Shadow of Death Page 4

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Stacy and Sharon Jones had just finished watching The Millionaire when they heard pounding at the front door.

  “I’ll get it,” said Stacy. “You better get to bed.”

  “Okay,” Sharon yawned, for once not challenging Stacy’s authority. At fourteen, Stacy was in charge of her three younger sisters: Sharon, twelve; Rachel, nine; and Katie, seven.

  “Hey girl,” Snake said when she opened the door a crack. “Johnny here?”

  “No.” She thought Snake looked different — older maybe.

  “You know where he is?”

  “How should I know?” She opened the door wide enough for him to step inside. “He’s supposed to be home with us.” Mama left strict orders not to let anybody inside, but Stacy thought Snake was cool. And he was Johnny’s best friend even though Mama didn’t like him hanging around.

  “Everyone’s down ’bout Anthony, but Johnny takin’ it so damn hard, you know? I told your mama I’d watch out for Johnny. And for Johnny’s little sister too,” he said finally looking her in the eye. “And it’d be my own personal pleasure.”

  Snake acted sweeter than Stacy ever remembered him being. She knew that he and Johnny messed around with some bad stuff. She was pretty sure they smoked pot. And they got drunk, but that was before Anthony got shot. Ever since, Johnny had changed. He hardly ever came home, and when he did he was mean and ugly. Hateful, rebellious, angry. He even talked back to Mama. Mama said he had a broken heart about Anthony, but Stacy was scared for him. Detroit was still dangerous even though the riots were over, weren’t they? Maybe Snake could help.

  Alexandrine Avenue was south of the worst of the riots, but looting and fires still popped up around the neighborhood. Red flashing lights and screaming sirens went off, wrecking what otherwise would have been beautiful late summer nights. Stacy was scared for herself and her sisters. The days weren’t as bad as they were two weeks ago. Now, they could at least go to the schoolyard to play, finding their way through the rubble; but the nights were scary, especially without Johnny there. Stacy did not tell her mother that Johnny wasn’t home at night, trying to keep her from further stress. Her mother worked nights then spent much of the day at the hospital with Anthony. During the day, Stacy had assumed her mother’s place, waking up her sisters in the morning and making them eat their cereal. She supervised them as they dressed, and then she walked them to the schoolyard so mama could get some sleep in peace. Stacy would handle dinner and bedtime then tackle her summer reading assignment. Mama expected all As, and Stacy was aiming for a scholarship just like Anthony.

  “Snake,” she decided to ask the question that nobody would answer. “Anthony’s going to be okay, isn’t he?”

  “You gotta ask Johnny ’bout that. He knows ’bout the doctors that fucked up Anthony when he was layin’ in that emergency room. Said he saw it with his own eyes. That it wasn’t the bullet. That a lady doctor near killed him. Said she had yellow hair. Something about a tube in his throat. Heard the chief doctor tell her she fucked up. He called her a fucking criminal. You ask Johnny ’bout that.”

  Stacy blamed the riots for Anthony getting shot. She knew that Johnny blamed the white doctors at the hospital. Really blamed them, and that too scared her.

  “What does that mean?” Stacy leaned against the doorjamb, even more confused.

  The honk of a horn interrupted.

  “Gotta go, girl.” Snake looked anxious to leave. “When Johnny gets home tell him we’re goin’ on down to Baker’s to hear some music.”

  Stacy Jones heard the muffled sounds across the dark bedroom. Katie was crying again. Hoping not to wake the others, she whispered, “What’s wrong, little sister?”

  “I hear the bang, bang,” Katie sobbed.

  Stacy struggled to emerge from a restless sleep. Was there shooting going on outside? She held her breath in the sudden pocket of silence soon followed by banging sounds.

  “The front door,” she mumbled. “Johnny forgot his keys again.”

  She kissed Katie’s forehead on her way out, careful to close the door quietly behind her. Johnny didn’t care who he woke up, especially these days.

