Carlson’s office. Nancy was behind her desk while Sherrie was in a client chair facing her.

“One victim was hit in the back of the head with a baseball bat. His skull was shattered.”

Sherrie winced.

“The other was caught in the wrong place at the wrong time and four rival gang members literally beat him to death.”

Sherrie felt a pang in her gut. She gazed out the window at nothing.

“Four other Hispanic males from those same neighborhoods were admitted to hospitals with serious injuries. The gang war is starting up again.”

Sherrie shook her head. “Senseless.”

“True.” Nancy took a sip of her coffee. It was almost cold. “But it’s happening in my city, on my watch. I want it stopped.”

Sherrie knew Lestrade well. When she wanted to be, Nancy Carlson could be as hard and demanding as any police lieutenant anywhere. What made Sherrie respect her was that she had a dedication and a pride to her work that was a cut above the rest. And when Nancy set her mind to it, she could accomplish damn near anything.

“Your experts weren’t very helpful yesterday,” Sherrie said. “Anyone else I could talk to?”

“I know several academics who could bend your ear.”

“And fill my head with such drivel that I couldn’t think straight.” Sherrie huffed. “No thanks.”

They sat in silence for a few moments.

“Is there anyone . . . ” Sherrie hesitated. “An informant, maybe, someone who might give us a straight answer . . . ”

“We’ve made eight attempts to infiltrate the gangs, and all have failed. Three good young cops died trying.”

Sherrie shook her head.

Nancy continued. “If you’re thinking there might be some old guy who runs a store, or some old maid who lives in the area and might give you some insight, forget it. Anyone who can get out of that area does. And they do so as soon as possible.”

Sherrie nodded.

“Anyone else poor enough to have to live there does everything they can to keep out of the gang’s way.”

Sherrie put her index finger to her lips. “Survival.”

“You got it.”

She sat and thought for a moment, then realized she had lightly drummed her fingers onto her lips and chin. She let her hand fall to her lap.

“Got any ideas?” Nancy asked. “Any flashes of inspiration?”

Sherrie shook her head, got up without a word and walked out.

CHAPTER EIGHT

She was out again.

This time, though, she went nowhere near her usual haunt. She was dressed in the same color sweats, but her face was not blackened. She wore the gloves, but only because it was a little cold this time of night.

She started out north on Sycamore, then east on Elm. Block after block of row houses stretched out toward the river. She knew it was twenty blocks to the water, which was a distance of some three miles. She set a moderate pace.

She remembered her high school track coach. He was tall and lean and had a chiseled face. His voice was quiet but intense. So was his manner. He was able to speak to the girls without being intimidating and get the best performance out of each one. Sherrie was no exception. Her specialty distance was the mile, and she set state records at the final meet of her senior year. She also ran with the cross country team and set records here, too. The scholarship offers made it possible for her to go to college at all. She didn’t set records during her time as an undergraduate, but she felt she acquitted herself well. Each meet brought a personal best for her. The coach was less quiet but no less intense. She managed to stay on the team, and keep her scholarship, because her time improved with every meet.

Over the years she had continued to run. It kept the pounds off, and gave her time to herself. Whenever she wanted to be alone, or needed to think, she went running. It was her time.

She reached the river and turned south. Two blocks later the turned back west on State and headed back toward home. A block later it began to rain.

“Great,” she murmured.

The sweatsuit was not the right kind for running in the rain. The fabric began to absorb the water that fell steadily from the sky. Soon the weight of the water began to slow her down.

She swore and did her best to keep the pace.

The rain intensified, then became a deluge. Along that stretch of road there was nowhere she could go to find shelter from the downpour. Shops along the street had awnings, but they had been drawn in for the night. There were trees spaced along the sidewalk, but they were small and offered no protection. And there were no parking garages or abandoned buildings that might be helpful.

Water puddled quickly on the pavement. She had opted to run in the street because there was little traffic at one in the morning. But with the rain she veered onto the sidewalk. It wasn’t much better. The ground under the buildings was just slightly higher than the street, and the sidewalks were slanted ever so slightly toward the curb. With the downpour there were sheets of water that flowed across the concrete. Sherrie had to slow down and change her running style so she didn’t slip and fall. She remained upright all the way back to Sycamore and around the corner towards home. The rain seemed to let up slightly as she crossed the street and entered the yard. She slowed to a walk to cool down, then shivered. And stepped in a puddle that had formed at the edge of the asphalt driveway. Her foot slipped off the pavement and into a divot of mud. Her ankle rolled and she yelped in pain.

The rain renewed it’s intensity. Sherrie fell to the pavement and clutched her ankle. The pain was intense for several seconds, then seemed to slowly fade. Perhaps nothing’s broken, she thought. Maybe I just strained something. Damn.

