CHAPTER THIRTY

 

Monday – Christmas Eve

 

"You gotta help me." The voice on the phone was barely a whisper.

"Dewayne? What's wrong?" Jack had just turned onto California Street and raced for the Whitney-Cummings residence on Sea Cliff. The fog had come in thick and stuck to the pavement, making the speed he was going dangerous, but he wanted to be there when they took down Ginnie.

The dash clock read 12:33a.m.

"Someone's in my house. You gotta help me."

Jack heard the fear in the youth's voice. He pumped the brakes, put the phone on speaker and set it back in the phone caddy, before pressing the record icon. "What do you mean someone's in your house? Did you call the police?"

"Fuck no. You told me to call you if I needed you. I need you!"

"Where are you?"

"I'm in the attic. Come on, man. You gonna help a brother out or you gonna let me die?"

Jack pumped the brakes again, looked in his mirrors for traffic and pedestrians, then took the next left turn, accelerating again. "Stay where you are. Stay quiet but don't hang up. I'll be there as soon as I can."

It seemed to take forever getting the few miles across the city, most of which had been along the 101 then 280 which practically dropped Jack at Dewayne's front door. But within a few minutes, he stomped on the brakes and screeched to a stop in front of Dewayne's house. The Jeep still rocked when Jack threw himself out of it and rushed to the front door, pulling the Beretta from his waistband as he moved.

"I'm here, Dewayne." He whispered into the phone. As he'd turned onto Rockwood, he connected the hands-free device to the phone and slid it into his breast pocket and stuffed an earbud into his ear. "Where are you?" He checked the knob with his free hand—locked—then heard scrambling on the line. "Dewayne, where are you?" Jack rushed down the breezeway to the back of the house and reached for the backdoor knob, but the door was partially open. "Dewayne," he whispered loudly down the line. More scrambling but the boy was silent. Had the intruder found him?

Jack pushed open the door with his foot, cringing when it creaked on its hinges, and entered the kitchen. He double fisted the Beretta, flipped off the safety, and listened for intruders, but the interior of the house remained quiet. Keeping the weapon angled toward the floor, he chose his moves carefully, hoping the floorboards allowed him silent passage across them. He stuck to the perimeter of the room where he’d be less likely to make noise or cast shadows from the streetlight coming in through the open door.

His gaze darted around the living room as he creeped into the hall, keeping an eye open for an attic hatch. His pounding heart forced blood into his ears as he went room by room. Kitchen, clear. Living room, clear. Bathroom, clear. First bedroom, clear. Hall closet, clear.

Where's the fucking hatch?

He heard a sound behind him and spun just in time to catch the short pipe in his hand. "What the fuck, Dewayne?" He pulled the weapon from the boy's hands. "I could have shot you, goddamn it."

"I thought you were her," Dewayne said.

"Her who? What's going on? I thought you were in the attic."

"I was, but I thought I heard her leave, so I came down. Then I heard noises and grabbed the first thing I could find to defend myself," the boy explained.

Jack pushed the boy into the living room and set the pipe on the coffee table. Safety on, he tucked the Beretta back in place at the base of his spine. "I thought I told you to stay put."

"I did."

"Stay put in the attic until I got here."

"Naw, you didn't say that."

"I'm pretty sure that's what I implied. Tell me what happened," Jack demanded, throwing his hands on his hips. He quickly gazed around the room. It still hadn't been cleaned.

"I was watching TV. I thought I heard a noise, so I turned it off so I could hear better. I saw the doorknob turn—"

"Maybe it was your mom coming home," Jack offered.

Dewayne shook his head. "Naw, she gots a key. Besides, she hasn't been home in months, and I ain't expecting her neither."

Jack gazed around the room again. Months? "So, you ran to the attic. Sounds like you've been up there before." Dewayne gazed away from Jack and moved to the other side of the room to flip on the overhead light. It was so dim, it barely made a difference. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Tell me about the attic."

Dewayne clearly thought about if he should tell Jack anything, but finally relented. "I used to go up there sometimes when I was little, when Mom's boyfriends got mean."

