Black Lotus Page 4

  “Whatever you say, Audrey.” Kahllah winked playfully. “Have you seen Roger today?”

  “I sent him out on some deliveries. With any luck, he’ll be gone all day. That guy gives me the creeps and I hate it when he’s around the office and you’re not here. He just sits in the corner doing those damn crossword puzzles and stares at people.”

  “Roger is harmless, he just needs constant direction. That’s all,” Kahllah said.

  “Then I wish you would direct him someplace else to work. Me and some of the other girls were talking and we don’t know how comfortable we feel working around that retard.” The minute the word left Audrey’s mouth, she wished she could take it back. Everyone in the office knew how Kahllah felt about Roger, and to speak ill of him was to bring Kahllah’s wrath down on your head.

  Roger was a veteran who hadn’t come back from the war in one piece. He’d miraculously survived a slug to the head, but suffered brain damage as a result. Kahllah had found him living on the streets and selling crack for the local dealers, who paid him in food instead of cash. Because of her adopted father, Kahllah had always had a soft spot for US veterans and offered the young man a job at Real Talk, doing odd jobs and making deliveries. Unfortunately, the crack dealers he was working for were reluctant to let him go, so it took a bit of convincing. There were different variations of the story as to how Kahllah had gained Roger his freedom. Some said she’d bought his freedom from the dealers, while others said she called in a favor from a friend in the police department. The least talked about version, and probably the closest to the truth, ended with Kahllah’s dad putting two of the dealers in the hospital. She would never confirm or deny any of the stories. Since then she had been looking out for Roger like a big sister.

  “You need to watch your mouth, Audrey,” Kahllah hissed.

  “I’m sorry, K. You know I didn’t mean any harm.”

  “I can’t tell.” Kahllah placed her palms on the table and gave Audrey a stern look. “Listen, I know Roger is a bit different and can sometimes be a lot to deal with, but he’s still a person and has every right to earn a living. This is the last time I plan on telling you or anyone else in this office that. Are we clear?”

  “Sure thing, boss,” Audrey said in her best Southern drawl.

  “Don’t be a smartass, Audrey, just try and be mindful of other people’s feelings. I’ve got enough work to do without having to tell everyone in the office to stop teasing the slow kid.”

  “All you ever do is work, Kahllah. What are you reading up on?” Audrey snatched up the Village Voice from the desk before Kahllah could stop her. “The classifieds? Kahllah, I know you’re not that hard up for a date.”

  “Give it back.” Kahllah reached for the paper, but Audrey scooted out of her reach.

  “Older man working in transportation services seeks company of younger woman for rough play. Signed, Must Love Flowers,” Audrey read from one of the ads Kahllah had circled. “This is not only dangerous, it’s depressing. As fine as you are, there’s no way in the hell you should be scraping the bottom of the barrel for a date. Hell, I’ve got a cousin who’ll be out of prison in a few months that I could introduce you to if you’re this desperate.”

  “I have no interest in meeting your jailbird-ass cousin, and no, I’m not that hard up for a date.” Kahllah snatched the paper from her. “I’m doing research for a story.”

  “Umm-hmm,” Audrey gave her the side-eye. “Kahllah, you were always kind of stiff, but you were way more fun in college. I even recall you going out on a few dates, but when you came back to New York you were like a robot. I don’t recall seeing you date anyone or so much as hearing you talk about a guy in months.”

  “I date here and there, Audrey, but I work too much to date anyone steadily. You see the kind of hours I keep. Our numbers at Real Talk are good, but they could be better. For them to get better, we have to find better stories. That’s part of the reason I’m always traveling.”

  “Well, while you’re off traveling, some of the best stories are going on right under our noses.” Audrey tossed the newspaper that she’d been reading onto her friend’s desk.

  Kahllah’s eyes widened in shock when she saw the headline about a priest who had been found murdered in his church. As she read the article that chronicled the man’s service in the community over the past twenty years, up to his brutal murder by an unknown assailant, she found herself disgusted. “There are some sick people in the world. It’s news, but these aren’t the kind of stories Real Talk is about.”

