"Think of it this way," Vicki said, changing tacks. "If we go there now, we'll be showing our hand, like you said. Right now, James doesn't know that HIDTA is recording his phone calls. He doesn't know they're building a case against him. If we go over and start asking questions about the phone, he's gonna ditch the phone for sure."
"You might be right." "Good," Vicki sighed, relieved. "You might also be wrong. Or what happens to him after might not matter." Vicki felt her first tingle of true fear. "He's dangerous. James is a dangerous man." Reheema smiled. "You got a gun." "I won't use it, and neither will you." "I'm dangerous, either way." "Oh, that's great." Vicki started to lose her temper, which she knew wouldn't help her cause. "Reheema. I guarantee that however tough you think you are, James is a lot tougher." "I can handle him. Record says he's five six, one fifty. I got a couple inches on him and I've been lifting for almost a year." Yikes. "That's not the point." "Listen, if you're scared, don't come." Suddenly Reheema twisted the black wheel of the Intrepid to the right, yanked the car to the curb in front of Popeyes fried chicken, and pressed the brakes. The car lurched to a stop. "Get out."
"What?" Vicki asked, startled. "Go. Leave. This is a decent neighborhood, you'll be fine. Get yourself some chicken wings and I'll come back for you." "No." Vicki knew she should go, at the same moment she knew she'd stay. "Get out." Vicki sat stiff in her seat. "I don't want to." "Why not? You'll lose your job." "Not if you behave yourself, I won't. I'm in. You need me." Reheema burst into merry laughter, like her old self, and the two almost became friends again. "I'm saving you from yourself, Reheema." "The hell you are!" "Also you'd miss me. You'd have separation anxiety." "No, I wouldn't." Vicki waved a hand. "Go ahead, tough girl. Drive." Reheema laughed again. "You're kiddin'." "Go." Vicki turned to her, grave. "But I'm watching every single move you make. And if I have to shoot you, I will."
"Damn!" Reheema said, and hit the gas. They arrived at James's house faster than most rockets, and the Intrepid pulled up in front of a crumbling brick row house. Reheema cut the ignition, took out the key, and started to leave the car, when Vicki put a hand on her arm to stop her.
"How about this?" Vicki asked, as a last-ditch effort. "How about you let me do the talking and we don't tell him who you are?"
"How about not?" Reheema's features had fallen into lines as fixed as dark marble.
"If I question him, maybe I can convince him to come in and confess, as opposed to muscling him."
"I want to muscle him."
Vicki experienced another fear tingle. She'd had so many on the way over, she felt electrified. "Reheema, I'm begging you, please be smart."
"Enough talk." Reheema broke Vicki's grasp and got out of the car, slamming the door behind her.
Oh, great. Vicki jumped out of the passenger seat and ran around the other side as Reheema climbed the concrete steps to James's front door in two bounds and started pounding. James's row house stood in the middle of the block, in worse repair than the rest of the neighborhood. It had only one black shutter on the first floor, for two windows, and its front door had been painted a bright, mismatched green, as if bought used or poached from a junkyard.
"Stay calm," Vicki said, but Reheema kept knocking.
"James! Ray James!"
"Calm!" Vicki eyed the street, which was still except for Re-heema's banging on the door. In one of the houses, a dog started barking.
"Ray James! Open up!"
"Maybe he's not home."
"James! Open this door!"
"We could call him on the cell, see if he's home."
"Open this door!" Reheema shouted, and before Vicki could realize what was happening, much less could stop her, Reheema had reared back and shoved the door with all her might, breaking it open at the lock. "That's what I'm talkin' 'bout!"
"Reheema!" Vicki shouted, terrified.
But Reheema was already pushing the door the rest of the way open and breaking into the house.
THIRTY-FIVE
"James! Ray James!" Reheema shouted over a blaring TV, and Vicki hurried inside the dark row house after her. A short hall ended at an arched entrance to a living room, where the noise was coming from.
"Oh! Who're you?" a man asked, his voice fearful.
"You Ray James?" Reheema demanded.
"Yes, don' hurt me!"
"Reheema! Stop!" Vicki rounded the corner just in time to catch Reheema yelling at a man who was lying in a bed in the darkened living room. He raised his arms partway, as if she had a gun. He was youngish, black, and obviously ill, because the bed was an adjustable hospital bed with an orange-and-green Brophy's Medical Supply sticker on the footboard. Next to it sat a plastic white commode with the same sticker, and the coffee table was serving as a makeshift night table, littered with tall brown bottles of medication, a pebbled plastic pitcher, a box of blue Kleenex, and a scalloped paper plate holding two pizza crusts.
"Reheema Bristow! Know that name? BRISTOW!" Reheema yelled, and Vicki grabbed her arm.
"Get a grip! The man is sick!"
"So what?" Reheema shot back, her fury abated, if only by degree, like a hurricane downgraded to a tropical storm. She turned to James.
"Gimme your cell phone!"
"Okay, okay, okay." James's eyes widened in fear and he fished a cell phone from the bedcovers, then thrust it at Reheema. "Here. You can have it. Take it."
"Ha!" Reheema grabbed the phone with its blue daisy cover and showed it to Vicki. "Yours?"
"Reheema, take it easy, look at the man," Vicki said, holding fast to Reheema's arm. Something was wrong with James. His head listed to the left, he hadn't shaved in days, and his words slurred slightly when he spoke. He wasn't drunk but seemed loopy, as if he was on medication.
"Where'd you get this phone?" Reheema demanded, brandishing it.
"My home."
"Who?"
"Wha'?"
"TELL ME WHERE YOU GOT THE PHONE!"
Vicki squeezed Reheema's arm. "Reheema, take it easy."
James's eyes flared. "Chucky! Chucky gi' it to me."
"Chucky WHO?"
"Call him Chucky Cheese. Look like the Chucky doll."
"Where's Chucky live?"
"Dunno," James answered.
"Yes you do! Where!" Reheema broke Vicki's grip with ease, stepping to the edge of the bed, so Vicki stepped neatly between them and faced the prone man.
"Mr. James," she asked, "do you know where Chucky lives? Just tell us and we'll go. We're trying to find out where he got the phone."
"I forget the street name. The street, with the bank."
"Which bank?"
"Dunno. Blue sign, 'bout ten blocks up." James pointed over his head, and Reheema shoved Vicki aside.
"The PNC that's on Jefferson Street?"
James nodded weakly.
"Okay, he lives on Jefferson. What house number on Jefferson, Ray?"
"I dunno."
"THINK!"
Vicki jumped. "Reheema, don't bully him!"
"Middle… of the block, red… door," James stammered, and Reheema exploded.
"You got this phone when you killed my mother!"
"No!" James's eyes widened, holding his hands higher. "I ain't killed nobody! I been inna hospital, gettin' ma damn foot cut off! Look!" He lowered a hand, pulled back the bedcovers, and revealed a bandaged stump on his left foot, sitting in a foam-blue holder. Vicki hid her surprise at the sight, and even Reheema took a step back.