"What about tonight? Do you know who was trying to break in?"

With obvious reluctance, Dewayne jerked his head in the affirmative. "It was that woman who killed the guy around the block."

For a moment, Jack couldn't breathe. "What do you mean? How do you know who killed Landon?"

"I—I saw her do it."

Jack moved forward, his gaze firmly on Dewayne. "What?" His body started vibrating with shock and anger. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to get involved."

"That's a copout. But you're involved now, so I'd recommend filling me in so I know how to handle this situation." Dewayne threw his arms around himself and looked away. When he turned back a long moment later, Jack saw fear in his eyes, but his tightly pressed lips and grinding jaw suggested he wasn't going to give in to it. Jack had seen this before in other suspects—scared shitless but trying to disguise it with false bravado. "Dewayne . . ." Jack hoped his tone was enough to tell the boy his patience was wearing thin.

"I went up the road on my bike to score some weed. On my way back, I heard yelling coming from that house. There was a gap in the curtains, so I looked to see what was going on."

"What did you see?"

Dewayne looked away. “I saw a woman stabbing the guy. He couldn't have been much older than me." He looked at Jack when he said that.

"He wasn't." Jack kept his voice neutral. He wasn't going to lie but he didn't want to add to his already high anxiety. Calmly, he said, "Tell me what you saw."

"She was mad. I mean really pissed. Dude was already on the floor when I looked in. He looked dead; he wasn't fighting back. But she just kept stabbing and yelling at the guy."

"Did you hear what she was saying?"

Dewayne shook his head. "She wasn't making any sense. Just crazy talk. But she was mad. I don't know if it was him or someone else, but that poor guy—"

Jack put his hand on Dewayne's shoulder. "Then what happened?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. She suddenly stopped. Didn't move. Like she was listening for something. She turned toward the window and must have seen me. I got on my bike and got the fuck outta there."

"What about the car? You told me you saw it in front of your house. Was that the truth?" Jack knew it had to be, as he saw the prints on the window that corresponded with someone having looked through the window.

Dewayne nodded. "When I got home, I saw the car. What I said before, that was the truth. I ditched my bike and went to look inside. I didn't know it was hers. When she came around the corner and saw me at the car, she ran over screaming at me to get away. She still had blood on her hand when she grabbed at me. If that guy across the road hadn't come out when he did, I probably woulda been killt too. She just got in the car and took off."

"You said it was the middle of the night. How do you know she still had blood on her?" Dewayne disappeared down the hall, then came back with a hoodie. There was a streak of dried blood across the front where she must have grabbed for him.

Jack took the hoodie, then carefully folded it and tucked it under his arm, then gazed around the room for a moment.

Dewayne's a witness.

Not just someone who could ID the suspect as a woman, and not just seeing a random woman getting into a black BMW near the scene of a murder. He'd seen the murder and could ID the perpetrator. He pulled up Ginnie's photo on his phone.

"This her?" When Dewayne nodded, he asked, "Why do you think she was trying to get in your house?"

"She was in the house. No doubt. She gots in the same way you did. After I heard her trying to get in the front door, I went up in the attic before she could go round back. I heard her in the house. She kept saying she was going to get me and shut me up." Dewayne crossed his arms again, shifting his weight between his feet.

"Are you sure it was the same person?" When the boy nodded again, Jack pulled out his phone and disconnected the call with Dewayne's phone and tapped the icon for Ray. "Ray—"

"Where are you?" Ray asked, panic in his voice. "I'm standing here with Franklin. He hasn't seen Ginnie. She's not here."

"She was never going there. I'm over on Ridgewood at Dewayne's house. Ginnie was just here. And Ray . . . Dewayne just told me he witnessed Landon's murder." Jack heard Ray's sharp curse in Spanish. He felt the same. "I'm going to take him to my place. Meet me there." Before Ray could reply, Jack disconnected the phone.

"What do you mean you're taking me to your place?"