  “Not what happened to the priest, the accompanying story at the bottom.” Audrey tapped her finger on a smaller article that Kahllah had missed. It was a short piece about two detectives who had gotten into a fistfight at the scene of the crime. One of the detectives was listed as James Wolf, who had been one of the recent subjects of an investigation into police corruption. Above the story there was a grainy picture of a man dressed like a thug choking another man wearing a suit.

  Kahllah shook her head. “Those fools at the NYPD are worse than reality TV.”

  “And these are the kind of stories that younger and hipper readers want! They want to read about people like Detective Wolf.”

  Kahllah shrugged. “One dirty cop is just as rotten as the next. I don’t see what’s so special about him.”

  “Then allow me to enlighten you. When I caught wind of this, I did a little digging and found that this cop is so dirty that his middle name should be Mud. His jacket reads like an episode of Miami Vice. He’s been written up three times in the past eighteen months for misconduct and questioned twice about missing evidence in some of his cases. Two years ago he was even charged with murder.”

  This got Kahllah’s attention. “Then what’s he doing still wearing a badge?”

  “Nobody would come forward to dispute Wolf’s claim of self-defense, so the murder case got thrown out. They let him keep his job if he agreed not to sue the department. This guy is literally a wolf in sheep’s clothing. It would be great press for us if we got the inside scoop on him.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Kahllah said flatly.

  “That means you’re gonna push it to the bottom of the pile and forget about it,” Audrey said with an attitude. “So, you wanna do lunch later or what?”

  “I wish I could, but I’m probably going to be tied up in meetings until God knows when. Maybe we can grab a late dinner tonight?” Kahllah suggested.

  “Sounds good, but you’re treating since I’ve been carrying your load and mine since you’ve been MIA.” Audrey slid off the desk. “And Kahllah, at least give this Wolf situation some thought before you sweep it into the trash.”

  “I will, Audrey.” Kahllah moved back over to her laptop to check her e-mail.

  When Audrey took the hint and left the office, Kahllah picked up the newspaper and studied Detective Wolf’s photo. He was a nice-looking man; in the photo he appeared a bit thuggish, but hardly the type for all those things Audrey was saying about him—though she knew it was always the ones you least expected. She rolled the newspaper up and tossed it in the trash before turning her attention back to the classified ad she had circled.

  CHAPTER 4

  "Detective Wolf, this is an unexpected surprise.”

  She was a bit older than he remembered. Her black hair had begun to thin and gray at the temples; crow’s feet lined the corners of her eyes. If he recalled correctly, she ought to be somewhere in her mid-to-late thirties, but looked like she was north of forty. Stress and heartache could sap your youth faster than anything else, and Wolf knew that Edna Gooden had been through more of both than anyone should be made to endure.

  “How’re you, Mrs. Gooden?” Wolf asked.

  She shrugged her thin shoulders. “I’ve been better and I’ve been worse, but I’m here, so I guess there’s no sense in complaining. What brings you here? Have there been any new developments?” Her eyes looked hopeful.

  The question stung Wolf and he wished he cou
ld tell her something other than the truth. “No, ma’am. I’m afraid I’m here about something different. May I come in?”

  “I’m sorry. Where are my manners? Yes, please come in.” Mrs. Gooden opened the door wide for Wolf to enter.

  For the most part, the apartment was the same as he had remembered it: television mounted in an old-model entertainment system, green couches sitting on a brown rug. The only difference was that the apartment was far less tidy than it had been. Clothes were piled in corners between the couches, which he could tell needed to be washed from the slight moldy smell they produced. Empty beer bottles littered the table and an ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts.

  “Excuse the mess, I’ve been busy working double shifts this week and haven’t had a chance to straighten up,” Mrs. Gooden told him, noticing how Wolf was looking around at the apartment. “Can I offer you something to drink?”

  “No, I’m fine, thanks. I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I just need to ask a few questions and I’ll be on my way.”

  “Sure, detective. Please, have a seat.” Mrs. Gooden moved some old newspapers off the couch. She took the spot on the sofa directly across from him. “How can I help you?”

  “It’s about the priest who was murdered last night, Father Fleming. I understand that you knew him?”

  “Oh yes, John and I were members of his congregation. I was devastated when I heard the news. Have you come any closer to finding out who did it?” she asked.

