“Didn’t see faces, as they were at the door when I snuck up to look. Big ones, big guys in hoodies. Was the girl let them in. Let them in and ducked right out herself and ran on down the steps.”
She paused now, rubbed her hands over her face. “I liked that boy. I sprained my ankle last summer, and didn’t he help me up these steps when he was around? Carted bags up for me, or down on trash night. I saw that gang tat on him last summer, though he tried to keep it covered, and he saw me see it. He said that was all finished, and how he was saving to have it removed.”
She let out a puff of air. “If I’d known there was trouble for him, I’d’ve called the police. The man I had the bad sense to hook up with when I was younger than that boy in there had some run-ins with the police, and they weren’t much good to me back then, either. But I’d have called you in to help Lyle and his sister.”
“You’re helping them now. Did you see them leave? The three who came?”
“I heard them. I settled in to watch some screen, and I heard them. Laughing and banging on down the stairs. They weren’t in there very long. I guess it was still shy of seven-thirty, but I didn’t get up to look. They were laughing,” she said again, “and now you say that young Lyle’s come to a bad end.”
She stared at the door across the hall. “I wish I’d gotten up to look. I wish I had. I heard Rochelle come up with that big, handsome man she’s seeing. Sounded like they were getting a little frisky out in the hall. I had a smile over that, and went on in to put my night things on. I didn’t hear them leave. Is she in there? I think I’ve got some tea, maybe.”
“No, she’s not here now.”
“Poor thing.” Lips pressed, Ms. Gregory shook her head. “Poor thing. I heard you come, and I thought, What the hell’s going on tonight? So I looked. I heard you say you were the police, and when you opened the door, I could just see that poor boy. So I stayed up, and listened.”
“We appreciate that, Ms. Gregory. Do you think you’d recognize the female again, if you saw her picture? Or, failing that, work with a police artist?”
Now she puffed out her cheeks. “Never wanted much to do with the police, but I’ll look at the pictures and whatnot. For young Lyle and Rochelle.”
“Thank you. Peabody, why don’t you go inside with Ms. Gregory, get a description. McNab, you can start knocking on doors. Maybe we’ll get lucky again.”
“They killed that boy, that’s what they did, then they walked away laughing like it was one big joke.” Ms. Gregory shook her head again, gestured Peabody inside.
* * *
By the time Eve knocked on Crack’s door, she had the broad strokes of what she believed happened. She’d sent Peabody to Central to write up a preliminary. She had a vague description of the female from Ms. Gregory, and might need to pull in Yancy for a sketch.
But if Lyle knew the woman, odds were Rochelle did, too. She’d go there first.
Crack answered wearing the same conservative dinner-date black sweater and pants. No feathers, no beads, no tats on view.
The Down and Dirty pulled them in, and Crack—or Wilson—was nobody’s fool of a businessman. So his apartment climbed several steep flights over Rochelle’s.
Rochelle sat in his living room with its bold African art and the oversize furniture to suit the size of the man. She popped to her feet, her eyes rimmed with red, her face sallow with stress.
“He wouldn’t have done this. Whatever you say, I know he wasn’t using again. And he’d never bring illegals into our home.”
“You’re right. Or, my conclusion at this stage of the investigation lines up with yours.”
“He—” The fists at Rochelle’s sides unballed. She lowered shakily into the chair again. “What happened to my brother?”
“Y’all sit down. I don’t have any of that coffee you like around, but I got Pepsi.” As he spoke, Crack stroked his hand over Rochelle’s curly wedge of hair. “That’s your cold drink, right?”
“That’d be great.”
“Roarke?”
“I’m fine with that, thanks.”
“I’m sorry.” Rochelle pressed a fist to her lips, fought to steady herself. “I haven’t even thanked you for coming so quickly, for helping. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about that.” Eve sat so she and Rochelle were eye-to-eye. “Rochelle, Lyle had a jar on his dresser.”
“His Save It fund. He’d toss loose change in there every night after work.”
“How much would you say he had in it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I guess it was about half-full, maybe a little more.”