"Listen to me carefully." Jack gazed directly into Dewayne's eyes and spoke as calmly and clearly as he could to make sure the boy understood the seriousness of the situation. "I need you to pack some clothes and whatever you think you'll need for the next few days. I'm taking you into protective custody."

Dewayne's face contorted. "Protective custody? Naw, man!" His voice was filled with disbelief.

"Yeah, man," Jack echoed. "You're the only person who can tie her to your neighbor's murder. We know that murder is linked to seven others. Without your eyewitness statement, everything else we have on her is circumstantial . . . evidence that suggests she might have killed these people, but nothing that absolutely links her. You're that link. She was here to kill you to protect herself." He let it sink in for a minute. When Dewayne didn't say anything, Jack repeated, "Please. Get your things so I can take you with me." Dewayne clearly thought about his options. "Don't make me get CPS involved. You've just admitted your mother has been gone for months, and I know you're a minor. I can't and won't leave you here, not under these circumstances. So, please."

"Okay, already."

Jack watched the boy move around the house. First to the kitchen for a brown paper bag, which he seemingly dumped random stuff into. While he gathered his things, Jack secured the back door. Out of curiosity, he checked the fridge and cupboards. Both were practically empty. Back in the living room, after checking all the windows in the house, it seemed the place was full of cardboard pizza boxes and a few Chinese takeout boxes. Dewayne was lucky if he didn't have rats with all the filth he was living in.

A scattering of envelopes spread across the dining table. He pushed them around with the nail side of his finger. All were addressed to Denise Watkins. Ones with government seals on them had been opened. Looks like Dewayne has been cashing his mother's welfare checks. Made sense. How else could he have lived here for so long? It appeared he'd kept up the rent, paid the utilities, and fed himself.

Just then, Dewayne appeared in the living room, a stuffed bag in his arms.

"Got everything you need?" Jack asked.

"Man, if this house burned down tomorrow, I gots everything I need right here." He shifted the bag in his arms.

Jack's heart squeezed. "Get your house keys anyway." Dewayne grabbed a set off the coffee table. "Ready to go?"

"Do you have room in your ride for my Xbox and TV?"

Jack chuckled. "Yeah, sure. And on the way to my place, you're going to tell me about your mother."

 

Ray had already let himself in. He was pacing in front of the windows when Jack pushed open the door. "Come on in, Ray. Make yourself at home."

Ray spun. "Fuck you," he said, striding forward. "This our witness?" He looked Dewayne up and down.

"Dewayne Watkins, meet the biggest pain in the ass in my life, Inspector Ray Navarro. He's also the best detective in the city and in charge of finding the woman who killed your neighbor. Dewayne, tell the inspector what you told me back at your house while I grab the rest of your stuff from the Jeep."

By the time Jack returned with Dewayne's big screen television, Ray was pacing the room again and the boy was slumped on the sofa. Jack set the TV on a table in the corner of the room then threw himself into the chair behind his desk. The Beretta dug in his back, but he left it in place. He didn't need Dewayne seeing where he kept it.

Ray lowered himself into the chair in front of the desk. "That's quite a story Dewayne told me. You believe him?" Ray asked.

Jack looked over at Dewayne and nodded. "Absolutely."

"He lied before—"

"He omitted," Jack corrected. He sat forward, elbows on the desk. "Look, he's 15, lives alone, and he was scared. But now we know the truth, so we need to work out a plan to move forward. Ginnie's in the wind. We have an APB out on her vehicle. We need to keep Dewayne in protective custody," he cocked his head in Dewayne's direction, "and we need to locate his mother. I think we also need to put a patrol car outside Franklin's house in case she tries going back there."

"Already done."

Jack nodded. "What about Ginnie's place on Grenard? Obviously, a car on the street didn't deter her, so we need to get a car up on the terrace itself."

"Organized."

Jack thought for a moment, then gazed up at Ray. "I want to know what happened up on Grenard. We had four officers watching the entrances onto the property, so how did any of them miss Ginnie's return?"

"Massie swore no one used the alley," Ray told him.

