Before She Disappeared(91)

Trade school catches my attention. “You have teachers come help out?”

“Of course.”

“What about computer design classes? Say, taught by a Mr. Riddenscail?”

“Absolutely. He is very good. One of our few white teachers. The kids don’t make it easy on him, but he is tougher than he looks. Has been working our after-school program for years.”

“Were he and Livia close?” I ask immediately.

“She took one of his classes.”

“And you have computers here?”

“A dozen. We got them through a special grant.”

“What about a 3D printer?”

“Yes.” He regards me curiously. “Through the same grant.”

“Did Mr. Riddenscail write that grant?”

Frédéric sits up straighter. “As a matter of fact . . . Wait, I don’t understand.”

But I’m already moving. I need to reach Lotham. Demand that he get a warrant and return here immediately.

“I’ll be back,” I inform Frédéric.

“Wait,” he says again.

But I don’t. My sense of urgency has taken over. I must move, I must act. Livia is dead, Angelique may be next. The rec center, computers, 3D printers, forgeries. It all ties together. I feel like I’m on the edge of watching the pieces click into place. If I’m not already too late.

I nearly run down the long shadowy corridor. I bolt out the doors, back into the blinding sun, whipping out my cell phone to call Lotham.

And run smack into J.J. Samdi.

“Lady, I’m gonna fucking kill you.”





CHAPTER 32




I don’t have my whistle in my pocket, or my tactical clips in my hair. I’d left my apartment in too much of a huff. I glance at my cell phone, move my thumb to hit emergency. But J.J. is one step ahead of me, knocking it out of my hand.

“Don’t move a muscle.” He pulls back the flap of his unbuttoned shirt enough for me to see the black butt of the pistol he has shoved into the waistband of his jeans. An intimidating sight, but a dumb move. He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t blow off his own balls.

We are twenty feet outside the rec center doors but out of sight of the street and, given how deep in the building is Frederic’s office, light-years away from the closest known human. That leaves me and my charming personality versus a homicidal drug dealer.

I tell myself I’ve faced worse.

That might be a lie.

“Is the safety on or off?” I ask J.J.

The question catches him off guard. Score one for me.

“I would have the safety on. I mean, don’t you have valuable body parts currently in the line of fire? Knee. Thigh. Or if you fumble getting it out, penis.”

I like saying the word penis in front of boys. It never fails to fluster them.

“Stop talking!”

“I’m not saying it’s common to shoot off a penis,” I continue now. “But after seeing it once, it’s not the kind of thing you forget. So really, I’m thinking of your own well-being.” My voice drops. “Don’t you think your mother has lost enough for one day?”

My quiet words hit him harder than my smartass comments. He recoils and the look on his face . . .

He’s not just a homicidal brother. He’s a grieving one.

“Stay away from my family. My mother doesn’t need you or your fucking gorilla.”

I take it Charlie’s outreach didn’t go as planned. I don’t blame him. The situation had been dicey from the start, with Roseline Samdi in a very dark place, and that was before she’d learned her daughter was murdered.

“Did you shoot at me the other day, Johnson—”

“J.J.!”

“Are you the one who chased me out of your house?”

He regards me belligerently. His silence makes me believe he didn’t do it. But there’s a vein thrumming in his sweat-dotted brow and I swear the coils of ink snaking up his arms and around his throat are nearly vibrating with agitation. He’s on something. His dark eyes are too dilated, his fingers twitchy. He’s high, he’s angry, and he hurts. A very dangerous combination.

I know. I’ve been there myself.

“Who is your older brother?” I ask.

“I don’t have no older brother.”

“Livia did. At least she told people she did. An older tall, skinny guy partial to gold chains and tracksuits. Very early two thousands. I’ve seen him myself.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“So you know him?”

“He’s not our brother. I mean, he’s a half brother. From some asshole my mom was with years ago. Damn fool went to prison. For all I know, he died there.”

“You have a half brother who’s been in prison?”

“Deke got sent up for armed robbery. He’s ten years before my time. Fucking loser.”

J.J. spits the words, his rage now directed at this half brother and less at me. J.J.’s still twitching more than I’d like, though. And his fingers keep plucking at his open blue plaid shirt, as if feeling for the comforting weight of his piece. He’s geared himself up for battle. An armed druggie looking for a fight.

A half sibling who’s spent quality time in prison. That would explain the outdated fashion sense. “Why is Deke a fucking loser?”