The Edge of Midnight

  “Looking for Sarita Grayson.”

  Sarita stilled. “Why?”

  He responded with a smile so sinister, she felt the hairs dance on the back of her neck.

  “Need to give her a message.”

  Sarita waited.

  “Tell her, my boss wants his diamonds back.”

  Sarita buckled inside.

  The big man studied her for a moment longer, then said, “Think you can remember that?”

  When she didn’t respond, he smiled again. “You have a nice day.”

  He walked back down to his car and drove away. Sarita closed the door. Her heart was beating so fast she thought she might be sick. Bending over she drew in a few deep breaths, willing herself to calm down so she could think. It came to her then that she should’ve gotten the license plate, but she was too busy freaking out. Lord. The chickens were coming home to roost. On shaky legs, she walked over to her purse and pulled out her phone. Standing by the window to make sure the man was gone, she was just punching in Myk’s number when she saw him drive up. Snatching up her coat, she went out to meet him.

  Driving her back to the center, Myk listened to her story, then asked, “That’s all he said?”

  “Yep. His boss wants his diamonds back.”

  She met his eyes. “Now what?”

  Myk knew she was scared and was doing her best to put it aside. It angered him that she’d had to face the threat alone. “I won’t let anybody hurt you.”

  Sarita sighed. “Mykal, that man could have blown me away in my living room, and you’d be making my funeral arrangements right now. What the hell am I involved in?”

  His jaw tightened. “I can’t tell you. We’ve had this discussion before.”

  “And you said, you’d tell me eventually—that I’d get a map, remember?”

  Myk did, but didn’t respond.

  She studied him. “Well, put on my headstone. I couldn’t tell her why.”

  He took his eyes off the road for a second and looked over at her tight-set face. There was nothing he could say, so he didn’t say anything. He refocused his attention on driving, knowing he had a hard decision to make, but she had a right to know what was going on. “Do you want to have dinner with me?”

  “Sure.”

  Myk felt blessed that she was even talking to him. “Your friend Fukiya came by my office today.”

  Sarita’s mind kept replaying the encounter with the menacing hulk on her porch. “What did he want?”

  “Just to check me out, I think.”

  “I hope you were nice to him.”

  “I was.”

  “Kerry Fukiya is a friend. Keeps to himself mostly, but he has a good heart, has to, to put up with those kids,” she added with a smile. “The Army loves taking care of him. They say he’s cute.”

  Myk had no way of judging a man’s cute quotient, so he left that alone. “He’s very protective of you.”

  “No more than anyone else he cares for in the neighborhood. It’s the way he is.”

  “He called you the Empress.”

  “Yes. That a problem?”

  “No.” Myk admitted to a bit of jealousy, even though there was nothing in her relationship with Fukiya that warranted such an illogical and possessive response. “Do you know where he lived before moving here?”

  “Nope. Did tell me one time that he came to Detroit for his health, though.”

  Myk’s brow knitted in puzzlement. “His health?”

  “Whatever that means. Why are you so interested in Kerry?”

  “Just interested in all the players, that’s all.”

  “Because of whatever this is you can’t tell me about?”

  His mustache thinned. “You’re persistent, if nothing else.”

  She responded by turning her eyes to the passing cityscape.

  He turned off of Gratiot and onto Van Dyke. While they waited for the light to turn green, her eyes scanned the decaying neighborhood that had been so vibrant when she was young, but it, too, had aged under the weight of time of crime and drugs. “What do you think about these dope busters, as the kids are calling them?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been so busy, haven’t really had time to check it out.”

  “Well, I think it’s about time. No, we can’t have vigilantes taking over the streets, but this is different.”

  Myk kept an eye on the light. “Why?”

  “It just is. We have a whole generation of city kids who’ve never walked into a store or a burger place that didn’t have bulletproof screens. A couple of years ago we took some of our kids on a field trip to a suburban museum, and when we stopped to have lunch, all the kids asked me, ‘How come there’s no glass?’”

  She met his eyes. “Life wasn’t locked down like this when I was growing up. The drugs breed crime, which breeds more crime, carjackings, B and Es, prostitution. It’s a circle that needs to be broken.”

  The light turned green, and he made the right onto Van Dyke. “So, you think dropping down on the dealers is a good idea?”

  “As long as they’re busting the big white-collar fish too, I’m all for it.”

  A silent Myk drove on.

  The restaurant was in the rising and falling neighborhood near Agnes and Van Dyke, where trendy refurbished brownstones stood next to windowless hulks. The block was dotted with weed-filled vacant lots that had once held stately Victorian homes. The building he pulled up to had a green-and-gray-striped awning over the door that read simply: ANDRE’S.