  “I’m working on it. Do you know anyone who could’ve possibly wanted to hurt Father Fleming?”

  “I haven’t a clue. All the members of the church loved him, he was a blessing. Lord knows, I have no idea what I’d have done without him to help us get through what happened to John Jr.” Her eyes seemed to well with tears when she spoke his name. “That was a rough time for us . . . real rough. Sometimes when I hear kids running in the hallway I think John Jr. is going to come busting through the door and tell us this whole ordeal has been one big joke.”

  “I’m sorry if I opened up an old wound, Mrs. Gooden.”

  “It’s okay, detective. It’s been years and you would think I’d be able to talk about it without turning into a water bucket, but I still haven’t been able to totally come to grips with what happened to my son. The worst part is not knowing. I’d give anything in the world to be able to look the killer in the eyes and ask him why. Why would someone do that to my baby?”

  Before joining the narcotics task force, Wolf had cut his teeth as a detective working in the missing persons division. It wasn’t exactly a dream assignment for the young detective, but what it lacked in excitement it made up for in reward. It did his heart good to be able to reunite families with missing loved ones, or at the very least be able to give them closure—but with the good came the bad. Wolf had been assigned to the case of a missing boy named Johnny Gooden who had disappeared one afternoon on his way home from a Little League game. It would be months before Wolf was able to bring the Goodens word of their son. He had been found in the woods just north of the city, buried under snow and hidden until the spring thaw, still wearing his Little League uniform. The cold had preserved whatever was left of Johnny that animals hadn’t picked over, which allowed an autopsy to be done. Johnny had been beaten, sodomized, and eventually strangled to death before he was dumped in the woods like trash. The horrible murder was too much for Wolf, and after the case was officially closed, he transferred from missing persons to narcotics. The killing of adults he could deal with, but his heart couldn’t take the sight of another dead child. To that day, Wolf could still hear Mrs. Gooden’s screams in his ears when he brought her the news of her son and presented her with the red baseball cap they’d found with Johnny’s body.

  Holy shit, Wolf almost said out loud when the missing pieces of the puzzle came together in his head. He now remembered why the bloody baseball cap at the church had caught his eye. “Mrs. Gooden, if I’m not overstepping my bounds, could you tell me what became Johnny’s baseball cap? The one I brought to you and your husband the day we found him.”

  “It’s hanging in his room, where it’s been since you gave it to us. What does Johnny’s cap have to do with the murder of Father Fleming?” Mrs. Gooden asked.

  “Maybe nothing . . . maybe something. I just have a hunch that I want to follow up on. Could I see the cap, please?”

  Mrs. Gooden was hesitant, but then she got up and went to the bedroom to retrieve the hat. While she looked, Wolf stood and moved to the mantle where pictures of the family were lined up. His eyes lingered on the one of Johnny Gooden and his father on the first day of Little League batting practice. Wolf examined the red cap in the picture and was almost certain that it was the same one he’d seen at the crime scene, but it didn’t make sense. How could Johnny’s death be related to the murder of the priest?

  The front door opened and in came John Gooden Sr. He was a burly man with thinning hair, wearing work boots and a dirty shirt. In his arm he held a brown paper bag that clanked with the familiar sound of glass bottles, likely from the liquor store. On his heels was a skinny young man wearing oversized jeans, a teenager who could’ve been a mirror twin for John Jr. His name was Scott, if Wolf remembered correctly—he was Johnny’s older brother. When Scott spotted Wolf he looked surprised, but John Gooden Sr. looked enraged.

  “What the hell are you doing in my house?” John Sr. demanded.

  Wolf extended his hand. “How are you, Mr. Gooden?”

  John Sr. did not shake it. “I didn’t ask for your useless-ass hand, I asked what you’re doing in my house.”

  “Dad, just relax—” Scott began.

  “You shut your damn hole,” John Sr. barked at his son, before turning his attention back to Detective Wolf. “I thought I made it clear the last time you darkened my doorstep that I didn’t ever want to see your face again unless it was to tell me that you’ve caught the piece of shit that killed my baby boy!”

