Quicksand (6 page)

“Do we have a name on her yet?” Calder asked.

“No name. Prints show nothing, no priors. She won't talk. Still in shock.” Wansbrough sighed.

“Well, we can see her, right?”

“Tomorrow. Maybe Monday,” Wansbrough said dismissively, clearly uninterested. “Now, I hate to admit it, but that lawyer has some points. Any updates on the search for the murder weapon?”

“Montgomery Watt is trying to get us an exact description of the knife, make and model,” Burton said.

Wansbrough shook his head.

Nora said, “But I thought it was open and shut. The CODIS database had confirmed that the semen on Kylie's body was Dewayne's.”

“Yes, but that doesn't mean he killed her, especially if we don't have an exact crime scene or a weapon.”

“We found Kylie's hair in his car…”

“But no blood. And we can't find the knife. It isn't enough. The Assistant U.S. Attorney is going to complain.”

“You don't think Dewayne could ever make bail, do you?” Nora asked.

“If it were only on the murder-rape charges, he could at this point. We're focusing on possession and firing at a federal agent with intent to kill until we can sew up these other things. I have a call in to Judge Rippin. I think I can trust him to be reasonable, but I'm going to try to cover all the bases.” He looked at Calder and Burton. “After you two are done with him, take Watt's description of the knife and flip Fulton's car and home upside down. And gentlemen, if there was some pertinent information on that computer, you had better bring me some pertinent information.”

“But we already…”

“I know. Do it all again. Go sweet-talk Libby and Jonas. They are already pissed they are here on a Saturday. Piss them off more.”

Nora fought off a fierce wave of anxiety, envisioning Dewayne out on the street. “We need Mrs. Baker to consent to protective custody.”

“She's already refused,” Burton said. “Some of your brothers from the PPD were there only yesterday, and they didn't get anywhere with her.”

Nora looked at Wansbrough. “Let's go ask her again.”

*   *   *

Nora stared mutely
out the window as the landscape began its rapid transformation. As they crossed over the Schuylkill at Market Street, they passed the gritty splendor of 30th Street Station and entered in among the erudite brick high-rises of University City. Every other block had a dust-caked construction crew coaxing another harsh-angled building into its place in the skyline. It was here that Drexel and Penn fought for turf as viciously as any street gangs. Nora gazed at a group of young women waiting for the pedestrian crossing signal. Each wore a slight variation of the same uniform: leather boots, long sleek hair, nubby sweater, skinny jeans, oversized bag. They laughed in unison, and Nora tried to remember if she had ever made quite the same sound.

At 38th Street, the landscape changed again. The lumbering blocks of mega-labs and research centers gave way to pawnshops and check-cashing storefronts, grimy restaurants that offered both Chinese food
and
hot wings, and small groceries with crippled neon signs and tense metal gratings that seemed ready to be yanked down at a moment's notice.

As Wansbrough guided the car into Southwest Philly, they passed residential areas with wide-shouldered twins and Queen Anne-style houses with wraparound porches, but at 50th Street these became slimmer, wan-looking houses, crowding in on each other with matching cases of peeling paint and partially collapsing rooftops. Block after block fanned out beyond the Suburban's bulletproof glass. Old men sat empty-handed on front stoops, tired eyes looking out from gaunt, stubbly faces. Boarded-up storefronts wore the bold, defiant marks of gang artists.

Mrs. Lenora Baker answered the door. She wore an apron and held an oven mitt in her hand, suggesting she had been in the middle of preparing lunch. She regarded them steadily, took a deep breath, then invited them in. With a slow, pained shuffle, she led them into an immaculate sitting room, coughing slightly, and the agents took their seats on a sofa that looked as though no human had actually sat there before.

“I'm sure you have some reason for being here,” she said, laying the oven mitt on her lap. “But first I need to know when you'll be giving me back my Kylie.”

John and Nora looked at each other. John, at least, seemed prepared for the question. “Mrs. Baker, I know it would be far more difficult for you to bury Kylie and then have to submit to an exhumation if some issue comes up. Please give our forensic scientist just a little more time to make sure he has everything he needs in order to put Dewayne Fulton away forever.”

