29
That night Monica and Lonzo stood on the steps to Tracie’s brownstone, waiting rather impatiently for her to answer the doorbell. The chimes resounded through the brownstone as though summoning a dignitary.
Finally, after what seemed like an interminable wait, Tracie opened the heavy, elegant brown wood door that looked as though it belonged on Fifth Avenue instead of in Harlem.
Before Tracie could open her mouth, Monica stepped to the plate. “Miss Burlingame, we need to talk.”
“There’s nothing else to talk about,” Tracie replied, her veneer of calm hiding a kaleidoscope of emotions.
Monica’s eyes flashed as if they would burn a hole through Tracie. Still she was unable to crack the supreme arrogance that surrounded Tracie like a halo. Monica sighed, enunciating her every word. “I’m afraid there is.”
“We’ll keep it short,” Lonzo said.
Tracie gritted her teeth. A brief storm of rage shone through the arrogance and played across her face. She pulled the door open, turning her back on the cops.
Monica didn’t pull any punches. “Where can I find your son, Rashod Burlingame?”
Tracie wheeled on Monica. Her eyes spit pure flames of fire. “Why?”
“Because I asked, that’s why.” Monica glided so close to Tracie, she could feel her breath on her face. Tracie didn’t back up or flinch an inch.
“I don’t know,” Tracie said with a lift of her chin.
“I think you do.” Monica served up a verbal volley.
Lonzo inserted himself between the two women, forcing some distance between them. “We ain’t going nowhere with this,” he said.
Monica reached into her vest pocket. She produced the search warrant, handing it to Tracie. She refused to waste precious minutes on the ice princess that was Tracie Burlingame. “I believe this will take us where we want to go.”
Tracie stared at the paper without touching it. “I already let you search Randi’s room.”
“I don’t want to search Randi’s room. I want to search Rashod’s room. This piece of paper says I can.”
Tracie’s first trace of real fear emanated from her. Monica picked up the scent like the true hunter she was. Like an experienced hunter, she waited until she had the prey exactly where she wanted her.
“Why?” Tracie asked.
Monica pounced. “I don’t have to explain to you, Tracie, but I will. We have reason to believe your son, Rashod Burlingame, tossed Randi from the roof.”
In one swift stroke, Monica reached into her pocket and pulled out a handful of sunflower seeds, thrusting them under Tracie’s nose. Tracie began to shake violently. It started as a small tremor that birthed into a physical quake, rising into a human tidal wave. Tracie’s limbs had turned to jelly.
Lonzo took her gently by the shoulders to calm her. “Tracie, sit down,” he told her. Gently, brotherly, he guided her over to the nearby sofa. Tracie obliged like a small child.
Monica headed toward the hallway in search of Rashod’s room.
Tracie pulled air into her lungs in long gulps. She shouted out after Monica, “He didn’t do it! There must be some mistake. He wouldn’t . . . he couldn’t do it. Damn you, I said he didn’t do it!”
Monica halted. She turned back to Tracie. “Oh, I think he did, Tracie. I think one of your sons killed the other one, and I’m going to be arresting Rashod Burlingame tonight for the murder of Randi Burlingame. How does that play for you, Tracie? And what’s more—”
Monica whipped out her cell phone. She punched in digits. She shouted into the phone, “Put out an APB for Rashod Burlingame.”
She snapped the phone closed. “And what’s more, I think you know it.”
Tracie bowed her head between her legs, whispering, “Rashod, why did you lie to me?”
At the Harlem precinct station, police vehicles began pulling out with their sirens screaming into the night. They sped from the lot in search of Rashod Burlingame. Riot police jumped into police vans.
This search was to be a display of power. It was a stab into the consciousness of the Harlem community, that the powers that be would not allow the slaughtering of a little black boy without serious ramifications.
They would not tolerate this type of murder. It was too bold, too flagrant, too in your face, and it had the capability of tunneling the residents of Harlem into one sweeping and angry voice. That just could not be.
This action would serve as a political volleyball, and those who were really running Harlem would come up shining brightly for a change.
It was an opportunity not to be missed. And if it was brother against brother, it really didn’t make a difference. The message was simple: no bloodletting and no emotional crippling in the Harlem community. The community itself was mentally docile for the time being, and there would be no rippling of the still waters.
Alexandra was gazing out of her office window at the scene taking place outside in the police lot. She flicked her pencil in and out of her mouth. “I think my serial vampire is turning out to be a case of sibling rivalry,” she murmured.