  As she approached the front door, Stacy glanced at the living room wall clock: 4:17 A.M. She shook her head groggily. Since Anthony had been in the hospital, Stacy had slept only fitfully. Johnny was supposed to stay home with her and her sisters, but of course he didn’t. Anthony used to be home at night, studying in his room, but then he would be going off to college once he got better.

  Stacy wondered if Snake had come back again for Johnny. She’d seen him leave in that Mustang with Willie Allen and that creepy Lonnie guy who supposedly had a real job, like at the car plant. Now the pounding at the door was louder. Stacy didn’t have a bathrobe so she pulled the threadbare sheet off her bed and wound it around her. Flicking on the overhead light in the living room, she first peeked into her brothers’ bedroom. Both twin beds were empty, so she unlocked the front door and yanked it open, expecting Johnny.

  Two Detroit policemen stood outside. “Man almighty,” she cried, her drowsiness vanished as she blinked.

  “Hello, young lady,” said a smooth-faced, young black officer dressed in a navy blue uniform. “I’m Officer Willard and this is my partner, Officer Donovan.”

  Stacy hesitated. “Why are you here?”

  “We’d like to talk to your parents,” said the partner, who was white with a stomach that hung out over his belt.

  “My mother’s not home. She’s at work. What do you want?”

  The men glanced at each other.

  “We need to talk to your mother,” Donovan explained. “Is she the head of the household?”

  “Yes, she is,” Stacy answered. “She works nights at General Motors.”

  “Uh huh, and when will she be home?” Willard asked impatiently. “It’s after four.”

  The cop’s face softened. “I know it’s late and all, but we need to talk to your mother. Maybe you can help us get in touch with her.”

  “How old are you?” Donovan asked, averting his eyes from her thin frame wrapped in the tattered sheet.

  “Fourteen,” Stacy said without flinching, hoping that her mama wouldn’t get in trouble for leaving them alone.

  “Is there anybody else here with you?” Donovan asked after Stacy led them into the small, neat, but sparsely furnished living room. Both officers continued to stand.

  “My sisters are sleeping,” Stacy whispered. “Okay,” Willard replied. “Could you tell us your name?” “I’m Stacy Jones.”

  The officers exchanged another look. “Jones?” Donovan asked.

  Willard just nodded. “Stacy, who lives here with you?”

  “My mother and my brothers and sisters.”

  “And where are your brothers?” Willard pressed.

  “Johnny’s not usually out this late,” she quickly explained. Johnny would not want Stacy blabbing to these guys. He hated cops, all cops, even black ones. Then she muttered, “And Anthony’s in the hospital.”

  “So you have a brother named ‘Johnny’? John Jones?” Donovan asked.

  “No,” Stacey said cautiously. “Not Jones. He has a different last name than me.”

  “Diggs, is it?” Willard cut in.

  “Uh huh,” Stacey nodded.

  Willard nodded too. “So just you and your sisters are home?”

  “Asleep, like I said. They’d be real scared to see you here. Why don’t you come back when my mama is home? She gets home about six, but she needs to get some sleep.”

  “Whattaya think, Willie?” the older cop exchanged another look with his partner. “How about some coffee and we come back?”

  “Why are you here anyway?” Stacy blurted.

  “We need to talk to your mother,” Officer Willard said flatly. “Does she have a phone number at work?”

  “No, she’s part of the cleaning crew. They send her to a different place every night.”

  “Well, i
t’s four-thirty now. We’ll just go out for coffee and be back and wait for her to get home. You go on back to sleep,” Officer Willard decided. “Be sure to lock this door. You’re too young to be here on your own.”

  Stacy frowned. “Usually my brothers are here.”

  An old man walking through the abandoned lot had discovered the body as he returned home after a night of poker and beer. His daughter called the police who confirmed the report sometime around midnight. In the back pocket of the dead man’s jeans they had found a switchblade and a wallet with the name and address of John Diggs.