“
Away?
Shouldn't he get the death penalty?” she demanded, clutching the gold cross that dangled from her neck as though to steady herself.

John answered, “We're threatening him with that given the heinous nature of the crime…”

“Because she was
little
, my Kylie. Just a
little
girl…”

Nora cleared her throat softly. “Twelve, actually. When a murder victim's age is twelve or less, it's considered an aggravating circumstance warranting the death penalty in Pennsylvania.”

Mrs. Baker looked as though she wanted to spit at her, and Nora looked quickly away. Her eyes fell on a tall black man with a long, heavy beard who was emerging from what looked to be the basement. He wore flip-flops and a carefully pressed long white gelabiyya.

“My son, Rashid,” Mrs. Baker said, by way of explanation.

Nora and John rose and extended their hands. Rashid shook Wansbrough's but not Nora's. Instead, he let his gaze slide quickly over her and then focused on the floor.

Mrs. Baker's voice was anguished. “They won't give us Kylie yet.” She pressed a tissue to her mouth to cover a fit of coughing.

Her son patted her back as he stood next to his mother's wing-backed chair, his black eyes glittering with emotion. “It's time we buried my sister,” he said. “Your people have had enough time.”

“Mrs. Baker,” Wansbrough was saying. “We owe you a debt of gratitude. Your information led us to Daniella Miller, and without her, we would have had a far more difficult time finding Dewayne Fulton. He's in our custody now. What you did was a remarkable act of courage…”

Lenora Baker interrupted him, her tone even. “It wasn't courage, Agent Wansbrough. It was pain.”

John and Nora shared a look. John continued, “Mrs. Baker, a very powerful link in the East Coast drug trade has been brought in. Dewayne has links to drug trafficking organizations all over the Delaware Valley and into New York. The Junior Black Mafia have been distributing throughout our area—Camden and south Jersey, and out in the suburbs. He's part of something very dangerous.”

“Dewayne … and my boy, too, right? My boy, Kevin?” The grief was evident in Mrs. Baker's voice. “You'll be going after him next, right?”

Rashid spoke, and Nora noticed again how measured and calm his voice sounded. He lay his hand on her shoulder as if to steady her. “My mother felt that no more kids should die for the cycle of violence my brother and his gangbangers have perpetrated. That's why she is willing to testify against him and against … his rival.” He looked as though his every word was a careful choice, a massive effort at self-control.

Nora answered, “And we are so grateful for her willingness. But we are also extremely concerned about her safety. This is why we want to enter her into protective custody until the trial is over.”

Mrs. Baker shook her head, mirrored by Rashid. “No,” she said.

“No?” Nora asked, surprised at the woman's clarity.

Rashid leaned forward as though translating, then said gently, “My mother refuses your offer of protection.”

Nora's mouth felt dry. “But why? I'm sure you know that Dewayne's crew all want vengeance for their leader, and the A&As think you sold them out.”

Wansbrough added, “We believe that there is a possibility your own son could … exert pressure to keep you from testifying.”

Mrs. Baker shook her head, then coughed lightly again. “Kevin? No. You don't know my son.”

Rashid said, “My brother fears God, Agent Wansbrough. Maybe not in all things, but when it comes to our mother…”

Nora shook her head. “I'm sorry, but I have to disagree. Kevin hasn't ‘feared God' enough to keep from dumping cocaine and methamphetamines on the streets of Philly. Whether or not he was the shooter, it was his car that was used in the drive-by that started all this.”

Wansbrough was nodding. “My partner is right. Mrs. Baker, I don't believe that we can guarantee your safety unless we can take you out of your daily routine, and get you somewhere that neither gang knows exists.”

Lenora Baker inhaled deeply. “I will not back down, and I will not run from these young fools.” She tapped the coffee table in front of her, accentuating every few words as she spoke. “I have lost much more than I ever had to give, you understand? There is nothing left. What's the worst they can do? Put a bullet in me? So be it. I'll just be with my baby sooner.”

