'Chantel?'
'Keep your voice down.'
'You are Chantel,' said Tate, now speaking just above a whisper.
'That's right.'
'My name's Michael.'
'You come to kill us?'
'If you stay here, it's gonna happen.'
'Then why ain't you shootin yet?'
'I'm giving you a chance to get out before it gets hot.'
Chantel looked back into the room. Tate saw that her hand was shaking and he reached into the open window and held it.
'Come on, girl,' said Tate. 'What's gonna happen is gonna happen whether you stay or not. If you do stay, you will die.'
'I need to get my suitcase,' said Chantel.
'And the key to your whip,' said Tate.
Tate watched her go to a dresser up against the far wall of the bedroom, where she looked down at something on the floor. She hesitated, then bent forward and came up with a suitcase in her hand. She returned to the window, and he took the suitcase from her and helped her out, taking her in his arms and easing her down until her feet softly hit the ground.
He looked at her feet. She was wearing a pair of single-band, leopard-print slides with three-inch heels. He had seen a photograph of this exact shoe in a magazine.
'We headin for the woods,' said Tate. 'Ain't you got nothing else in that suitcase you can put on your feet? Those Donald Pliners must go for two and a half.'
'I didn't pack any other shoes,' said Chantel, now looking at him with interest. 'How you know these were Pliners?'
'I'm what you call fashion forward,' said Tate. 'Don't worry, I'm not funny or nothin like that.'
'I didn't get that vibe.'
'Let's go,' said Tate, pulling on her elbow, guiding her toward the tree line.
'You better have a plan,' said Chantel.
Michael Tate's plan was to sit far back in the woods and wait till the mayhem began. Then he and Chantel would get themselves down to Hill Road and take off in Chantel's Solara. To where, he didn't know.
'Trust me, girl,' said Tate.
Her hand squeezed his as they entered the woods.
Officer Grady Dunne drove slowly up Hill Road. As he neared the turn to Romeo Brock's place, he noticed the numerous cars. There was Brock's SS, and the red Toyota that Brock had said was owned by the girl. And, much farther back, an S-series Mercedes and a new-style Maxima. Dunne pulled over and killed the engine. He thought of phoning Brock on his cell but decided against it. If the owners of the cars were the men who had come to reclaim their money, as Brock had predicted, they might already be in the house. Dunne would go with surprise.
He reached behind him, unholstered his MPD-issue Glock 17, and slipped it under the Explorer's seat. There he found his latest throw-down weapon, a ten-shot Heckler & Koch.45 with shaved numbers that he had taken off a suspect in Park View. He holstered it where his departmental Glock had been and got out of the SUV.
Dunne walked down to the gravel road, angered and adrenalized. That guy who claimed he was ex-cop, the extortionist chauffeur, had gotten his blood up. Not that Dunne had a thing to worry about. It had been exactly as he'd said it was that night on Oglethorpe. He had taken an informant, a whore dancer he knew, for a ride, and she had blown him down by the Metro tracks. IAD could jack him up for it if they had the ambition, but the girl would never testify. He hadn't known there was a body in the garden that night. When he found out about it, he'd gone to the crime scene, spoken to the homicide police, and was satisfied that no one knew of his presence the previous night. As for the man in the gas station that the chauffeur had asked about, Dunne had no clue.
Anger was good. It would keep him on point for the task at hand.
Romeo Brock had become a problem, though it was no fault of Dunne's. He had been careful about his dealings with Brock and his cousin Gaskins. Dunne's CI, guy name of Fishhead Lewis, had told Dunne about a young man, Romeo Brock, who had ambition and talked about it loudly in Hannibal's, a bar on Florida Avenue. Through Fishhead, Dunne would pass on information to Brock concerning independent, unprotected drug dealers or distributors who could be taken off with minimal fear of retribution. Dunne would not shake down these dealers directly or be seen with Brock or Gaskins. He'd learned from those two police officers in Baltimore, the ones who'd been busted earlier that year for making that mistake. They should have known that someone would flip on them eventually and end their party. Dunne was smarter than that. After the robberies, Dunne would drive by the area and make sure that all was calm. But he never participated in the crimes. Only in the profit.
Now Brock, eager to make a rep, had gone and shot a man for no reason and taken another man's woman. Dunne had intended to visit Brock and Gaskins this evening to get his share of the fifty. It was rare for him to meet them face-to-face, but Dunne didn't trust Fishhead with that amount of money. Then Brock had phoned him and said that Gaskins had skipped and there might be trouble. So Dunne found himself here, where he didn't want to be, pushed to potential violence and directly involved. He'd solve this thing, hopefully by intimidation rather than force, and get out of the arrangement. Partnering with Brock had been a mistake, but it wasn't one that couldn't be fixed.
Dunne had found that he could do anything behind the badge and the gun. It was why he'd become a cop.
He turned and walked up the gravel road. He pulled the.45 and eased a round into its chamber. He was going straight in. He wasn't a criminal. He was police.
Romed Brock stood on the front porch of his house, smoking a cigarette. His stomach was tight, and his palms carried sweat. He was aware of his fear and he hated it. A man like him, the kind of man he imagined himself to be, was not supposed to feel this way. Still, his hands were wet.
He looked out into the darkness. Night had come just about full. He was hoping to see Conrad walking back toward the house up the gravel road. Conrad, who was strong of body and will, would know what to do. But Conrad did not appear.
Brock had phoned Dunne again after speaking to him earlier, but this time his call went to message.
He thought he heard something from back in the house. It was his nerves talking to him, most likely. Could have been the radio Chantel had turned up loud. He supposed he should go there and check it out.
He stubbed out the Kool he had been smoking on the rail of the porch. He entered the house and did not close the door behind him. He heard his stomach talking to him as he went along. He walked down the hall to his bedroom door. He tried the knob, and it did not turn. He knocked on the door. There was no response, and he made a fist and pounded on the wood.
'Chantel! Open the door, girl.'
Brock put his ear to the door. He couldn't hear Chantel's footsteps or anything else except for the radio. The song playing was one he'd heard many times. It was that 'Been Around the World' thing. He liked that song, most times. But now it seemed to be laughing at him. Telling him about the places he would never see.
'Chantel,' said Brock weakly. He rested his forehead on the door.
He felt the barrel of a gun pressed to the back of his head.
'Don't move. 'Less you want me to spill your brains.'
He didn't move. He felt the man behind the voice take his Colt from where he'd put it, under the belt line of his slacks.
'Turn slow.'
Brock did it. A young man with a blue Nationals cap tilted slightly on his head was holding an automatic on him with one hand and had Brock's Gold Cup in the other. Brock could see excitement in his eyes. He had no doubt that this boy wouldn't hesitate to kill.
'This way,' said Ernest Henderson, holstering the Gold Cup in his jeans. He back-stepped down the hall, keeping his Beretta pointed at Brock's middle, and Brock followed. They came out into the living room, and Henderson motioned for Brock to sit in the chair that faced the open door.