Brooklyn Bombshells: Part 2

Bacardi felt like her back was against the wall. The detectives were stern faced and persistent.

Someone had called the tip line for the $2,000 Crime Stoppers reward, and the DNA results from Chanel’s rape kit had finally come in. They found that the Godfrey Williams was the perpetrator. The tipster alleged that Charlie Brown had set the whole thing up. Charlie was also listed on God’s bail and she was Chanel Brown’s sister. The detectives felt that they had something. Charlie’s name kept coming up in several investigations, from robbery to homicide, and they needed to have a serious word with her.

The murder suspect, Kymberly Stephens, adamantly swore that she saw Godfrey’s ex-girlfriend, Charlie, leaving his place only moments before she arrived—and that she found God already dead when she got there. Her defense team was testing for DNA and any trace evidence.

Bacardi allowed them into her home, but she wasn’t making them coffee. Their guard was up; they looked around to confirm that her daughter wasn’t home.

“I told you that I don’t fuck wit’ my daughter. I kicked her ass out.”

“We just needed to make sure,” said Greene. “Someone called in a tip saying that she lived here.”

Bacardi fumed. “These fuckin’ snitches out here need to mind their fuckin’ business.”

Butch joined his wife in the living room, and he was angry to see the detectives inside his home. Enough was enough. Even with Charlie gone, she was still bringing trouble to their home.

Seeing that there were no signs of Charlie’s presence, the detectives made their exit. But it didn’t come without a tongue lashing from Bacardi.

“Like I told y’all muthafuckas, my daughter don’t live here anymore. So I would appreciate if you would stop comin’ around here and makin’ trouble. I don’t need the stress, got-damn-it! And if you got a case against Charlie, then so be it, but leave me and my fuckin’ husband out of it. Go bother someone else and go arrest some real fuckin’ criminals!”

She slammed the door behind them.

Butch looked at his wife with appreciation. “That’s telling them, baby. I love you.”

Bacardi didn’t smile or reply to his words. She stood there by the door pissed off and wondering who had called in the tip. She knew it wasn’t about the reward, but it was about getting Charlie arrested.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The chiming of her cell phone made Charlie frown and curse. She had been sleeping all day after partying all night and popping bottles in VIP with Ahbou. She wanted the world to see her—and they were taking notice. Last night she was the fiercest chick in the club in her Alexander Wang cocktail dress and knee-high boots, her reddish hair in long curls. She and Ahbou did it up on the dance floor, acting a fool, grinding and kissing and feeling on each other like they didn’t have a care in the world. They had money to burn and were living it up. After the club, the two were drunk and animated, and they continued to paint the town red by hitting up after-hours spots in the city. An hour before the sun rose, they were fucking in a bathroom stall.

Charlie came stumbling through her apartment door two hours after the sun came up. The only thing she wanted to do was sleep all day. But that dream ended abruptly with her ringing cell phone. She ignored it once, and twice, but the third time sent her over the edge. She leaped from her bed and snatched the cell phone into her hand and shouted, “Who the fuck is this?”

“I need you to come get me,” said Claire.

“What? Why?”

“Because that hooptie you gave me to drive to work broke down.”

“And this is my problem?”

“How I’m gonna get home?”

“You in New York City—buses, trains, and automobiles,” Charlie wisecracked.

“Charlie, stop playing with me. You know I got classes tonight and I can’t be late,” Claire griped.

“Damn it, Claire—”

“I need to get home, Charlie. Don’t do this to me. It’s cold out here,” she exclaimed.

“Okay! I’ll fuckin’ be there, just chill—and you better not keep me waiting.”

Charlie huffed as she removed herself from the bed to sluggishly get dressed to do her sister a favor. The alcohol from last night had her feeling heavy and sloppy. It felt like her legs were concrete and rooted to the floor.

Half an hour later, Claire got into the car and she right away smelled the liquor on Charlie’s breath. Claire sighed. Charlie had been driving under the influence. Lately, Charlie felt that she was untouchable with her dirty cop connections. She started to believe that she was above the law.

“You happy, sis?” Charlie asked.

“Just take me home.”