Nora took in the deep creases around Mrs. Baker's mocha-colored eyes, and the bright streaks of silver that adorned her precisely curled hair. This woman had seen a lot in her time, too much. She was not scared. “Mrs. Baker—” she began, the agitation visible on her face.

The woman interrupted her. “Child, I know you want to protect me. Thank you. I don't take that lightly.”

Rashid addressed both agents, “We know that you are responsible for tracking down the man who raped and murdered my—” his voice slowed, then resumed, wracked with emotion. “So it is we who are grateful. But my mother is getting on in years, and she does not want to leave her home. Surely you can't blame her for this.” He stifled a cough, then laid his hand again on his mother's back, very gently, very tenderly. “I will take good care of her,” he added, and his mother smiled wearily, resting her head against his arm.

Nora watched, as John nodded gravely. “Mrs. Baker, if you change your mind at any time, please know that we will do everything in our power to keep you and the rest of your family safe. All you have to do is call.”

“Yes, Agent Wansbrough. I have your card.” Mrs. Baker rose. “Please notify me when I'm to appear in court,” she said, turning to go. “And please—when you find my Kevin, be gentle with him. He must be very scared by now.”

Rashid walked them to the door. As the two agents descended to the front porch, Rashid stood and surveyed the neighborhood. Angry voices, one a woman's near-hysterical shriek, cut through the cool afternoon air. The sound of shattering glass made both agents reach automatically for their weapons. Rashid said, in his slow, calm voice, “This neighborhood … Look, you need to know that my brother is a good man. But he never had a chance here, nobody does.”

John Wansbrough seemed about to respond, but he let Rashid talk.

“Kevin got sucked into this thing because he needed to help take care of Mama when I was gone. I know he never meant to hurt anybody.”

John said, “Your brother will be well-treated, Rashid. Just make sure to contact us if he calls you. And advise him to turn himself in. It will be much, much better for him.”

Rashid shook John's hand, flicked his eyes over Nora and gave a slight nod before returning to his home.

Wansbrough looked at Nora as they walked to the Suburban. “What do we have on the brother?”

She shook her head, opening the file. “Nothing. I'm guessing Rashid is a name he adopted after converting to Islam. He looks a lot older … Maybe he's a half brother or something. Do you think ‘gone' means he was in prison?”

“I assume nothing. Check him out for us, Nora. See what his involvement is, if any, in the A&As.”

She jotted this down on the file as she slid into the passenger seat.

“Why wouldn't he shake your hand?”

Nora shrugged. “Some pious Muslims think touching a woman disrupts your state of ritual purity—you would have to perform ablutions with water before you can pray again. Some won't touch any woman not related to them.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Does it insult you?”

She hadn't considered it before. “To think I could wreck someone's state of purity with my touch?”

He nodded.

“Nah. Makes me feel kinda brawny,” she answered.

“That's my girl.”

*   *   *

Calder straightened when
she walked into their office.

“How'd it go?” he asked.

Nora shook her head. “No go. She refused our protection.”

“Imagine wanting to stay home instead of holing up at the Comfort Inn in Norristown.”

“You've seen the neighborhood. The Comfort Inn is paradise.” She nodded at the sheaf of papers on his desk. “How did it go at Fulton's?”

“Eric is still there with some techs. No knife. No knife in the Beemer. No flash drive anywhere. Had to ask Libby again to try to find traces of the information on the hard drive itself.”

Libby's voice floated over the vinyl wall. “Didn't ask very nicely…”

“Thank you, Libby! You are the best computer geek ever!” Ben called out.

“Yes! Yes I am!” she called back.

He continued, “I came back to finish these task force reports for the D.E.A about yesterday's haul—I'm supposed to file within thirty-six hours, or they get irritable.”

“Didn't you just submit your report to the medical examiner about Lisa Halston? Why do you have to write all the reports? Where are the sheriff's office guys, anyway? They should have to do something around here.”

Calder shrugged. “You know it's dicey, Nora, since the FBI is investigating the sheriff's office because of that tax thing—so they are making themselves scarce around the office here.”