  One more hysterical mother. One more son lost to the ravages of the troubled city. The police department was obligated to send out a homicide crew, but the chances of an arrest and conviction were slim. The department had an overwhelming backlog due to the riots, and 1300 Beaubien, home to Detroit’s 1st Precinct, swarmed with investigators from the President’s Advisory Commission on Civil Disorders.

  Willard and Donovan would patrol the area for awhile before returning to Alexandrine Avenue. Maybe the mother would shed some light, but they expected a short and uneventful investigation. Even if there had been a witness, no one in Detroit was likely to come forward. After the riots, it seemed the entire population, good guys and the bad, were keeping their heads down and their mouths closed tight.

  They’d just pulled up to the Jones house when they saw a woman trudging toward them from the bus stop on Woodward.

  “Must be her,” Willard said. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Both officers stepped out of the car.

  With a start, Lucy realized that there were two police officers in front of her house.

  “What’s wrong? My girls?” she called, eyes flashing in panic. “Is it Anthony?” She rushed toward the apartment, Willard following.

  “What is it?” Lucy fumbled for her keys.

  “Calm down now, Mrs. Diggs,” Willard began. “We talked to Stacy, just a little while ago. She is a fine girl.”

  “My name is Lucy Jones. What do you mean, you talked to Stacy?” Lucy stared at the young black cop.

  He lifted his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Here, let me help you with the door so we can sit down and talk.” After unlocking the door, all three walked into the empty living room. “Please, sit down,” Willard went on. Lucy sank into the lone upholstered chair. Donovan leaned against the edge of a sagging beige sofa.

  “Mrs. Jones, we believe your son was killed this evening. That’s why we’re here,” Willard said matter-of-factly.

  Lucy gasped. “What do you mean, killed?” She stared up at Willard, who was standing in the middle of the room, legs spread, arms crossed.

  “He took a bullet in the brain,” Donovan said softly. “He died instantly. He was taken to the morgue at City Hospital. We’ll need you to come down and make a positive I.D.”

  Lucy just shook her head. How could Anthony have been shot last night? That had happened weeks ago. She struggled to make sense of this, but she couldn’t. Did they unplug the respirator? She hadn’t given permission.

  “Anthony,” she wailed. “Oh, God, how could you take my boy? He never hurt anybody.”

  “Mrs. Jones,” Willard interrupted. “It isn’t—” He turned as Stacy slipped into the room, her eyes huge with fear.

  “Please, God,” Lucy pleaded. Stacy grabbed her mother’s arm.

  “Mrs. Jones, I know you’re upset and that this is a shock,” Willard said firmly. “If you could just give us some information now, you can come down to the station later today when you’re ready.”

  Lucy stared at them in disbelief.

  “But we’ll need you to come to the morgue to identify the body,” Willard added.

  “The body?” Stacy whispered. She held onto her mother as tightly as she could.

  Donovan approached them. “Please, sit down. We have to ask a few more questions.”

  Lucy and Stacy sat mutely on the couch.

  “Now, Mrs. Jones,” he said briskly, “do you know where he was going and who he was with this evening? Let’s start from when you last saw him.”

  A sickening sensation shot through Lucy’s chest and spread across her whole being. They weren’t talking about Anthony at all.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  At Grosse Pointe Shores, it was barely eight in the morning.

  “David,” Cynthia Monroe began, “I’m making our plans for Aruba. How long do you think we can stay?”

  David glanced up from the paper. “Sorry, what was that?”

  Dressed in a pale green silk dressing gown, Cynthia replied, “I’m thinking three weeks of sun and sand. Some tennis. How does that sound?”

  David and Cynthia Monroe were finishing their coffee at the elegant travertine marble table in the spacious dining area just off the kitchen. They could hardly see each other through the oversized bouquet of gladiolas, thanks to Cynthia’s obsession with fresh flowers. Elaborate arrangements were scattered throughout the house with replacements arriving at their estate every other day. This indulgence had always irked David, but he left domestic matters to his wife.

