The Carter Barron engagement had been booked and sold out for several consecutive nights. The evening’s program had Flack and Hathaway executing solo sets and also playing together. It was expected that they would do “Where Is the Love,” their number one single on the R amp;B charts, and when they launched into it, a great reception was issued from the overcapacity crowd.
In truth, Strange was not much of a Roberta Flack fan. Her vibe was too soft for him, and though he would never tell Carmen, he felt it was music for females. But he found himself getting into her performance. She had an accomplished group of musicians backing her up, and her man on guitar, Eric Gale, doled out some tasty licks. Strange had seen Hathaway at the Ed Murphy’s Supper Club, where he played often, and he put Donny’s debut album, Everything Is Everything, in the categoryn tsee of classic. When Hathaway got down on the ivories during his intro to “The Ghetto,” the house lit up.
Strange waited with dread for the inevitable comedown of “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.” Flack had recorded it in ’69, but it caught chart fire when Eastwood put it in that movie of his, about the one-night stand gone way wrong. To Strange, it was one of the most lackluster songs ever to hit the charts. But Carmen liked it, so Strange never put it down in her presence. Flack was singing it now, one spotlight on her at the piano. There was a rapt, spiritual expression of attention on Carmen’s face.
Strange looked around at the audience. Turning his head back toward the rear rows, he saw a big, rust-colored, misshapen Afro on a light-skinned man, and the large hair of the tall, overly made-up woman who sat beside him.
Strange couldn’t believe that any man could be that bold. Still, he wondered.
He put his mouth close to Carmen’s ear. “I gotta make a phone call.”
“Okay.”
Strange produced his wallet and gave Carmen a twenty-dollar bill. “Case I don’t come back…”
“What?”
“That’s for cab fare. They got taxis out in the lot. I’ll meet you back at your crib later on.”
“For real, Derek? You gonna leave me here?”
“I’m working a case.”
“Not tonight you’re not.”
“I’ll explain later on.”
“You got plenty to explain,” she said.
He had no time to ponder her words. He ignored the looks of reproach from the audience members seated around them and managed to get out of their aisle. Went up the steps between the rows and couldn’t help but look over at Jones, who was staring at him straight on. The dude knew no caution and had no fear.
Red Jones had been suffering through that boring-ass song he’d heard on the radio when he saw a man with a thick mustache turn his head and study him from the center rows of the theater. Then watched as the man talked to his woman and got up out of his seat. He locked eyes with him as he walked up the steps. Dude had big shoulders on him and a chest. He looked like some kind of police.
Red Jones turned to Coco. “I smell pig.”
“Red, I’m tryin to hear Roberta.”
“Let’s go.”
“For real.”
“Do I look like I’m playin?”
They got up and took their time moving through the aisle. They were interrupting Flack’s dramatic performance and blocking anem" the view of many, but no one had the balls to say a thing.
Strange found the pay phone up near the bathrooms. He dialed the Third District house, identified himself as a former police officer, and asked to speak to Vaughn. When told by the desk sergeant that Vaughn was out, Strange left a detailed message and suggested that any available units be sent to the amphitheater. Red Jones and Coco Watkins went past him, taking their time, taking long strides, without a glance in his direction. Strange saw no ring on Coco’s hand.
As the two of them went out the gates, Jones stopped to light a cigarette for himself and one for his woman. To Strange, it didn’t look like either of them gave a good fuck about being recognized or anything else. But they were leaving, which meant that they knew they’d been made.
Strange watched Jones and Watkins step off the asphalt path and walk directly into the darkness of the woods.
Strange cradled the receiver. He saw a couple of private security guards talking and smoking by the front gates. He walked past them, exited the venue, and began to jog when he hit the lot, where his MC was parked under a light.
NINETEEN
The crime scene at Soul House had been secured by the time Vaughn arrived. Uniformed officers kept witnesses calm and on premises while the lab technicians worked around the body of Roland Williams. Several patrons and the bartender described the killer in detail and the doorman, Antoine Evans, identified him by name.
“You certain it was Jones?” said Vaughn.
“Course I am. Red robbed a card game I was in couple a weeks back.”
“Poker?”
“Tonk. But there was real money on the table.”
“Where was that?”
“Bottle club, ’round the corner.”
“Will you take the stand, Antoine?”
Antoine Evans nodded. “Red ain’t had to do Roland like that.”
Vaughn found the man with the gray beard, still sitting in his chair on the sidewalk outside the club, and asked him what he’d observed.
“After the gunshots, tall light-skinned dude came out the House and got back into the Fury he’d come in.”
“What was the color of the car?”
“Red-over-white coupe,” said the man, pronouncing it “koo-pay.” “Way those pipes sounded, had to be the GT.”
“Can you describe the driver?”
“Shoot, I can tell you her name. Says it right on the Fury’s plates. She goes by Coco. Runs a house right here on Fourteenth.”
Vaughn had his package for the prosecutors: confirmable details and eyewitnesses who were willing to talk and even testify. Now he needed to make the arrest.
A patrolman approached Vaughn. “Message came over the radio for you, Detective. A citizen spotted Robert Lee Jones at the Carter Barron. We’ve got units headed over there…”
Vaughn was already moving toward his Monaco, double-parked on the street.
Strange guessed that Jones and Watkins had left their Fury in the neighborhood of Crestwood, adjacent to Rock Creek Park, surmising correctly that the Plymouth was too radioactive to be parked in the main lot. Their walk in the woods would put them on Colorado Avenue, which branched out to other residential streets. Somewhere on those streets was their car.
Strange got into his Monte Carlo and fired it up. Driving through the lot, he saw two squad cars down by the tennis courts parked nose to ass, the conversation arrangement for uniformed police, but he did not go there for help because he felt there was no time.
He exited the lot and drove west on Colorado. He knew it dead-ended eventually, and it was a bet that Red Jones knew it, too. He would never allow himself to be trapped, so Jones and Watkins had to have left their ride deeper south into Crestwood. He made a left on 17th Street and went down a slope, and as he approached the Blagden Avenue intersection he saw the red Plymouth, doing the limit and heading east on Blagden. Strange hit the left turn signal and fell in behind them.
He stayed as far back as he could without bringing the Chevy to a crawl. Strange thinking, They don’t know my car. But there was no one between them, and as the Fury neared the red light at 16th and came to a stop, Strange had little choice but to pull up behind them.
He saw Red Jones eye him in the sideview mirror. He saw Red turn his head and say something to his woman, and then he heard the rev of the Plymouth’s V-8. Strange brought his seat belt across his lap and clicked in the buckle.
The Fury screamed into the intersection against the red light. It fishtailed and corrected. Strange looked both ways and saw cars approaching from the south.