"Where's Lee?"

"Checking in with one of his CIs." Cantrell handed her his report and studied her desk. He hated lying to the captain, but he needed to cover his partner's back. His confidential informant was actually off the books and was too plugged into the streets to not be into some dirt herself. And his partner was sleeping with her.

"Let's start at the beginning." Octavia did that thing with the gla.s.ses again. Most days she still missed the rush of being a detective. She missed the opportunity to read people. She missed unraveling mysteries. Like the bulls.h.i.t story Cantrell handed her about his partner. Lee McCarrell might have been a good cop at one point, but he often succ.u.mbed to the need for short cuts. Not necessarily lazy, but he often made poor decisions. And his partners were often the ones left holding his bag of s.h.i.t.

"Lyonessa Maurila Ramona Perez. Went to Jonathan Jennings Public School 109. From the amount of bruises, she went through h.e.l.l in her last hours."

"What about the family?"

"Hispanic. Grandmother worked nights as a maid at the Speedway Lodge. Mother and father both deceased. There's an older brother. Lonzo 'Black' Perez. He's in the system."

"Gang?"

"And drugs."

"This related?" Octavia paced behind the desk reading the report.

"Things have been heating up. King's been out of play..."

"Let's not confuse a community activist with someone doing police work." The mention of King James White caused her to bristle. Whenever his name came up, bodies fell and the police were left with more questions than answers. A whole lot of mystery and things she didn't want explanations for and open cases. She hated the paperwork and going before the bosses with a plate full of "I don't know".

"He runs a program. Gets gang members off the streets. Finds them work. Does after-school tutoring."

"Riiiiiiiiight. Well, the community is under siege and we're stretched thin running around after something has jumped off in order to get ahead of the problem." Octavia pushed the gla.s.ses high on her nose with a sigh. "What about the vehicle?"

"Robbery investigation unit informed me that they recovered a car matching the description in my report." For a brief, beautiful moment, he broke his own rule. He had hope. But he soon paid the price and was dashed against the rocks of reality. "The car was a burnt husk. Torched in order to hide any evidence. They got it over at Zore's Towing. Even the VIN was totally gone. A hot burn, probably gasoline used as an accelerant. The forensic team was called in and they found a hidden VIN. It traced back to one Garlan Pellam... who had reported it stolen a day earlier."

"I know that look, detective. What is it?"

"The owner, Mr Pellam. He's not in the system, but he is on the radar of the Gang Task Force. Known a.s.sociate of many of Dred's crew."

"And the report that it was stolen..."

"... feels a little too convenient."

"Might be worth a conversation. Anything on Dred? DOB? Photo? Sheet?"

"We got nothing. A name. A nickname probably, unless you believe his momma took one look at her beautiful baby boy and decided to call his bald a.s.s 'Dred'."

"Keep your ears open just in case. What's your next step?"

"Got some witnesses coming in to give descriptions of the shooters. Looks like two perps. Black. Working on ID-ing them."

"See if you can speed up the DNA tests from the fluids on the body. And keep your partner in line. A lot of eyes are on him."

As lead detective on the Perez homicide, Cantrell needed to make sense of the chaotic crime scene as well as the players. On one side, he had one Lonzo "Black" Perez, head of a Hispanic crew, local franchise of some national set, whose activities had been slowly amping up as their gang pushed into new territories imposing its will. And whose baby sister was raped and murdered. If something like that was to happen to Cantrell's baby sister, badge or no badge, there'd be h.e.l.l to pay. On the other side was the mysterious Dred, who'd been a shadowy figure for years, more rumor than anything else until King came on the scene. Suddenly Dred became more active. There were several open cases tied to him and for that matter, King that went down with the Colvin affair. No one wanted to look too hard at that as Colvin went down and bodies quit dropping. But the mayor's office, whipped up by the media, pressured the captain on this one. A little girl was dead. An innocent caught in the middle of two junkyard dogs yanking on their junk to prove their manhood. That wasn't going to stand. Hopefully his esteemed partner had something.

"You dig up anything on our case?"

"Like what?" Lee McCarrell sauntered to his desk, a head nod to the filming crew. The crew leapt to readiness, if for no other reason than because Lee made for great commentary, most of which the bra.s.s would rather have left on the editing room floor. Still, any opportunity to jam a thumb into their eye he'd take.

"Like motive? h.e.l.l, anything."

"Motive? Money, dope, or p.u.s.s.y. That's always the motive."

Cantrell cut a furtive glance at the cameras, but Lee only winked at him, enjoying the bully pulpit they afforded him a little too much. Words had a way of catching up with folks. And Cantrell, over conscious of the cameras, pa.r.s.ed his with care. "Looks like it may have some gang connections."