"What about James? Where was he?" Jack asked.

Ray shook his head. "He claims it was late, he was cold, everything was closed, and he needed to take a piss."

"So he wasn't even at the scene?" Jack exclaimed.

"Around the corner, but technically no."

"Goddammit! So Ginnie could have used the alley, especially if Massie was on her own and her attention was distracted, even for a moment," Jack suggested.

Ray nodded. "She would have had more to contend with . . ." He left the rest unsaid.

If Massie was the kind of officer Jack thought she was, she would not have only been watching the alley, but keeping her eyes open for any opportunists thinking she was a working girl while also watching for her partner who was relieving himself into the garden of some unsuspecting resident. James already had two strikes on Jack's list. This was a strong third.

"Be sure to report all this to Haniford. Let him deal with the incompetence." Ray nodded that he agreed. "The next issue is finding Denise Watkins. Dewayne's been living on his own for the last few months after she stopped coming home. He said he doesn't know where she is but has a history of bouncing between whichever lover has the better drugs."

"You don't want to call CPS and let them handle this?" Ray asked. "It's not like we don't already have enough on our plate."

Jack shook his head. "Not yet. We'll stake out her known haunts, and if we can't find her, maybe there's an aunt or uncle who can—"

"Dude!" Dewayne exclaimed. "I'm sitting right here."

 

Jack got Dewayne's TV set up in the corner of the front room so he could play on his Xbox while he and Ray updated the murder wall. It was going on 4a.m. by the time Ray left for home and Jack got Dewayne settled into the narrow bed in the backroom before hitting the sofa. Before he left, Ray called the department to put out an APB on Denise Watkins.

The holidays could be a rough time for families—civilian and police alike. Crime didn't stop, which meant crime stoppers didn't either. Jack knew it was harder for his friend this year because Maria was pregnant. She was getting close to her delivery date and Ray wanted to be home more to help. But no one ever expected a case like this.

He could only imagine what it must be like for Dewayne. Poor kid. They'd talked about his mother, Denise, on the drive over. It didn't seem she'd been home last Christmas, and he wasn't expecting her home this year either. Forget the holidays, Jack wondered what the boy must have to deal with just on a daily basis. All things considered, Dewayne had been looking after himself well enough, even if he was illegally cashing his mother's welfare checks. Big screen TV and Xbox aside, it appeared he'd been using the money to keep a roof over his head—smart kid.

If being forced to be an adult and take care of himself so early in life wasn't hard enough, he was the only witness to a violent homicide, and tonight, the killer had tried silencing him.

Jack turned over and tried getting comfortable. A spring hit him in the lower back like a sucker punch. Any drowsiness he may have been feeling instantly disappeared. He tossed and turned, contorting his body around the offensive spring.

Thoughts tumbled around in his head, from the fuck-up on Grenard to where Ginnie could be holing up. Did she have credit cards on her for a hotel room, or would her face or name open doors for her? Was she sleeping somewhere in her car, or had a friend taken her in? He'd have to ask Franklin about any friends his wife may have or where else he thought she could be.

Fuck this raggedy sofa!

Jack shot to his feet, went to the desk and dropped into the chair. He wiggled his mouse and the monitor came to life. He squinted against the glow cast across the desktop. He checked the time—8:49a.m. He'd dozed longer than he thought he had, but it didn’t feel like he'd slept at all.

Then his automatic scheduling app popped up with today's appointment.

Christmas Eve.

Fuck. How had the month gone by so quickly?

He spun the chair toward the window and pulled up the blind. Early morning light filtered through the haze, barely making a dent on the darkness of the room. The city's iconic fog was thick on the ground, but he still made out the spires of St Frank’s on the hill.

Fuck-fuck! How had he let so much time pass since he'd seen Nick?

He knew his old friend was an early riser, so Jack headed for the backroom where he quietly showered and grabbed some clean clothes. After dressing, he left Dewayne a note, telling him where he'd gone. And if he was hungry, to get whatever he wanted from Tommy's downstairs.