  David rose, pulling on his suit jacket. For a moment he considered his wife silently. At thirty-two, she was even more stunning than when he had met her nearly seven years ago. Her shoulder length dark hair hung loose at her shoulders, and her deep blue eyes peered over at him expectantly.

  “There’s no way I can get away from the hospital this fall.” He shook his head slowly. “The surgical schedule is nonstop.”

  “But certainly—” Cynthia frowned.

  David attempted a smile. “We’re still getting riot-related emergencies, gunshot wounds, knifings, burns.”

  “I’m tired of the riot excuse. You’ve been late every night for so many weeks I’ve lost count. And when you do show up, you’re like some kind of zombie. It’s obvious your mind is someplace else.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but it’s my job.”

  “We’ve missed two dinner parties in the last month,” she continued. “You’re out being the hero, and I’m stuck here.”

  “Cynthia, it’s not that bad. You play bridge, and you’re at the club almost every day. You have many evening engagements.”

  “It’s not safe anymore without an escort.”

  “Just use the limousine service if you go into the city. But I will make an effort to be home earlier in the evenings.”

  Cynthia banged the empty silver coffeepot on the surface of the table. “That’s a lie, and you know it.” Her voice was shrill. “Your work has always been more important than me. I’m telling you, I need a break. Detroit’s become so oppressive.”

  “You know you love this city.”

  “I love this house because this is where I grew up with Daddy. As for Aruba, I’m booking the flight with the travel agent. If you don’t give me some dates, then I’ll go ahead and set it up without your input.”

  “We’ll talk more tonight,” he said, straightening his tie. “But seriously, Cynthia. I can’t get away this year.”

  “Don’t you understand? We need time together,” she said, burying her head in her hands. In a small voice she added, “Are you still trying to punish me?”

  David knew her moods well, but he did glance back, wondering where this switch from sullen to petulant was heading. “Being chief of surgery comes with responsibility, for God’s sake. I’m not ‘punishing’ anybody.” He struggled to mask his annoyance. Simply put, his wife was used to getting her own way. She was a skilled manipulator. “I can’t let my faculty and my house staff down. Besides those riots, we just got a new crop of medical students, remember?”

  “Oh, how important.” She waved her hand at him. “Just go then.”

  Without another word David walked through the kitchen, reaching for the car keys hanging on the hook by the door. His face grim, he eased himself into the driver’s seat of the shiny Cadillac and pulled the car out of the garage onto the long, winding driveway leading from the French Provi
ncial estate on Lake St. Clair to Lake Shore Drive.

  David thought a lot about being a kid, growing up in Charleston, South Carolina, with his younger brother, Nick. Then his father lost his job in a paper mill as the industry became mechanized. The automotive industry, however, needed mechanics, and so the Monroe family moved from charming Charleston to the bustling, increasingly hostile city of Detroit. Ten years later, when David was in college, both his parents were killed driving on Interstate 94 during a winter storm. His dad had never mastered the skill required to drive in Michigan’s ice and snow. His parents died instantly when their sedan careened into a jack-knifed tractor trailer. With a small inheritance, David was able to graduate from Duke and enroll in Harvard Medical School where he stayed on for a surgical residency. From there he went to University Medical School in Detroit to be near his brother. Nick had married his high school sweetheart, Denise, and they had four sons who all looked like replicas of Nick and David when they were little. David adored his nephews, but being with them was bittersweet. He’d always wanted children, and Cynthia did not. Her refusal was a raw wound, a profound disappointment.

  Cynthia Harriman, the only child of Dr. Bernard D. Harriman and the late Gladys Harriman, came into his life the first year of his assistant professorship. They met at City Hospital’s Valentine Benefit Gala when he was thirty-two and she twenty-four. They married eight months later. It was after the lavish wedding when David began to discover the many adjustments that were necessary to endure a vain and willful wife. After Cynthia’s father suffered a heart attack and passed away, David came to realize that he had married not only a very rich, but a very spoiled woman. And now she wanted to go to Aruba. Some things would never change.