Least Wanted (Sam McRae Mystery 2)

“Yeah. Whatchoo think I meant?” His glare shifted back to Little D. “Now, my man Narsh say you got Tina. So where is she, niggah?”

I turned to look at Little D, who had locked eyes with Tina’s father. “D,” I said. “Is this true?”

The front door flew open, banging against the wall. Startled, I yelped. Little D flinched and turned to face Tina’s uncle, the portly William Jackson. The stink of booze rolled off him in waves.

“You knew,” he bellowed at Fisher. “You knew what my niece was doing, but you didn’t care. Her own father!”

Fisher’s face contorted. “Whatchoo talkin’ ’bout? You seen my Tina?”

“Yeah, I seen her.” Jackson staggered toward Fisher. Little D and I stood between them. “She’s safe, wit’ me. I intend to take her far from you and your filthy bid’ness.” He pointed at Little D. “He tole’ me all about the shit she been doing so you can make a little money on the side!”

I gawked at Little D, but he looked away.

“But I dunno nuthin’ ’bout that,” Fisher whined. “I swear.”

“Did you set it up with them white boys?” A drop of sweat etched a line down Jackson’s cheek. “Did you set it up so my girl would be a ho’ for them dirty videos?”

“I didn’t set nuthin’ up,” Fisher muttered. “He came to me.”

“Who?” I asked. “Beaufort? One of the white guys?”

“It weren’t no white guy.” Fisher shifted from foot to foot. “I dunno his name. He never said.”

In seeming slow motion, Jackson reached into his jacket. Little D grabbed me and threw me against the wall, sheltering me with his body. I heard two shots. Fisher crumpled and fell. The door banged again, and Little D released me from his hold. For a moment, it was the three of us again—me, Little D and Fisher, a pool of blood spreading beneath him.

People emerged from nowhere, crowding inside, babbling. The air was pungent with cordite and the odor of lye-based hair straightener. Women from the beauty parlor—beauticians in pink aprons and ladies with damp, half-combed hair—screamed and swooned. Men mumbled and shook their heads.

“You see that mutherfucker run outta here?”

“Yeah, man, I saw him. He took off in that blue Mercedes—”

“Blue? Mutherfucker, that car was gray—”

“Whatever it was, he musta been doing ninety mile a hour.”

I kept my eyes averted from Fisher and focused on Little D. He returned my gaze. Without a word, we picked our way through the swooning, mumbling crowd and stepped outside. Feeling woozy, the gunshots still ringing in my ears, I took a moment to steady myself, before pulling out my cell phone and dialing 911.

As we waited for the police, Little D said, in a low voice, “You understand why, right?”

“Tell me, anyway.” My voice sounded tinny and far away, obscured by the ocean roar in my head.

“Tina came to me, ’cause I was friends with her mom. If I’d turned her over to you, you’d have had to take her to the police. If I handed her over to her dad, they probably would’ve found her with him.” He gazed at the traffic on Silver Hill Road. “I wanted to make sure we had an alibi for her, before that happened.”

“So you left her with her uncle?”

“I knew him, figured she’d be safe with him.” He shook his head. “And I knew he didn’t like Fisher, but I didn’t figure on him doing this.”

I nodded. “I do understand. You did what you thought was best.”

“And now, we standing out here with no more information than we had before.”

“Maybe a little more,” I said. “Maybe a little.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

A long series of interviews ensued. They started on the scene and moved to a CID interview room when it became clear this was much more than a garden-variety shooting. By the time we arrived at the station, my ears were still ringing, but not enough to drown out the cops’ persistent questions.

“And why were you at Fisher’s Pawn?” the detective asked for the third time. A disheveled fellow in a shiny brown suit that matched his hair, he’d told me his name. For a million dollars I couldn’t recall it.