Murder in Germantown Read online

  “Where’s the rifle?”

  “With ballistics.”

  “There’s a problem. It was stolen from Barclay. Would my source be subject to the theft charge?”

  “Aramis, the DA wouldn’t dare prosecute your source for stealing a weapon that was responsible for at least three deaths.”

  “There’s more to my story.”

  “I’d love to hear it.”

  “Thought so. My source went to the Hollow to do some interviewing to find out about the vics. Got some juicy info.”

  “He couldn’t have. I couldn’t even get them to talk. Who’s this source? I have expert lie detectors to validate his claims.”

  “He, is a she, and no lie test is required. You’d be amazed at what the promise of pussy can buy these days from hoodlums in a bar.”

  “Right. What did she find out?”

  “Barclay’s father was a money launderer for the dead attorney who actually funneled the money for the two dead dope dealers. Barclay, Sr. then turns around and loans the money to other businesses fronted by Suspect.”

  “Sounds like motive to me. And your proof is where?” I asked. Aramis was beginning to sound like a textbook of conjecture.

  “In Barclay senior’s financial statements buried somewhere. Surely, you can find a tax attorney in this firm to unearth the secrets.”

  “I could have a secret inquiry completed.”

  “Not could. You have to. What if Junior killed for dear old dad and the bimbo girlfriend helped?”

  “But, why frame Wydell?”

  “You’re not that damn smart. Because he would get rid of the man who blocks his shine and having sex with one of his kind. Duh!”

  “I get it.”

  “Now, what do you have counselor?”

  “Jon Rude tells me that the accomplice was a female.”

  “It’s not my source, but I could ask her about that.”

  “The female wears a size nine, and wore Saucony’s. The Cross Country team wears them.”

  “I’ll look into it,” he told me noncommittally.

  I sat behind my desk, glowering at my drink. I had heard enough. “Where’s the surveillance tape, sir?”

  He passed it to me.

  I watched it.

  “You’ve watched it, so I’m sure that’s all the proof you need to print that up. Take this to the police as well, after I copy it, of course.”

  I then sent an E-mail to Jon Rude. “The Barclay business does not go in the paper.”

  “Until you get that audit, of course.”

  “Yeah, I’mma have my pal, Ashton Banks, take care of it. We started together, and he’ll be down to help me.”

  I told Aramis and hoped that I could deliver.

  “The public needs to know that an industrial transplant from California and his son are being investigated for criminal ties to the Hope Circle murders. I gotta scoot.”

  “Catch you later.”

  CHAPTER 72

  Rhonesia curled herself on her bed, sipped green tea and waited for a call from Aramis. She actually missed him in a romantic sense. Certainly, she was all business and was strangely comfortable around Aramis. She had her window open and let the winter breeze bump up against her body. It felt nice with the mix of heat. She hated men, and thought of the man that forced her to feel that way: her father.

  She thought of his father and his abandonment. He had committed suicide after being wrongly accused of a rape/murder. By the time DNA arrived to exonerate him, he had hung himself in his Huntingdon State Prison cell in upstate Pennsylvania. He was her number one pen pal. He had written her weekly, and she enjoyed his personalized jail house cards. She kept them in a scrap book along with photos of him in his brown state uniform. She could still smell the Muslim oils that he splashed on himself when she visited him behind the glass. She thought of Wydell and did not want him to face the same doom.

  Her mother had remarried a short one year after her father’s conviction. Rhonesia resented her for it and though they communicated, it was often not of importance.

  When her father died she was approached by a balding white man, as she exited Lincoln High School in northeast Philadelphia. He handed her a $200,000 check, which was what her father had left a pal for her.

  She had a class in twenty minutes and hoped to hear from Aramis before she left for class. She had to present an English project. The assignment was for her to select the number one song of all time and analyze how music and lyrics affected listeners. She chose, Michael Jackson’s Thriller.

  As she approached her dorm room door, the room telephone rang. She snatched it up.

  “Hello.”

  The caller was hesitant to speak. “Is this Rhonesia Cosby?”

  It was a male voice and not disguised as far as she could tell.

  “Yes, sir. Who is this?”

  “My name is irrelevant.” Arrogant.

  “Don’t be calling my damn...”

  “Wait! Don’t hang up.”

  “Who the hell is this? I do not play games.”

  He ignored the question. “I read your story about Wydell James.”

  “You and the entire campus. Why are you such a special reader? And I still do not know who this is.”

  “I know who the killer is. That makes me special, right, Rhonesia Cosby?”

  She dropped her bag and raced to her answering machine and pressed record. “Come again,” she said like a veteran reporter.

  “You heard me, and I heard the beep. You’re recording this, so let’s get down to business.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do not placate me, missy. I am no cheap thrill. I have some pretty intelligence. Prettier than you. I need a commitment to ten grand and then an additional 25 once I pass along the silver platter.”