"That's what I'm saying. Sell the s.h.i.t and walk away. People will always have their vices. Smokes. p.o.r.n. Booze. Prost.i.tutes. p.u.s.s.y and drugs in one way or another. And someone around to make money off them. p.o.r.n does billions on the internet. You don't see bodies dropping over it."

"Well, maybe of AIDS."

"Why you want to go there?"

"I'm just saying..."

"Man wants to enjoy rubbing one out. He don't want to have to think about junkie tracks or AIDS."

"Not to mention all of the exploited girls in the s.e.x trade."

"There you go again. Enough to kill a good hard-on. Well, yours, maybe."

"You can think on AIDS and underage girls and still do that?"

"I can compartmentalize."

"Come here." Cantrell led him out of taping distance of the cameras. Lee had his minute in the spotlight, but Cantrell had some personal things to discuss. "You all right?"

"What do you mean?" Lee's self-pleased grin still contorted his face.

"You've been moody. Distracted."

"You make it sound like I got Detective's PMS."

"I wish you did. A few days from now you'd be fine. But this has been going on for weeks."

"Thought better of making a slumpbuster joke."

"You get that situation with your CI straightened out?"

"I got it handled."

"If IA starts sniffing around..."

"My job on the line?" Suddenly Lee came to attention.

"I'm just saying, I ain't lying to cover your a.s.s. You need to close cases. Without incident. Period."

CHAPTER THREE.

Wayne Orkney scratched the scar on the back of his neck. His keloid itched constantly these days, to the point where he considered going to the doctor to see what he could do to get it removed. A hard-faced man, he had the build of a defensive linesman, stocky and chiseled, with the swinging step of someone who knew how to use their size should the necessity warrant. Pa.s.sing the Indianapolis Colts training complex, he slowed to a brisk walk along the sidewalk of the West 56th Street corridor of Eagle Creek Park. His early morning amble counted as his aerobic exercise for the day. Despite the fact that he felt twice as good, twice as strong, in the morning, he often carried an old walking stick he'd picked up on a shortterm mission trip to Jamaica some ten plus years ago. This morning he clutched his new collapsible baton in a fist. From the six inches which fit into his hand like a roll of quarters, it extended out to sixteen inches of balanced bludgeon. It was his peace of mind, something to keep whatever predators prowled the early morning at bay.

It seemed that nowhere was safe anymore. It wasn't too long ago they had to haul a body out of the park. Merle and his crazy a.s.s ran across a body. That Walters boy. Lamont "Rok" Walters. A good boy. Well, relatively good. A wannabe roughneck with more att.i.tude than sense, he got involved in some foolishness. What either of them were doing in the weeds was beyond him. If it wasn't a family reunion or barbecue, because nothing brought a fool out like free food or... he couldn't begin to speculate what motivated Merle. It seemed almost criminal for youth to be squandered on the young. From the way the story laid out, Wayne knew King had to be involved somehow, but no one had seen him in weeks. But that was the way things went around here. No, Wayne couldn't hazard much of a guess about much that went on in his world these days.

The front entrance of Eagle Creek Park was a lush lawn of overgrown gra.s.s and trees in full bloom. The wind s.n.a.t.c.hed at him, an odd brisk chill. Though late in the season for such a cool morning, he appreciated it for his jogs. Wayne maintained a peculiar pace, somewhere between a stroll and a speed walk, his arms nearly flapping alongside him. He wasn't much for scenery. On some mornings he might spy an errant deer since they ran about like squirrels out here. The smell of rotting meat hit him as soon as he rounded the bend. Wiping his nose, he twisted up his face as if that would cut the smell. A dead racc.o.o.n stretched out along the median of 56th Street. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth though its eyes were missing and its belly had been split open.

Vultures circled up ahead, just inside the entrance, with macabre intent. Wayne slowed. The calculations of curiosity stilled his steps a feeling more than anything else. The sight of the birds, so many of them, circling and settled in the trees like a jury taking in evidence.

Wayne veered off the path.

Rush-hour traffic hadn't begun in earnest, barely a trickle with only the occasional car looking to get on I-465 south. The chain link fence cordoning the park quaked as he tested it with his weight. In a less than graceful scrabble, he made it over and stopped to smooth out his jogging suit once he was on the other side. His breath frosted the air. His stomach both hungry and nauseous.

Wayne had barely waded through the first wall of trees and into a clearing when he saw the body. The skeleton splayed at awkward angles, twisted in brush and leaves. Insects made a home in the remains of his face. Clothes with chunks torn from them as animals had gnawed past them to get to the cool flesh. His shoes were missing. The rent torso laid empty of lungs, kidneys, intestines, and liver; the ribs s.n.a.t.c.hed free. A few fingers had been chewed off.