She used her hands to lever herself upright, then looked up at the sky and flipped the bird to the rain gods. She managed to skip and hobble her way to the side door and opened it with her key. Once inside the hallway she limped to the stairs and sat down with a thump.

The door John’s apartment opened and he appeared. “Oh,” he said, “I wondered if that was you.” He was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.

Sherrie had carefully removed her shoe and sock and was in the process of examining her ankle.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“I think so.” She winced. “I rolled my ankle on the driveway just now.”

“Oooooh.” He walked over and looked at her injury without touching her. “You’ll need ice for that.”

She looked up at him with a sardonic smile.

“You always go jogging at one in the morning?”

“Yeah,” she replied defensively. “Not many people or cars are out and I can usually run in peace.”

He nodded.

She rubbed her ankle and tried to feel if anything was wrong.

“Would you like me to examine that for you?”

She shook her head. “I’ll be alright.”

He grinned. “No charge.”

She glanced up at him. Why do men always do that? she asked herself.

He shrugged, then turned back to his door. “Hope you’re okay.” He went into his apartment and shut the door.

Sherrie took off the other shoe and sock and left them at the foot of the stairs. She used the railing as a crutch as she ascended the stairs.

John stood and stared.

CHAPTER NINE

It was ten thirty, and he had just come out of his apartment to go to work. Sherrie’s shoes were still at the foot of the stairs. Both were still sodden from the rain, and one was caked with mud.

He had a thought to pick them up and bring them upstairs for her. Perhaps a thoughtful gesture would make her a little less testy, he reasoned. He picked up the muddy shoe and saw that it had made a print on the floor. Something in his mind chimed in recognition.

He stared at it for a second.

On a whim, he drew his cellphone from his pocket and took a picture of the print with it. Then he picked up the shoes and socks and took them upstairs. There was a floor mat in front of her door. He noticed that it didn’t say “Welcome” or anything else. He put the shoes and socks on the mat, moved the mat to one side of the door so she wouldn’t trip over them, then went out to his car.

When he got to work Priscilla was there.

“I took a picture with my cellphone,” John said as he handed it to her. “It’s a shoe print. Would you see if you can extract it from the phone and send it to the A.M.E. who did Juan Doe?”

She nodded.

“See if the print matches what he found.”

“Okay,” she said, and set to work.

He went into his office and settled in his routine.

He knocked on her door.

It was eight thirty in the evening and he’d heard her thumping around in her apartment so he knew she was there.

He heard her hobble to the door. When she opened it he instinctively looked at her ankle. It was was bandaged, and a plastic bag full of ice had been strapped to it.

They said “Hi” at the same time.

“I came by to see how you were doing,” he said, “and to ask you a couple of questions. May I come it?”

She hesitated. “I’m not feeling that well . . .”

“I realize that. But I think we need to talk.”

She looked at his face and saw his serious expression. She nodded and backed away. The door opened into the living room. To the left was the kitchen. In the middle of the tiled floor was a cheap rectangular table, and there were four cheap and mismatched chairs around it. One was pulled out and a tea cup and saucer sat on the table.

“I was just having some tea. The water’s still hot if you’d like some.”

He took a chair. “No, thanks,” he said.

She hobbled around and sat down. He could see her wince as she brought her leg up to rest on another chair.

“It’s good to keep that elevated,” he started.

“John, I’m really tired and in pain.” Her voice was full of annoyance. “What do you want?”

He stared at her for a moment. “When you go jogging at night, do you always stay in the neighborhood?”

She looked at him. “Not all the time, no.”

“Do you like to go running in Boynton?”

She didn’t answer but held his stare.

“What happened with that young man that caused you to put your running shoes on his chest?”

She froze.

“A man is dead because of you.”

She hadn’t moved.

“Care to tell me about it before I turn you in?”

Her face was hard and her eyes were angry.

“This morning, as I was going to work, I found your wet and muddy running shoes at the foot of the stairs. I decided I’d be thoughtful and bring them up the stairs to you. When I picked up one of them I saw the imprint it left on the floor. I took a picture of it with my cellphone and had the print compared to the impression left on the body of our Juan Doe. It’s not an exact match, but it’s awfully damned close.”

Her expressed darkened.

“I’m sure if the police compared your shoe with the bruise on our corpse--”

Sherrie let out an exasperated huff of a sigh. “What the fuck?”

They sat and stared at each other for a moment.

“Why?” she asked.

“Grasping at straws,” he answered. “There are no other clues to the case. I know you like to go running late at night, and just took a chance. I was hoping it would exclude you from any list of suspects, but when the A.M.E. called me to tell me the results, my jaw hit the floor.”

“You realize,” she said in a quiet and angry voice, “that there are laws concerning unreasonable search and seizure.”

He nodded. “Yes, and I think, in a criminal case, the evidence might be dismissed because of that.” He looked away for a moment, then back to her. “But it doesn’t change the fact that I know what you did.”