  “What do you know?” she asked as if she had the cash.

  “Later. Not now.”

  “I need something to get someone to listen to me. Besides Wydell may not have access to that kind of cash.”

  “He does, and I already helped him once.”

  “How the hell is that?”

  “You have probably already written a brilliant article about coming across the security surveillance. I slipped it under your door. Now get me a commitment for the cash to be wired, reporter!”

  The caller hung up.

  CHAPTER 73

  Pacing and nerve-racked, I could not believe what was happening with the Wydell case. So many things had gone unanswered, despite all of the evidence which pointed to an acquittal. What about the true killers? The vision of them running around the streets, probably planning their next crime, was horrific. True, I loved to win cases, but I could not escape my responsibility to the public safety and ultimately my own. I did not like to see men railroaded, and I detested murderers.

  I planned my weekend and made calls to confirm my events. I tried Kensan to set up a meeting to discuss his manuscript. Got no answer. I tried to line up poker with a few buddies, but to no avail. I knew I had to take Brandon to the Betsy Ross House. I had to visit Wydell James. Maybe I’d play tennis on Sunday at the Cricket Club. I entertained myself at all cause because I never knew when God would flash, The End, before my eyes. I lastly called Vergil to make an appointment to get my hair cut.

  Tired of being on the telephone, I stood in my office window and looked down at the people below. I saw Aramis and a short-haired girl making dents in the snow, weaving hurriedly down 12th Street. I was looking for an armed gunman to appear. I snatched up my desk phone and called security to let them in without delay.

  Definitely, a beauty entered the office with Aramis. I was impressed. Aramis shut the office door and was breathless. So was the fox.

  “Ravonne Lemmelle meet Rhonsia Cosby,” Aramis said, pulling two bottled waters from my small refrigerator. I shook her hand. Neat manicured nails were painted pink.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said looking around my office. Aramis handed her a water.

  “My plea
sure, Rhonesia. Now which one of you wanna tell me what’s going on?”

  “She is.” Aramis confirmed. “Let him hear the tape.”

  Plugging the answering machine into the wall was easy. Listening to the recorded message was hard.

  I asked, “Any idea who that is?”

  “Has to be a student. Our dorm numbers are easy to get. See, the numbers are in order by dorm, so it’s easy to figure out. Or perhaps that caller got the number from me or my roommate. But, no I do not recognize the voice.”

  “And, he called you reporter,” I said. “That sounds personal.”

  “Only students that know me call me that.”

  “Why did he decide to call you and not me or the police?”

  “I have been writing articles for the school paper. So I guess he felt that I was intimate to the case. And he wants money.”

  Ah, the source. I had a thought. I bet Aramis had banged her.

  Aramis smiled at me. He knew that he had caught the biggest break. If she got the information to the killer’s identity and was right, he would have benefitted tremendously. I had to grill her, though.

  “Could this have been a hoax?”

  “Anything is possible.” Aramis informed me, answering for her. “She’s scared. I doubt if it was a hoax. She believes her life could be in danger.”

  “Rhonesia, I hate to badger you. What I am about to say may seem grotesque and morbidly disgusting, but I must ask, are you in on this scam?”

  “Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Aramis barked at me. “She’s not into that. We have been working this case together. She gathered material information to acquit your client. The sawed off came from her!”

  “And quite conveniently,” I said. “Maybe, she was the female killer.”

  “This is insane, Ray-Ray.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Guys,” Rhonesia interjected. “Aramis, I can handle, Mr. Lemmelle,” she said and then told me, “You have lie detectors at your disposal. Get one in here. You craft the questions. Anything that you like. If I am pure, you grant me the money to negotiate with the informant, and,”--she glanced at Aramis--“us permission to print what we know this far exclusively.”

  “Deal,” I said and gripped up my phone.

  CHAPTER 74

  I had found a point in which I needed to relax as the shadows of the adjacent buildings faded into darkness. My eyes had had enough of scouring legal tomes. My arms were tired of being in the typing position. My mind was tired of plotting the course to execute an effective Motion to Dismiss. I had stroked Cynthia and imagined her arching like a tiger and her back shaking like a fancy double head vibrator. I sat the legal books on a cart, and packed my briefcase with enough papers to do bicep curls.

  The drive home was swift and my family was waiting for me. Dajuan was on the sofa with a notebook in his lap. Brandon was on the floor stretched out reading a book. Surprisingly, Ms. Pearl circled my feet. I assumed that she was done bitching.

  Brandon immediately became bored with the book when I entered the door. It was 7:30.

  “It’s not six, but 7:30 is good,” Dajuan joked.