  Wolf could smell the alcohol coming out of John’s pores and knew there was no rationalizing with a drunk, but he tried anyway. “Mr. Gooden, I know there’s nothing I can say to ease your pain, but please believe me when I say I tried everything in my power to bring your son’s killer to justice. Not one person in the department worked harder on that case than me and not a day goes by that I don’t ask myself if I could’ve done more to save Johnny from what happened to him.”

  “You should’ve done more!” John Sr. snapped. “The pain of a parent having to bury their child is something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.”

  “I’m sorry,” was all Wolf could say.

  “Damn right you’re sorry, you and the whole NYPD!”

  “What’s all the noise out here?” Mrs. Gooden returned from the bedroom. “John, why would you speak to a guest in our house like that? Apologize!”

  “It’s fine, Mrs. Gooden,” Wolf told her. In all actuality, he wanted to put John Gooden on his ass for speaking to him in such a way, but out of respect for what he’d been through he held it together. “If I could just take a quick look at the baseball cap, I’ll be on my way and out of your hair.”

  “Well, that’s what I was coming to tell you. I can’t seem to find the cap. I saw it on the wall in its usual place a few days ago, but when I went to look just now it was gone.”

  “You mean Johnny’s Little League cap? Why are you snooping through my son’s things?” John Sr. asked.

  “Detective Wolf thinks he may have a lead,” Mrs. Gooden answered for him.

  “More like a hunch I’d like to follow up on,” Wolf corrected her.

  “Well, then you’re too late. The cap isn’t here anymore,” John Sr. said, to the surprise of everyone in the room, especially Mrs. Gooden.

  “What do you mean? What did you do with Johnny’s things?” she asked frantically.

  “A few days ago someone came around collecting clothes for homeless kids, so I donated a bunch of things the kids have outgrown and Johnny’s cap,” Jo
hn Sr. confessed to his wife.

  “How could you?” Mrs. Gooden was mortified. “The cap was one of the few things I had left to hold onto that reminded me of Johnny. You know how I felt about it!”

  “I couldn’t take it anymore,” John Sr. began. “I listened to you go on and on about Johnny, and saw the pain in your eyes when you were trying to bring yourself to clean out his room, and it got to me. Every time I went into that room and saw Johnny’s cap hanging on the wall, it reminded me of what happened. It reminded me that I failed to protect my son.” He almost looked ashamed.

  “I can’t believe you would give Johnny’s things away!” Mrs. Gooden shouted. She was starting to come unglued. She opened her mouth to say something to Detective Wolf, but the words caught in her throat. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she ran into the bedroom and slammed the door.

  “Do you see what you’ve done? It’s bad enough that you let our son die, but just when we’re finally coming to grips with it you come back reopening old wounds!” John Sr. yelled at Wolf.

  “Mr. Gooden, I didn’t mean to make trouble. I’m only trying to help.”

  “You can help by getting out of my house and my life!” John Sr. raged.

  “You got it,” Wolf said, trying to hold his composure. John Sr. was hostile, and he wanted to match his hostility, but it wouldn’t help his case. “Before I go, would it be too much trouble to ask if you remember the name of the organization you donated the clothes to?”

  John Sr. gave him a look of disbelief, before taking two angry steps forward. Thankfully, Scotty stepped between them.

  “Maybe you should go, detective,” the young man suggested. He was a wise kid.

  “Maybe I should,” Wolf agreed. It was obvious that the Gooden home was a cold lead. Wolf gave John Sr. a last look, to let him know it was respect for his grief and not fear that was stopping him.

  CHAPTER 5

  When Detective Wolf got outside the Goodens’ apartment building he felt more confused than when he’d gone in. It was obvious that the murder of the priest and the Gooden boy were connected, but without seeing how the baseball cap fit in he couldn’t be 100 percent sure . . . and he needed to be certain before he could take any of his findings to the captain. And when that happened, what would the captain do with the information? Wolf had known Captain Marx for many years and he wasn’t naïve enough to think that there wasn’t more to the case than he was being told. Captain Marx was taking too personal an interest for it to just be about wanting to stop a rash of killings in his city. There was an endgame for him, and before it was all said and done Wolf would find out what that was.