She put both hands flat in the table. “So what do you want?”

“The truth.”

They glared at each other for a few seconds.

“And?”

He frowned.

“For a little tumble you’ll forget all about it? Maybe if I agree to haul your ashes once in awhile you won’t mention to Nancy that I might be the killer?”

“No,” he said with a firm voice.

“You wouldn’t be the first man to try to blackmail me.”

He glanced up and away in frustration. “That’s not what I meant.” He looked back at her.

“So what the fuck do you want?”

“The TRUTH. What happened that night?”

She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Okay.” She picked up the tea cup, decided she really didn’t want it, and set it back down. “I run at night so that I can be alone. And I run at night because I know it’s a little more dangerous for a woman out alone.”

He leaned back a little in surprise.

“I ran track and cross country in high school, went to college on a track scholarship. I was pretty good, but never won any medals or set any records.”

He nodded.

“After college I kept running to stay in shape. And when I started doing detective work, I realized that I couldn’t get into any toe to toe fights with men who were physically bigger and stronger than I am.”

His expression shifted slightly. “Got beat up more than once?”

“Yes,” she said as she looked down. “I don’t carry a gun, but I’ve been in situations where I needed to use my fists.”

He nodded again.

“Something I realized is that I could use my foot speed to get out of some situations. And, if I stayed in good shape, both physically and mentally, maybe I could avoid those kind of situations in the future.”

“Sounds logical,” he said.

She nodded. “I can’t really say when, but I started running in Boynton because . . . it helps me.”

He frowned. “How so?”

She hesitated. “More than once I’ve been in situations that have forced me to think and react quickly while I’m on my feet. Running in Boynton, with the gangs chasing after me, forces me to do just that.”

His chin lifted slightly in recognition. “You have to think ahead, like a chess game, while you’re running away from them.”

Her face softened. She didn’t smile but the anger was gone. “Yes.” She tipped the cup towards her and stared at the liquid inside. “About two years ago a man died because I didn’t think well on my feet. I let my fear overcome me. I ran away instead of helping him.”

Sadness tinted his face. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “My fault.”

“And you began running in Boynton so that you could be reasonably sure that would never happen again.”

Her eyes met his. There was surprise in her face.

“I’m smarter than I look.” He grinned.

A grin, small and off center, came slowly to her face.

They sat in silence for a few moments.

“So as part of your little misadventure, you ran into the man we call Juan Doe?”

“Literally and figuratively.”

John nodded.

“Totally by chance,” Sherrie added.

“Self defense,” John said.

Silence again, this time just a tiny bit less tense.

“So what are you going to do?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

She looked at him.

“I would like to ask one thing, though.”

She held his stare.

“No more screaming at three in the morning?”

She actually smiled. “Deal.”

They shook on it.

CHAPTER TEN

The next day they met in Carlson’s office.

Sherrie’s ankle was better, but she still limped noticeably. She wore a plastic strap-on cast that allowed her to walk. Her gait was uneven and painful to watch even with the cane she used. Carlson glared at her when she came into the office.

“What was his name?” she joked.

Sherrie sat down and sighed. “Turned my ankle jogging.”

“Ouch.”

“You know it. Nothing’s broken or torn, and the ice has helped considerably.” She’d brought a cylindrical shoulder bag that was almost three feet long. When she was seated she brought out an ice pack from the bag, then stood the bag on end. Carlson noticed that the sides of the bag were rigid and acted like a stool when set down like that. Sherrie unstrapped the cast and put the ice pack onto the ankle. Then she eased her ankle onto the bag and let out a sigh.

“You sure you don’t need to see a doctor?”

Sherrie shook her head. “The swelling is already down, and the ice packs and simple aspirin have helped a lot.”

“Okay.”

John Phillips came into the room. He took a seat next to Sherrie. “How’s the ankle?”

“Better, thank you.” The two exchanged a glance.

Nancy glanced from one to the other. Her expression showed that she wondered if the two of them had taken up together.

John looked at Nancy. “So what we know so far about our Juan Doe is this: cause of death was blunt force trauma to the back of the skull. Autopsy shows he suffered a concussion when he hit the pavement and bled to death. The two bullets in his chest were delivered post-mortem and came from a Glock nine. Ballistics can make no further determination without the actual gun for comparison.”

Carlson nodded.

“And,” Sherrie added, “I was mistaken. Juan was not, I repeat not part of a gang. He had no tattoos or other markings common to gangs in this city. He had no tattoos or markings on him at all, so I’m thinking he wasn’t part of anything.”

“Can you tell if he lived in Boynton?” Nancy asked.