  “Daddy R, I saw you on TV. You made all those people laugh. I saw you,” Brandon said and jumped into my arms. “It was grrreeeaattttt,” he continued stretching the word like a Sugar Daddy taffy. He had obviously caught a rerun of the press conference in my office.

  “Yeah. I had fun, too.” I lied and Dajuan looked at me. He knew that I hated the media.

  “Dad, can we make Rice Krispies treats, pleeeeaaasssseeee.”

  He had stretched that word out, evidencing a new fad. I hoped that it went out of style quickly.

  “Come on,” Dajuan said, answering for me. “We can start while dad takes a shower.”

  “Okay,” Brandon said somberly.

  I could tell that he wanted to be around me. “Just let me take off my suit and I’ll be there to help. Alright?”

  I didn’t want to let him down, after all, he asked me to make the treats.

  “Good. Let me come with you,” he told me and grabbed my hand.

  He ushered me into the bedroom. For five, he would not be deceived.

  Dajuan followed us, and I heard him say, “So, I can wager that you’re going to win?”

  “Call NASA and ask if they have built a time machine that actually works,” I said and hung up my blazer and slacks.

  Brandon was not more than an inch from me. It was like that old Bobby Brown song, Every Little Step I Take.

  Dajuan chuckled. “It can’t be that bad. The press conference seemed fairly solid. The facts were clear and convincing. If I was a juror, I’d buy it.”

  “Easy for you to say,” I said walking to the shower. Deputy Brandon was not taking his eyes off me. I stepped under the farthest of the two shower heads and did a once-over with my body gel. I toweled, threw on pajamas, and we were off to make the treats.

  “Brandon, what is wrong with you?” I asked as we walked to the kitchen.

  “Nothing,” he said and smiled.

  I glared at him.

  “Stop telling a story.”

  “I’m not, dad. Just...some lady came to my school yard and said she was my mom. She said that she was going to get me from you. When I raced to my teacher, the lady ran off with some man.”

  CHAPTER 75

  The two journalists organized the facts. Rhonesia had passed the test with flying colors. They sat in an office at the Philadelphia Inquirer piecing together an explosive article that would blow the jail up and free Wydell James. They had sent out for cheese steaks and Pepsi.

  The article was divided into sections--small chapters--as if they were writing a novella. Chapter one was the murders. Chapter two, the arrest of Wydell James, which included the deceptive gun retrieval and the alibi--including the campus surveillance tape. Chapter three, them locating the weapon and acknowledging that there was another shooter and the shell casings found on the balcony of the property across from the crime scene. Chapter four, the LaSalle U keychain and female footprint connected to LaSalle runners.

  Rhonesia was as organized as a textbook. She typed drafts, printed them, edited them on paper, and made changes in her laptop. She kept the drafts in neat piles. Aramis, on the other hand, was a slob. His drafts were all over the floor, many of them unedited. He had changed his mind before he reviewed what he had just typed, and he would start anew.

  “Why am I nervous?” she asked, looking for a little conversation.

  She adored how he was so unruly, but his articles were so beautifully written. She began to appreciate him and his abilities. Not to mention that what he had taught her was gratis. He impressed her. She liked that he was an ordinary man, with pretty-boy sex appeal and the brains of a Harvard grad. He multitasked the personas of a bad boy and an intellect with ease. She occasionally found herself staring at him and hoped that she was not caught.

  “You’re working on a case that will be on the tip of everyone’s tongue in your entire school by the morning, and you’re getting your first byline on a case that will send shock waves through the DA’s office and the PPD.”

  Aramis noted her beauty, and smiled at her. She was sexy and undoubtedly more intelligent than he had pegged her to be. He knew that some women lived on Brains Street and others on Beauty Avenue. Rhonesia lived at the intersection. Just special.

  “Am I going to be safe from arrest?” she asked coyly. “I can’t go to jail.”

  “Everything is fact-checked, so no harm no foul.”

  Aramis assumed that she was intentionally being adorable and needy. He wanted to hold her, but he said, “You’ll be fine. Ravonne won’t let you go to jail, believe me. He has favors and would use one for us.”

  They returned back to their work. They had a deadline. By 8:45, they had done draft three, and Aramis E-mailed what he had to his editor for review.

  * * *

  Aramis’s managing editor and the Philadelphia Inquirer attorney had approved the sixt
h draft by 10:15. Aramis was told to call the detective in charge of the case for comments. He had also spoken to Ravonne, who had him delete the fact about the Saucony sneaker. He had the gun, so he did not need to verify anything with the police prior to going to print. He waited for the forensics to prove the bullet found in the victims matched the rifle before he handed over the weapon; and therefore, he did not need a comment, but he wanted one to authenticate the article. A comment would add to the broth of the stew that he brewed.