Alex looked at the photograph again. Gloria was wearing light tan ankle-high boots and was dressed in jeans and a heavy jacket zipped up to her neck. Using her fingers to enlarge and move the image, Alex saw that the grass around Gloria’s feet was a dull winter brown except in a few places that were streaked with something dark.
Zeroing in on the streaks, she saw what could be irregular palm prints, as if someone had wiped their hands on the ground. Keeping the image as enlarged as possible, she traced a trail of dark spots from Gloria’s boots to her jeans and onto her jacket. The streaks and the spots could have been anything, including water and mud, but she’d seen enough crime scene photographs to know that they could also be blood.
Alex leaned back against her car seat, closing her eyes and shaking her head. Wilfred Donaire had been murdered the year before in the dead of winter, and Gloria Temple had been there when he died.
Wilfred had done well enough in the drug business to buy his house, though not well enough to maintain it. It was boarded up after his murder and added to the city’s extensive inventory of abandoned houses on the east side. If Gloria needed to find a hiding place in a hurry, she could do a lot worse.
Rossi had worked the Donaire case long enough to recognize the horseshoe if he saw the photograph. That would be enough to send him to Donaire’s house. She could either hope that wouldn’t happen or make certain she got there first. If she did and if Gloria told her the truth, she’d have one more decision to make-what to do about Gloria. Her phone rang. It was Bonnie. As much as she wanted to hear her voice, she knew it was the wrong time to answer.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Parked in front of Wilfred Donaire’s house, Alex knew she was working without a plan and without a net. But Gloria Temple was the money and Alex couldn’t let Rossi and Ortiz cash her in without knowing what it would cost her.
It was a cold night, the moon bathing Donaire’s house with pale light. Two other abandoned houses flanked Donaire’s.
She rummaged for the flashlight she kept in her glove compartment before getting out of her car and shining it on the house. The last coat of paint had faded long ago to a ghostly gray. The roof sagged and the eaves hung low, worn and weary. The front of the house, its doors and windows sealed with plywood, was half-hidden from the street by overgrown shrubs and weeds, still brown from winter, their limbs and stalks twisted and braided into a thicket fence.
Alex made her way to the front porch. A wooded bench with broken legs and rotted slats lay turned on its side among crushed beer cans, empty whiskey bottles, and a scattering of used condoms and syringes. She tugged at the plywood on the windows and doors, but the boards were tight enough to keep people and light out. If Gloria was there, she’d found another way inside.
Circling around to the back, Alex stumbled into an unseen hole on the side of the house deep enough to catch her shoe and send her sprawling onto the rock-hard ground, her flashlight smacking against a bowling-ball chunk of stone, shattering the lens and the bulb. Her face slammed into the earth when she couldn’t get her hands out in front fast enough to break her fall. Dazed, she pushed herself to her knees and took inventory. Her chin stung, her lips throbbed, and warm, sticky blood was oozing from her nose.
She leaned her head back and pinched her nostrils together until the bleeding stopped, the cartilage wobbling, probably broken. After getting to her feet, she felt her front teeth, relieved that they were still firmly in place, and pulled her shirt to her face, wiping the blood off as best she could in the dark.
She picked her way to the back of the house, finding the door barricaded with plywood, the horseshoe still mounted overhead. To her left, she saw a two-foot-square piece of plywood leaning, but not nailed, against the house. Pulling it away, she saw a window into the basement, the glass broken out of the center, ragged shards sticking out around the frame.
Alex lay on the ground, peering through the window, seeing and hearing nothing. She had no idea if anyone was inside the house. She might find Gloria or she might find a coked up rapist or someone even worse. She clenched her eyes, trying to banish the nightmare images from her mind, thinking again about the people she’d represented, how so many had confused stupidity for bravery and how fear had driven them to do things they never could have imagined. And now she was truly one of them, unable to separate courage from foolishness, terrified to climb through the window and unwilling to turn back. She knocked the remaining glass out of the way and slid feet first into the basement, one shoe landing on a rat that shrieked and disappeared in the darkness.
The basement reeked of piss and shit mixed with musty mold. She would have covered her mouth except she needed both hands to feel her way. Trembling, one hand on the wall, the other stretched out in front of her, she felt her way around the basement perimeter until she found the stairs. Her heart pounding, she grasped the rail. Stopping on each step, she listened before climbing the next. Still she heard no footfalls, no scraping chairs, and no doors opening and closing.
When she reached the top of the stairs, her mouth was dry, her throat was tight and her palms were sweating. She didn’t move for a moment, taking steadying breaths and wiping her hands on her thighs.
Straightening her back and squaring her shoulders, she grasped the door handle both scared and relieved that it turned so easily. The hinges creaked as she began to ease the door open. She stopped again, waited, and listened to the silence before pressing her hand against the door, opening it the rest of the way, and stepping onto the first floor.
The room she was in was even darker than the basement, if that was possible. It was if she were inside a tomb, the sensation disorienting until a flicker of flame split the darkness and cold steel pressed against her wounded lips.
“That’s a gun up in yo’ face,” a woman said. “Now, who the fuck are you?”
Stunned, Alex’s head started to spin. She reached out to both sides, her hands grabbing air, her knees buckling.
“Oh, shit,” she said as she corkscrewed to the floor.
Chapter Fifty-Three
The flame came from a lighter that cast more shadow than light. The woman holding it crouched in front of Alex, pressing the barrel of her gun against Alex’s cheek. Sitting cross-legged, arms wrapped around her middle, Alex didn’t answer.
“I ain’t gonna ax you again. Who the fuck’re you?”
The room stopped spinning and Alex took a breath, then let it out and blinked, focusing on the now familiar face in front of her.
“I’m Alex Stone.”
Gloria scooted back, pulling the gun away but keeping it pointed at Alex. She rocked back on her heels, keeping the lighter on and thinking.
“Shit, girl, what happened to your face?”
“I fell. You’re Gloria Temple, aren’t you?”
“How you know my name?”
Alex dropped her hands in her lap, glancing around the room. The flame gave enough light to reveal something crawling across a couch, either a large rat or a small cat. Trash littered the floor. The sewer smell was stronger than in the basement, no doubt coming from an overflowing and backed-up toilet. There was a wall to her left, a foot away. She reached out her hand, bracing herself, and slowly stood. Gloria rose with her, keeping her gun trained on Alex.
“Put the gun down and I’ll tell you.”
Gloria shook her head. “Only way I’m puttin’ my gun down is if I decide not to kill you, and I ain’t decided. I know who you are. You was Dwayne’s lawyer.”
“Yes, I was. We need to talk, and I don’t like doing that while you’re pointing a gun at me.”