“No, he didn’t.” Sherrie adjusted the ice pack. “His hair was recently cut, and his hands and feet show that he didn’t do any manual labor. His nails weren’t manicured, but he had the hands of someone who might have been a college student or worked in an office. He also didn’t do much walking because the soles of his feet had few callouses. And his clothes were almost new. It was like he bought them last week at a big box discount place.”

Phillips nodded and found he was a little surprised by her observations.

“Also, the lab techs tell me he was overweight by about thirty pounds.”

“By what scale?” John asked.

“The standard body type to mass index circulating around the medical community,” Sherrie answered. “He was five foot eleven and weighed two twenty five.”

“So he would have been classified as obese?” Nancy asked.

Sherrie nodded. “As ridiculous as that index might be, it tells me that Juan lived a good life. He was well fed and didn’t work hard, at least not physically.”

“It sounds like he didn’t belong in Boynton,” John added.

Sherrie adjusted her ankle and winced. “That’s what I think.”

The room was silent for a moment.

“So what the hell was he doing there?” Nancy asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine at this point,” Sherrie replied.

“Well,” Nancy said, “his fingerprints weren’t in the city’s database.”

Sherrie looked up at her. “Hm. As racist as it might sound, there’s a statistical fact that a large number of African American and Hispanic males have their prints in our database. And there are a disproportionately low number of Caucasian males.”

“Yes,” Nancy replied, “I know.”

“So it’s unusual for a Hispanic male from Boynton to not have a criminal record and not have his fingerprints in our files,” Sherrie continued. “That leads me to believe he’s either from the suburbs our out of town.”

“And our search parameters just grew,” John quipped.

“By leaps and bounds,” Nancy agreed.

“Maybe you could check the local colleges to see if a student might be missing?” Sherrie asked.

“And I’ll start contacting departments in this and other states,” Nancy said. She opened the laptop on her desk and began typing.

At home Sherrie went immediately to the fridge.

From the small freezer she drew another ice pack. The one on her ankle had long ago warmed up and was no longer effective. She dropped the ice pack on the table, then thought for a moment that she might take a seat and elevate her leg. She knew the chairs were hard and not all that comfortable, and she had hobbled around most of the day.

“Couch,” she said in the empty space. Her stomach growled. “Food.”

Lorraine Thomas, along with being her surrogate Mom, was also a very good cook. She often brought over plates filled with things like stew or pasta. Yesterday she had brought over a small Pyrex dish with something she called Shepherd’s Pie. Sherrie knew that the true dish used mutton, but Lorraine had used hamburger. Oh, well, she thought, I’ll give it a try.

Sherrie also knew she was in no mood to try to cook anything, and the packaged lunches and dinners available were horrid in both taste and ingredients. She took out the Pyrex dish and slipped it into the oven.

“What did she say?” she asked herself. Then she remembered Lorraine say something about three hundred for ten to fifteen minutes. She set the oven, then hobbled out of the kitchen.

She grabbed the pillows and the comforter off the bed, got a TV tray from the closet, and set up the couch for maximum comfort and healing. Fifteen minutes later she was seated at one end, propped up by a pillow. Her leg was free of the cast and elevated at the other end by another pillow. An ice pack was strapped onto the injured ankle and the cold had just begun to numb the pain. In her lap was a book about forensic techniques through the ages. In her hand was a plate full of Lorraine’s Shepherd’s Pie. On the tray was a glass of milk and a bottle of buffered aspirin along with the rest of the Pie in the Pyrex dish. Sherrie shoveled some Pie into her mouth, then groaned softly at the taste.

“Thank you Lorraine,” she said with her mouth full. A sip of milk helped wash it down. Three forkfuls later there was a knock on the door.

“Sherrie? It’s John. May I come in?”

Sherrie grumbled. Her solitude was interrupted. She frowned, then sighed. “Come in, John.”

He came in and saw her on the couch. He grinned. “Good idea,” he said as he closed the door. “Feeling any better?”

“A little,” she replied. Her face was set in an annoyed frown.

John seemed to notice. “I won’t be long. Just thought you’d like to know that we got an I.D. on our Juan Doe.”

Her brows shot up.

“Turns out his name is Rigoberto Christobal Aizpuru Mendoza.”

Sherrie had some Pie still in her mouth. She swallowed, then asked “How did you find out?”

“His father came looking for him.”

She gaped.

CHAPTER TEN

“I am a self made man.”

Humberto Mendoza spoke to Lieutenant Carlson. I started in a neighborhood adjacent to Boynton with a small shop. With a loan from the Small Business Administration, funding from the federal government from a program to create Empowerment Zones, I got my business started. I had a lot of knowledge about my customer’s wants and desires. I built my business slowly, until I had the largest store in the city devoted to sportswear. I sell sweatsuits, warmup jackets, t-shirts, athletic undergarments, and most of all, an very strong selection of shoes. Customers from all over the city come to my store for the latest and greatest athletic clothing.”