The intercom on her phone buzzed. She hit the button. A male voice came over the speaker: “We’ve got a handle on the suspect. He was spotted in the vicinity of St. Nicholas and 139th Street. According to our sources he’s still over there.”
Alexandra smiled her pleasure. “Bring the little vampire in—now. I want him downstairs in holding immediately.”
“Got it,” the voice responded. Alexandra clicked off.
Inside Tracie’s living room, Tracie sat alone at the white baby grand piano, banging away a dark tune. Lonzo had gone to conduct the search with Monica in Rashod’s room. The notes rose and fell, rose and fell, until they felt like sweeping waves pouring over Tracie.
In the middle of Tracie’s private symphony, Monica walked up to the piano and dangled a black and gold Karl Kani boot directly in front of her face. She held the boot with the tip of her gloved fingers.
“Recognize this?” Monica said.
Tracie’s fingers halted, stiff and frozen. The notes came to an abrupt halt. Tracie stared at the hideous boot, regretting that she had been in such an emotional frenzy that she hadn’t thought to get rid of the damn thing.
“I know you recognize these,” Monica said as she let a cascade of sunflower seeds she had scooped up from Rashod’s room drop over the piano keys.
Inside Alexandra’s office, the phone rang. Alexandra snatched it off the hook on the first ring. She listened for a moment, her facial features turning to pure granite.
“Are you absolutely sure?” she said into the phone.
Taking a deep breath, Alexandra disconnected the caller and hit the intercom button on the phone. “Maya, get me Monica Rhodes on the line. Now!” she barked. “She’s at the Burlingame residence.”
Monica’s cell phone rang, interrupting the cat-and-mouse game she was torturing Tracie Burlingame with. “Yeah. This is Monica.”
An ashen look of disbelief crept across her face. She cupped her hand to the phone. “What? Are you serious?”
Suddenly there was a shift in temperature in the room, causing both Lonzo and Tracie to stare at Monica. “We’re on our way,” she said into the phone.
Monica clicked off. She looked at Lonzo. “That was Alexandra.”
“What did she say?”
Monica pulled him out of Tracie’s earshot without excusing herself. She glanced over briefly at Tracie, who was still sitting on the piano stool, staring in disbelief at the sunflower seeds.
Monica spoke barely above a whisper. “A body was just discovered on St. Nicholas Avenue . . .” Her voice trailed off.
She tossed a look at Tracie Burlingame.
“It’s a positive ID. Rashod Burlingame. He was thrown from a roof on St. Nicholas. His shoes are missing. There are sunflower seeds stuffed in his throat. The blood has been drained from his body. Same MO as his brother.”
“Son of a—”
Monica cut him off.
She stole another glance at Tracie. “There’s a serial killer on the loose in Harlem. Maybe I was wrong about Randi’s death being a street killing. There’s a profile emerging here. Whoever the killer is, the offspring of Miss Burlingame seem to have his attention.” Monica spoke the prophetic words without having any way of being aware of their full meaning.
“We’ve got to tell her.” As soon as Monica spoke the words, Tracie rose instinctively, regally, from the piano stool. Her eyes found Monica’s.
Monica cleared her throat. For the first time she felt a stab of empathy for Tracie Burlingame. “Tracie I, ummm . . .” Monica closed her eyes, shocked at the impact of her own feelings.
“I’m sorry to inform you . . .”
Tracie was caught up in a tidal wave. She felt as if she were being smothered. Waves of water rippled over her. There was a current of diseased information floating through the air. She could feel it. She could taste it. She didn’t want to hear whatever it was.
Maybe if she resisted it, it would go away.
She backed away, fighting against the disease of truth that was reaching out its arms to her, trying to spread its poisonous tentacles through the recesses of her mind.
Lonzo touched Monica briefly on the shoulder. He zoomed in on Tracie Burlingame. The only way to deliver bad news was just to deliver it. Period.
“We’re sorry, Tracie—”
Monica regained her composure. She cut Lonzo off in midsentence. She would have to finish what she had started. She wasn’t a runner.
“Your son, Rashod Burlingame, is dead, Tracie. We need you to confirm identification for us, but we’re pretty sure it’s him. I’m sorry.”
Tracie stood like a statue. Monica’s words closed in on her mental recesses. They squeezed until there was barely any air left. They squeezed until the only word she could hear was Death.
Death. Tracie accepted this. She now understood it was her mantle to wear.
Her seed had the shadow of death on it.