"Aw... d.a.m.n." Young dude. Couldn't be but fourteen or fifteen. From what Wayne could see, he'd caught a couple shots in the chest after taking a beating. Yup, these days it was almost a crime to be so young out here. Even as he reached for his cell phone to call the police, another feeling seized him. "d.a.m.n it, King. What have you done started?"

The area around 34th Street and Georgetown Road was knows as Eagledale. Back in the 1950s there was such a demand for housing it was one of the planned communities constructed. Little pre-fab, all-aluminum exterior, sidewalks, and concrete streets from $10,000. The boom lasted into the 1960s with schools and churches and the Eagledale Shopping Center constructed.

The nearby village of Flackville 30th Street and Lafayette Road which had been around since 1900, was annexed by Indianapolis in 1961. Overshadowed by the expanse of the Eagledale suburb. That was then. The only remainder of Flackville was the eponymous abandoned school building. It was rumored that a group of Haitians owned the building but a church owned the property. With the two groups at odds, the building stood boarded up. Ripe for squatting though no one did. The words "No Trespa.s.sing. Especially trucks" spray-painted along its driveway acted as a near-mystic rune, warding off most would-be squatters.

Lady G recognized the pair of legs dangling out of the trash bin of the neighboring restaurant.

"Get out of my trash." A short man, with skin as dark as wrought iron, scrambled back and forth waving a broom, to little avail as the object of the threatening spectacle had the top half of his body buried in the trash bin.

"What do you care?" The voice echoed from within the bin. "Were you going to eat it?"

"It's trespa.s.sing."

"You have some control issues. If any of this meant so much to you, you shouldn't have thrown it away."

The legs danced about as the owner swatted him with the broom. Merle tumbled out, an arm full of containers clutched to his chest with dirty fingernails. A black raincoat draped about him like a cloak. Unwinking, Merle had a way of looking about at the world with the curiosity of a child inspecting a new toy. His craggily auburn beard came out at all angles. A bird's nest of hair retreated from his bald spot, capped by his aluminum foil hat. His slate gray eyes big and round, yet knowing and without innocence cast about, but without spying Lady G.

"Go on!" The owner yelled as if to a pestful cat.

Not that Lady G much blamed the man for chasing Merle out of his trash bin. She once knew a meth head who went through people's garbage searching for canceled checks. Or she s.n.a.t.c.hed bills out of people's mailboxes. She would wash the checks and then make them out to herself for hundreds of dollars.

"I eat here twice a week. It's a good time, right before the garbage truck comes. My best luck is right after the lunch rush. You can't deny a man his fried chicken. Chicken!" Merle waved a chicken leg in the air in mad triumph, other boxes tucked under his other arm. Merle c.o.c.ked his head at her, quizzical, like an owl befuddled by the sight before him, then wandered off, distracted by whatever internal song that called him.

Despite the warming temperatures, Lady G dressed in layers. A thermal shirt under a T-shirt, swathed in a black hoody. Nothing form fitting as to hide her shape. She chewed on her index finger, which protruded from her fingerless gloves. Acne b.u.mps flared along her forehead, red and swollen against her toffee-colored skin. Lady G's stomach fluttered with unease. She couldn't quite catch her breath. She didn't know what kind of reception to expect from him. And she didn't want to admit her sheer terror. Isolating herself, she rarely left the confines of her room at Big Momma's, the woman who took her in when she was homeless. Lady G rarely met her eyes these days. All of her old haunts filled her with sadness. Her life was a maelstrom of hurt. And shame. Grief flayed her. She searched, hoped, for someone to confide in, who could make things clear for her, but King was no longer there.

Lady G barely kept pace with Merle's crazed lope, following him past the Flackville building to the small stretch of woods behind it. The stand of trees grew at odd angles, a small pool of shadows signaling the entrance. A sign caught her attention: "Warning: No Trespasing! This is Merle's camp. Anounce yurself."

"I see my prayer for n.o.ble weather has not been answered." Merle hunched over a Styrofoam container of tossed-out barbecue tips.

"I have a surprise for you."

"My dear, I don't think I can survive another one of your surprises. You are a chimp with a nuke."

"I..." Lady G held out a box of caramel-filled ice cream drumsticks. Part of her hoped Merle might be able to see past the hurt she caused and realize she'd been hurt, too. Even a self-inflicted wound was still a wound. Her friends abandoned her. They shunned her and she accepted her banishment. Profound loneliness, that punishing isolation, flensed her soul. Not knowing where to turn, praying for a safe place of refuge, she sought out Merle.

"It's always important to carry a towel." Merle didn't glance up from his rib tips.