“So do the gang members from Boynton.” Nancy stated the obvious.

Mendoza nodded. “They consider me to be ‘one of them’, and don’t steal from me. They come in with cash and buy what they want off the racks. I began offering embroidery and appliques, and the gangs outfit themselves with clothing from my shop. I don’t ask where the money comes from as long as they pay rather than shoplift.

“And I always show the gangs the utmost respect. I learned their names, especially their street names, and remember to address them properly each time I see them. It has been difficult to keep up because gang members change frequently.”

“Too frequently,:” Nancy interjected, “but that’s life in Boynton.”

“I met Antonia in the course of my business. She visited his shop one day and we just ‘hit it off’. Before long we were dating. Eighteen months later we married. Over the years we have had four children.”

Humberto sat in one of the client chairs across from Nancy Carlson as the rain came down outside the window. John Phillips was in the other client chair, and Sherrie Jones was on the couch with her leg elevated.

“Rigoberto was my youngest son. Fernando, the oldest boy, has an engineering degree and works for one of the big companies across the river. Alberto is at State U. studying to be a doctor. Rigoberto graduated high school this year, and had been accepted at Rutgers.”

Lestrade nodded. John and Sherrie were still.

“Our family has always embraced our culture,” Mendoza went on, “our heritage. Rigoberto was very interested in that. He wanted to be a journalist. His senior thesis was about the plight of gang members in large cities.”

Sherrie’s mouth opened slightly in horror.

“With my permission, and that of his mother, he would go out in the evening and talk to gang members about their life and their background.”

“He wanted to know why they had joined a gang?” John asked.

“Yes,” Humberto replied. “What set of circumstances led them to gather with other youths of a similar age and family situations.”

John nodded.

“Five nights ago he went out and didn’t come back.”

Sherrie’s hand went to her mouth.

“I talked to the police,” he said as his voice began to show strain. “They have that rule about forty eight hours.”

“I know the rule,” Nancy said in a gentle voice.

“Some of the gang members come to my store. I asked them about Rigoberto. No one knew. I went out myself to look for him but found nothing.”

Sherrie thought of the crime scene and how the M.E. techs power-washed the sidewalk once the investigating was completed.

“So I started visiting hospitals.” Tears filled the man’s eyes.

“I am so sorry,” Nancy said.

Sherrie sat on the couch and felt awful. Her eyes became wet and her throat became clogged. She was glad to be seated behind the father so he wouldn’t see her reaction and wonder if she had anything to do with it.

“It was necessary,” John said, “to do an autopsy. Since we didn’t know your son’s identity, there was no one to talk to--”

“I know I know,” Humberto said with a wave.

John described, briefly, how Rigoberto died.

“I want to see him,” Humberto said in a quiet voice.

“I’ll take you down,” John said, and got up.

After he and Mendoza had gone, Sherrie and Nancy sat quietly for a few moments. With some effort, Sherrie regained her composure.

Nancy noticed. “Sherrie?”

Jones shook her head.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Sherrie grunted and huffed her way to her feet.

“Bullshit.”

Their eyes met. Nancy could see the trace of moisture still on Nancy’s face. “You alright?”

“Sad story.”

Nancy held up a box of tissues and Sherrie grabbed one. It took a minute to wipe her nose and her face.

Nancy sat back in her chair. “You wouldn’t know more about this case than you let on, now would you?”

Sherrie shrugged. “You know what I know.”

Lestrade stared at her. “Uh huh.”

Jones hobbled out.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It was evening.

Sherrie was on the couch again. Her leg was iced and elevated and there was a book in her lap. Her eyes saw the pages but the words didn’t register in her mind.

There was a knock at the door. She twitched when she heard it. “Come in, John.”

The door swung open and it was Lorraine.

“I’m not John,” she said with a knowing grin. “Should I see if he’s home?”

“No,” was Sherrie’s immediate reply.

Lorraine knew the response was too quick, the voice too loud. “Are you sure?”

Sherrie shook her head sharply. “I have a case, and John is the chief M.E. He and I and Nancy Carlson are working on a case together.”

“And he’s taken a liking to you?” She sat down in an overstuffed chair across the living room from her.

Sherrie didn’t answer.

“He seems like a nice man.” Lorraine looked at Sherrie with some measure of expectancy.

Sherrie wanted to tell her to not play matchmaker, but knew Lorraine wouldn’t take it well. She simply returned the stare and didn’t reply.

They sat in silence for a few moments. Lorraine thought of bringing up the subject of settling down, but saw that Sherrie wasn’t in a good mood, so she tabled it for another day.

“How was the shepherd’s pie?” she asked.

“Oh,” Sherrie said, then looked away. “It was really good. Thank you.” She put a bookmark in her book and set it aside. “Lorraine, I’ve taken some pain meds, and they’re starting to kick in.” She faked a yawn. “I think I’m going to go to bed early tonight.” She hoped Lorraine would take that as her cue to leave.

