Stone Cold

“Does Reed know about your relationship?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“Because if he does know and he can’t get to you, he might settle for Alex.” Bonnie’s eyes went wide, her mouth slack. Rossi handed her his pocket notepad and a pen. “I need her cell number.”

She scribbled the number on the pad and handed it to Rossi, gripping his wrist. “You can’t let anything happen to her.”

“No, I can’t,” Rossi said.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Alex parked in Odyessy Shelburne’s driveway, studying the house as she silently rehearsed the encounter she expected to have with Dwayne. It was the way she prepared for trial, as if she was watching a video of her opening statement, closing argument, and each witness examination.

She crafted mental pictures of every detail, where each of the participants would be sitting or standing, what she and they would be wearing, the expressions on their faces, even the smell of the room. Questions, answers, arguments, rulings, and verdicts were the soundtrack. She would play it, play it, and play it again, and when it became her brain’s version of muscle memory, she would be in control, ready for anything that might happen.

All that took time, often weeks of preparation, as she built a defense to the state’s case relying on the rules that governed the courtroom. She’d prepared for Dwayne knowing there would be no rules on his turf, remembering Judge West’s dictum to break the rules. She was ready. She was willing. She was about to find out if she was able.

You don’t have to do this, she said to herself. You can break up with him over the phone, send him a registered letter, do anything but walk into his mother’s house and threaten him. But Dwayne wouldn’t listen and wouldn’t care. She could wait for the cops and the courts to do their job, but they had failed twice, once when Dwayne was acquitted and a second time when Judge Upton released him. And he had already been to the hospital looking for Bonnie. The time for talking and waiting and hoping was over.

She took a series of measured breaths, focusing on the soft expansion and contraction of her abdomen and the flow of air in and out of her nostrils, hoping the meditation exercise would calm her, muttering when it didn’t.

“What the fuck,” she said aloud and headed for the house.

Dwayne met her at the door, the butt of a gun tucked into his jeans and outlined against his T-shirt.

“My lawyer makin’ house calls and I ain’t even called you. Glad I ain’t the one payin’ you.”

He loomed over her. She was fit and strong but was no physical match for him if it came to that. Her performance images gave way to one in which he lifted her off the floor, his hand clamped around her throat, squeezing until her eyes bugged out and she wet her pants. She shook off the image, clearing her throat.

“Are you going to invite me in?”

He glanced up and down the street and stepped to the side. “Come on.”

The house was filthier than it had been when she was there on Saturday. There were more fast-food wrappers, empty jumbo soda cups, and half-crushed beer cans littering the floor. Parades of cockroaches and ants roamed through the trash. The air was stagnant with the scent of marijuana.

A cat lay on the sofa, head up, tail twitching, staring at her. Dwayne picked the cat up by the scruff of its neck and tossed it across the room, laughing as it screamed, hissed, and bolted toward the kitchen.

“Fuckin’ cat always gettin’ in my way,” he said as he flopped on the sofa and grinned at Alex. “But she’s a good pussy, and when I say there’s nuthin’ like a good pussy, I know you know what I’m talkin’ ’bout.”

Alex had seen Dwayne’s act dozens of time from dozens of clients. They all wanted her to know the same thing-they were bad motherfuckers. The act was all about violence, sex, and violent sex. Promise it. Threaten it. Make you fear it. Make you want it. Make you believe it.

It was easy to ignore the posturing when they were at the jail, where the presence of armed deputies blunted any attempts at intimidation. Not so easy now that she was inside Dwayne’s house. She ignored the voice in her head shouting, Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea!

“Lucky you, having a cat.”

“You right about that. Whyn’t you sit,” he said, motioning to a ramshackle recliner with torn upholstery and a patchwork of stains.

She preferred to stand both because she’d have to burn her clothes after sitting on the recliner and because she wanted to be able to move quickly. But standing felt too awkward and she didn’t want him to think she was afraid to be there. She compromised by sitting on the edge of the recliner, the sofa on her left, hands on her thighs, her suit jacket unbuttoned.

“Okay, then,” Dwayne said. “Why you here? And I know it ain’t ’cause you dyin’ to see my crib.”

Everything depended on how she came at him. Too soft and he’d pay no attention. Too hard and he might lose control.

“I’m trying to figure out just how stupid you are.”

He sat upright, eyeing her. “You tryin’ to piss me off?”

“If that’s what it takes to get through to you.”

“’Bout what? That bullshit ’bout me holding my mama’s dope? You get that shit knocked down to a misdemeanor. I know that.”

“Maybe, but that’s not your real problem.”

“Meanin’ what?”

“Let’s start with the gun in your pants. You have a permit for it?”

“You know I don’t, so why you bustin’ my ass?”

“Because if you get caught with that gun, the judge will revoke your bail.”

“Ain’t gonna get caught.”

“Of course you aren’t. Just like you didn’t get caught for killing Wilfred Donaire and just like you didn’t get caught on the fence in your backyard.”

Dwayne stood, hands on hips, nostrils flaring. “You come in my house jus’ to disrespect me?”

Alex stood but didn’t back away, hoping her body language would mask the fear that was twisting her gut. She pushed past her fear and stayed with him.

“No. I came here to warn you.”

“Warn me ’bout what?”

“Since you turned down the prosecutor’s plea bargain, they’re going to nail you for the Chapman and Henderson murders.”

“Shit. They got nuthin’ on me. That’s why I tell ‘em no deal.”

Alex pointed to his gun. “What about that? What kind of gun is it?”

“It’s a nine. Why you care?”

“Because if you used it to kill Kyrie Chapman or Jameer Henderson and the police get ahold of it, you are a dead man walking.”

Dwayne laughed. “It ain’t even my gun. Friend of mine stopped by jus’ ’fore you show up. Ax’d me would I hold on to it for him.”

“Lucky you.”

“Why you keep sayin’ that?”

“Because you are lucky. You killed Wilfred Donaire and got away with it.”

“You the one got me off. Luck didn’t have a damn thing to do wit’ it.”

Alex grimaced, hating the compliment, her gut twisting. “You were lucky we had those pictures of Kyrie Chapman putting the arm on Jameer Henderson. The jury bought my argument that Kyrie killed Wilfred and forced Jameer to testify against you to make certain you were convicted.”

“Like I say, you was the bomb in that courtroom.”

“Here’s what I don’t get. Why did you admit to me after the trial that you killed Wilfred?”