"What?"

"The world isn't a safe place."

"We're coming apart. The family." She grieved the loss of something precious. She cried because she had no self, only her own mood and whim. Self-indulgent, selfish, she had no center, and had no thought at all of causing another pain. She was shadow. Wrapping herself in sheets of innocence and victimhood, her instinct was to blame. Her naivete, she was a hapless plaything in the hands of more powerful personalities. She loved King, she really did. She longed to please him: read the books he liked, went to the places he did, learned as much about him as she could, wore her hair the way that pleased him. He read the poems she wrote, the rough sentences and poorly formed images and illconstructed rhythms, and praised her. He stared into the shadows of her soul, all of the gray and ugly bits, and loved her. Ill prepared for the possessiveness, the jealousy, she knew the totality of his love, and it broke her. "I'm doing surprisingly well for a pariah."

"That's the thing. Times like these, you find out who your friends are."

"And I have none."

"Ah, the melodrama of youth. Blind to the obvious. Complaining about being alone... to someone. Your instinct for female recklessness stalls your maturing. That and the false, hollow bravado you feel compelled to perform."

Big Momma had told her the same thing. How a teenage girl trying to get out of trouble will roll on anyone, including the very people she both loved and hurt. Big Momma's voice always had an undertone of concern, like she wanted to impart something to her. Like she was warning Lady G of her power. That she had a smile about her, trusting and innocent. And had her own strength of personality, a beguiling innocence that sucked people into her orbit. A disarming charm that caused people in her world to want to protect her. Because inside the fragility which seemed to seep from her, she truly was a bird with a fractured wing.

"Some ladies don't prize what they can have. But you have a lifetime to repair the damage. What do you have to say?"

"I have no words." Out of fear fear of King, fear of the burdens of responsibility, fear of love and being loved she did unbelievable things. Hurting herself to protect herself, she dragged Lott into her maelstrom of self-destruction. She loved him, too, and would know him intimately in ways she never knew King. But the men who defined her were no longer around to protect her. When it came to important decisions, she was incapable of making them, reacting emotionally and leaving it to others to clean up her mess. She wasn't the person they believed her to be, however, she didn't need anyone to catalog her list of sins. She knew her terrible acts. In her heart she feared she couldn't be forgiven. That some cracked trusts couldn't be mended. "I'm so sorry."

"Brave deeds. Honorable actions. Be the woman you know you were created to be. Let your life show your repentance. Even misery doesn't last forever. In the meantime, there's no pain like the present."

Merle sucked loudly on his ice cream drumstick. They shared a commiserating glance. Not nearly as alone as she would have believed. Both living in the crater left, the fallout of her choices. Hers. All the minds of her friends seemed now closed to her, sticking her in a story she knew she'd have to live with. Lady G could never have their lives, so she would have to forge her own.

The window latch clicked slightly as the gla.s.s slid up. An exhalation of a breeze jostled the curtains. The window screen had been easily dislodged, little more than decoration the way it was attached to the window. Many of the first-floor windows of the apartment complex had bars on them, an outof-pocket expense for the tenants which the landlord mentioned when they signed their rental agreements. The bars gave the appearance of coming home to a nicely decorated prison. But in this neighborhood, safety was a precious commodity. Better to feel safe in one's castle than worry about the many predators in the night.

He slipped in noiselessly. Despite his build he moved with the grace of a thief, light of foot and touch. The sleeping girl's mother certainly didn't lack for imagination. She wanted her daughter to have a magical, sheltered childhood. The little girl's room enchanted him. A white picket fence served as the bed's headboard and footboard. A clothesline hung between the bedposts with her old baby clothes pinned to the line (including the ones she wore home from the hospital). An unfinished toy trunk had been painted apple green, with the quilt her grandmother made for her resting on top of it. A sunshine-yellow, three-drawer wood chest had large cartoony ladybugs stenciled onto it. Stuffed animals took their seats around the small wooden table set for tea.

Whenever his emotions wore him down, he drove by the place. It made him feel better knowing he was near even if he couldn't talk to her. Touch her. Lately, he had to be closer to her. Let her know he was still a part of her life, even if he couldn't be there the way he liked.

She snuggled into a thick pink blanket and pillow. For a moment he stood over her, just watching her sleep. He covered her mouth and eased onto the bed next to her. Her eyes sprang open, large with panic. Her balled little fists slammed into him, then slowly ceased as recognition filled her eyes. He removed his hand.

"Daddy!" she whispered with enthusiasm, sitting up to give him a hug.

"Nakia," King said.

"I didn't think you'd come back."

"I'm not supposed to, you know that."

"But I wanted to see you."

"I know. That's why I'm here."