Mrs. Thomas nodded. “Would you like some help?”

“No,” she replied, “I can manage. Thanks.” She stretched out her arms and her back cracked.

“How’s the ankle healing?”

Sherrie didn’t really want to come right out and ask Lorraine to leave, but she knew it might be necessary. “It’s better. The swelling is down and it doesn’t hurt quite so much.”

“So why did you take a pain pill?” Lorraine asked. She spoke quickly so that Sherrie couldn’t speak again.

“Because it helps me sleep.”

“Good,” Lorraine replied at once. “No more caterwalling at three in the morning?”

Sherrie gaped.

“John told me about that last week,” Hudson continued, “and I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

Sherrie started to speak but Lorraine cut her off.

“You really can’t keep annoying the downstairs tenants. Because of you two pretty good ones have moved out. I don’t want you to chase John Phillips away, too.” So that was it. That was why Lorraine wouldn’t leave.

“I’m sorry, Lorraine,” Sherrie said. “I won’t do that any more.”

“Good!” Lorraine replied indignantly. “And as soon as your leg heals, you should give this place a good cleaning.”

She got up, huffed at Sherrie, and fairly stormed out. The door closed with a moderate slam. Sherrie could hear her stomp down the stairs.

“Thanks, Mom,” she said into the empty room. “Thank God that’s over.” She picked up her book and began actually reading.

CHAPTER TWELV

“You have to speak up.”

John was behind his desk. Sherrie was seated in a client chair before him. Her leg was still iced. She had it propped up on the cylindrical bag.

“I know,” she replied, “but I don’t know how to do that.”

“That man, Mendoza, was in considerable pain.”

“Still is,” she said.

“He deserves to know the truth.” John regarded her with the expression of a parent talking to their grown child.

Sherrie noticed the look. “Yes, I know, Dad.”

John frowned at her.

“I’ve thought of little else since yesterday,” she said. Her voice was softer than he’d heard. “But I can’t let my habits, my name, and my face be fodder for the tabloids.”

He nodded.

“I work best when no one knows I’m around.”

He remained silent.

“How do I tell the truth without the whole world knowing it?” She stared into space.

“Tell Nancy Carlson,” John said quietly.

“No,” she replied. “She’ll be obligated to put it in some kind of report, and sooner or later it’ll get out.”

“You don’t think she can keep a secret?”

“I think she’s a damn good cop,” Sherrie replied with some agitation, “who knows procedure forwards and backwards. I also know she got where she is by following procedure and clearing cases. In her mind she’ll have to clear this one.”

“She can’t leave this one unsolved.” It was a statement.

“No,” Sherrie agreed. “Especially not with the kind of pressure she’s under.”

“Won’t that throw you under the bus?”

“In a way, yes.” Sherrie shifted her leg. “And if the Hispanic gangs in Boynton learn an Anglo like me caused the death of a well-to-do Hispanic man, then the gangs could find a way to unite against the rest of the city.”

“And Rome might burn,” John said.

She nodded. “It might ignite a race war.”

They sat in silence for a few moments.

“Perhaps if we could get the gang leaders to agree to a meet,” John said.

“Huh,” Sherrie said.

“Perhaps on neutral ground.”

Her ears perked up. “Mendoza’s store.”

John smiled.

“Would they come or just go on fighting?” she asked.

His face went solemn. “You’d have to confess to them.”

“What?!”

“Have all the leaders get together in the stockroom of Mendoza’s store. Mendoza is there along with you and me. You tell them all what happened, apologize, tell them it won’t happen again.”

Sherrie gaped.

“If you come clean, they might decide to make peace.” His voice was quiet but earnest. “And Mendoza will have some peace of his own.”

She frowned. “And they might decide to shoot me for good measure.”

John nodded. “That’s why man invented Kevlar vests.”

She looked at him and almost grinned.

More silence. Sherrie’s mind churned.

“I’d like to heal a little bit more,” she said.

“No,” he replied. “It you confess while you’re still injured, the gang leaders will see that you can’t run away, and they’ll get an idea how serious you are. It might give them a reason to respect you and your courage.”

“I confess while vulnerable,” she said.

“Correct.”

She thought some more. “It might work. What do we tell Nancy?”

“We don’t.”

“She’ll be pissed.”

“Who says she’ll find out?” John asked.

Sherrie’s brows went up. She’d never been able to keep a secret from Nancy Carlson. Sooner or later the truth came out.

“And if she does, we can tell her we cleared a case, and she can tell the mayor the gang war is over.”

Sherrie nodded. It sounded good. But would it really work? Who the hell knew? And she knew she hated being wrong about something. Hated being the cause of unnecessary pain and anguish.

“Besides,” John said, “this might make up for some past mistakes.”

Sherrie’s face turned angry. “What the hell do you know about it?”

“I don’t.” He didn’t flinch. “But you do.”

They glared at each other for a moment.

“And maybe it will make you feel better about the whole incident.”

She couldn’t argue with that.

The back room of the store was surprisingly large.

It was late, shortly after ten thirty, and the store was closed. John and Sherrie had arrived just before nine, and sat in Humberto’s small office drinking coffee and juice. Just after ten they started coming. Young men, perhaps no older than twenty, came in groups of two or three. Each group wore matching sweat clothes with their gang names emblazoned on the jackets and pants. Humberto greeted them at the front door to the store, and shook their hands and returned the hugs they gave him. He called each one by their street name and ushered them to the back room.

When the last group had come in, John got up from one of the uncomfortable office chairs and opened the door. Sherrie heaved herself up using the desk and an aluminum cane to lever herself into a standing position. John held the door while she hobbled out and into the receiving area.

The area had a large overhead door leading to the back alley and the loading dock. Twenty feet from that door was the set of large aluminum bat-wing doors that led to the retail sales floor. The back room was as wide as the entire building, and was filled with boxes of clothing and pallets of boxed athletic shoes. The floor was bare concrete and the back walls were bare cinder block.

The gang leaders and their entourages lounged on the boxes and pallets. When John and Sherrie entered the room, many of them stood up. It was not out of courtesy or manners. They wondered if this meeting was a police set-up.

Humberto addressed the group. “This is Sherrie Jones. She and her friend, John Phillips, are friends of mine. She has something she’d like to say to all of you.” He stepped aside.

Sherrie looked at the gang members. They were of differing heights and weights, and some had beards or mustaches. Some had long hair, some had short hair. One was completely bald. They each had angry faces.

She cleared her throat. “I want to tell you something,” she began. She knew her voice was unsteady, and that it matched her mental state.

None of the men moved.

Filled with apprehension, she gathered her courage and spoke. “I’m the reason you’re fighting each other.”

Nobody moved.

“Up until last Tuesday, I had made a habit of running in Boynton late at night.”

One of the faces showed recognition.

“I did that so that one or more of you would chase me.”

More faces moved.

“I wanted to be able to think in a crisis situation,” she continued, “and I could think of no better crisis than being chased by a gang.”

Heads shook.

“Last Tuesday night, I was running in Boynton. I was in the alley between Sixth and Fifth when I ran into someone. Literally.”

Humberto turned his head to look at Sherrie.

Her throat began to close. “I ran into Rigoberto Mendoza.”

Humberto’s face turned dark.

A tear formed in her eye. “I thought he was one of the Sharks that was chasing me.”

The leader of the Sharks started to chuckle.

“I was running at full speed. Rigoberto stepped right in front of me. I had no time to stop so I ran him over.” It was all she could do to get the words out.

Several of the Sharks were chuckling.

“I didn’t realize it until later that I ran into him so hard that he fell back onto the sidewalk and cracked his skull.”

Humberto’s face was bright red.

“At the time I felt I had to get to my feet as quickly as I could and ran away.” She turned to Humberto. “I’m sorry. I thought he was one of the gang chasing me.”

Humberto’s fists were clenched, as was his jaw.

“I didn’t stop to help him because I thought he was after me.”

Antonia was standing next to her husband. Tears streamed down her face.

“I am so . . . so sorry.” Sherrie’s face was wet as well. Her throat was choked with guilt and remorse. Her head hung low in shame.

The leader of the Sharks spoke. “So you think all of us,” he said as he gestured, “started fighting because you knocked over his son?”

Sherrie nodded and did not look at the young man.

“You’re wrong, Chiquita.”

Sherrie turned to face him.

“We had begun fighting long before you even started running in our little barrio.”

John, who had stood silently beside Sherrie, let his mouth hang open slightly in surprise.

“We could stand here and tell you the many reasons behind it,” the man continued, “but it wasn’t because of you.”

Another gang leader, a tall man with a red jacket, nodded in agreement.

“You were . . . a distraction,” the Shark leader said. “A little bit of sport among the fighting.” Most of the gang members chuckled. It sounded like a low rumble of thunder. “But now that you have confessed your sins, perhaps you can pray for absolution.”

Sherrie’s face darkened at the sarcasm.

“And,” the tall gang leader added, “there is something you should know about Rigoberto.”

Sherrie realized the man was talking to Humberto.

“Your son wanted to join our gang.”

Humberto broke his glare to turn towards the tall man. “That can’t be true,” he whispered.

“He didn’t say so, but I think he wanted to.”

“Pantera,” Humberto said in a plaintive voice, “my son was trying to learn about you and your gangs. He was accepted at college . . . ”

Pantera just looked at him.

Another gang member spoke up. “No, he wanted to join us.”

“El Tigre,” Humberto said.

“No,” yet another leader said, “my group.”

Three others spoke at the same time.

John stepped forward and held up his hand. To his complete surprise they all stopped talking immediately. He turned to Sherrie. “Did you have anything else you wanted to say?”

She nodded. As she raised her head to address the gangs, John stepped aside so she could address the group. “It’s pointless.”

The room was dead quiet.

“Fighting amongst yourselves is pointless. Nothing is accomplished. No one is better off.” She looked at Humberto. Antonia was beside him with her hand on his arm. ” All that happens is good young men die.”

Humberto looked at her for a moment, then slowly nodded.

“Stop your fighting.” Sherrie turned to face the group. “Work together to make something good.”

The room erupted in laughter. Each and every gang member was overcome with a belly laugh that sounded harsh to her ears. Both Sherrie and John were startled.

When the room had quieted down, Pantera spoke. “What do you know about it?” He stood, staring at her, and seemed to expect an answer.

Sherrie didn’t move.

“The Anglos have made a wasteland out of our neighborhoods. They say they care, but they push drugs onto us, and make us live in houses that fall down when the wind blows. Our children die from simple infections that Anglo children live through without a problem.”

John knew it was true. So did Sherrie.

“And what hope for the future do we have?” El Tigre added. “It’s not like there are a lot of jobs for us. No company wants to be in the barrio.”

Several voices started in at once. In an instant harsh words echoes off the cinder block and the concrete. It was Antonia that quieted them down.

“If things are so bad, why are you fighting? You fight over ‘turf’, but it’s worthless, at least according to you. Why fight for something that is worthless?”

After a moment of silence, Pantera spoke. “Because it’s all we have.”

Again a blanket of silence fell over the room. Everyone stood and stared at each other for a few moments. Then, in groups of two and three, the gang leaders filed out. No one shook hands, or gave hugs. No one said goodbye.

Two minutes later all the gang members were gone.

Inexplicably, the gang war stopped.

Beginning the very night Sherrie made her confession, no gang members died, or were even injured, in Boynton. For reasons beyond logic to the police, the streets were devoid of gangs. None of the Sharks ventured out. There were no Panthers, nor Tigers, nor Pythons, nor Jackals. It was as if they had disappeared.

Derelict Alley was dead quiet. No cars drove along the streets. No lights appeared in the windows of those buildings still strong enough to stand. No stores were robbed. No glass was broken. No cars were stolen. And no fires were intentionally set.

A week into the dead calm, Nancy Carlson more or less ordered Sherrie into her office.

“Okay, babe,” Nancy said, “what did you do?”

Sherrie gave her a blank stare. “What do you mean?”

“There’s been no gang violence in a week. It’s as if Boynton suddenly became a ghost town. Not even the lights are on.”

Holmes was perplexed.

“Crime in that part of town has stopped.”

Sherrie frowned. “What do you mean stopped?”

“Stopped, as in ceased to exist. There hasn’t been so much as a peep at that substation in a week.” Nancy was tired of their interplay. “What did you do to stop it?”

Sherrie’s face brightened. “It has to be Rigoberto Mendoza, and his father Humberto.” She actually smiled. “Maybe this is some way of honoring the father on the death of his son.” She shrugged.

Carlson regarded her with dissatisfaction. The glare was palpable.

“I really don’t know what’s going on down there,” Sherrie continued. “I haven’t been out of the house much.” She gestured to her ankle. “So other that what’s been on the news, I don’t know any more than you do.”

Nancy stared for a few moments longer. “Well, the mayor is grateful. Send me your final bill and I’ll get it paid for you.”

Sherrie nodded, used her cane to get up, and limped out of the office.

On her way to the elevator she almost literally ran into John Phillips. She hobbled around a corner and there he was.

After a few disheveled moments, they each voiced their apologies.

“Glad to see you up and about,” John said with a small smile. “But I need to talk to you.”

Sherrie glanced about. “I think I know what you might say, and I agree. Maybe it made a difference.” She didn’t want to admit that she cried herself to sleep the night of her confession. And she didn’t want him to know that she’d admonished herself repeatedly since then.

He nodded.

“I don’t often admit when I’m wrong,” she began. And she particularly didn’t want him to see what a bad mood she’d been in since the confession.

“No need,” he said quietly. “As long as we both know it.”

Sherrie looked at him and wasn’t sure if he was trying to be funny or not.

“Besides,” he continued, “I kind of admire you for doing that.”

She frowned. “Really?”

“It takes a little bit of courage to show vulnerability in front of such a hostile group like that.”

She nodded. Her expression softened.

“A little bit of vulnerability looks good on you.” He grinned.

She raised her cane and grimaced. He backpedaled and laughed.