  A young brother neatly dressed in black slacks, white shirt, and a black leather jacket walked around to Sarita’s door and helped her out. She thanked him. Myk handed over his valet key, then escorted Sarita inside.

  The place was small and very crowded. There could have been more than fifteen tables tops, and all were full. Myk and Sarita stood behind three other couples, one of whom turned out to be Faye Riley and her date.

  “Well, hello there,” Faye said with a false smile. “Fancy meeting you two here. How are you Shanika?”

  Sarita’s jaw tightened, but she smiled, “I’m well, and how are you, Fake. I mean, Faye. Sorry. It’s been a long day.”

  Faye turned away and set her cool eyes on Myk, “Mykal, I want you to meet my new friend. He says you two know each other.”

  Myk studied the face. “We do?”

  “Yes,” the man replied, moving closer into the light. He had on an all red outfit; suit, coat, hat, shirt, shoes. A snow-white cane aided the left side of his body. “I worked for you once down in Central America. Name’s Clark Nelson.”

  Myk went still.

  Clark directed his attention to the woman on Chandler’s arm. The woman who’d taken his diamonds. “Is this your wife? Faye said you just got married. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you,” Myk said. He didn’t make any introductions however. He didn’t want Sarita anywhere near Nelson.

  With that in mind, Myk caught the eye of the returning maître d’ who came over, and said with a smile, “Ah, Mr. Chandler. This way please.”

  Faye took immediate offense. “Excuse me, but we were here first.”

  The maître d’, a short thin brother with a thick mustache, looked her up and down critically, then said, coolly, “Mr. Chandler owns this restaurant, ma’am. Now, if you’ll excuse us?”

  Myk gave Nelson one last look, then gently steered Sarita to follow the maître d’. Sarita didn’t have to turn around to see the hate in Faye’s eyes; she could feel it.

  They were taken to an upstairs dining area that was just as intimate as the main floor. The candlelit room with its blazing fireplaces, one on each wall, had a very romantic feel. There were tables spread about, but there were no other diners. Sarita wondered if they would have the entire space to themselves.

  Chandler helped her with her seat. His body heat shimmered over her, and she fought off the instinctive reaction to lean back and bask in his nearness. “You own this place?” she asked, needing to fix her mind on something mor
e concrete than the problems between them.

  “Part owner. When Andre got the opportunity to buy the restaurant after the original owner died, I was more than happy to be an investor. Andre cooked those scallops and made that hot fudge sundae you loved so much, remember?”

  She did. It was their wedding night. “He’s the chef, here?”

  “Yep, chef, owner, dishwasher. It’s a small operation for now. He’s only been open a few days. This is my first official visit.”

  Sarita remembered being impressed by Andre’s culinary talents. The sundae had been the bomb. “Well, I’m looking forward to this.”

  He was pleased to hear her say that. What he wanted most though, was to see her smile again. He reached out and placed his hands over hers. “I don’t want to fight, Sarita. We’ve been having a good time.”

  “Yes, we have, but that man scared me, Mykal. I don’t like being kept in the dark.”

  “I know. Hopefully, I’ll be able to answer all of your questions soon.”

  She looked into his eyes. Lord knows she wanted to trust him, but she’d always had her own back. It was hard to put her life in the hands of a man she didn’t even know six months ago. “Okay. I’ll try and be patient.”

  Myk heard the emphasis she’d put on the word. “Thanks. In the meantime, keep your eyes open.”

  He said it with all sincerity, and she whispered back, “I will.”

  “Tomorrow, we’ll have you take a look at some perp books and see if we can’t put a name to your afternoon caller.”

  “That sounds good.”

  He reached out and cupped her cheek. He’d finally discovered a woman who made his insides sing, and he’d be damned if he was going to let someone mess it up. If anything happened to her, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there this afternoon.”

  She pressed her hand over his and savored the contact. “I’m okay.”

  Myk knew she wasn’t; neither was he. He took her hand in his and squeezed it tenderly. When the waiter stepped over to take their order, they were still holding hands.

  After they received their food and began to eat, Sarita said to him, “Tell me about that man with Faye. You were pretty icy to him.”

  “Last time I saw Nelson, the Honduran authorities were hauling him off to prison.”

  “What for?”

  “Rape. The girl was fourteen, I believe.”

  “Oh, my. I wonder if Faye knows his story?”

  Myk shrugged. “I wonder how much time he did. He looked pretty prosperous. Seems to have done well with himself since then.”

  “Legally or illegally? He looked me over like a pimp.”

  “Which is one of the reasons I was so icy.”

  “Well, thanks for not giving him my name. It’s fine with me if he thinks I’m Shanika. Faye can have all of that.”

  The subject then turned to the budding romance going on between Walter McGhee and Jerome’s mother, Shirley.

  Myk asked, “How long has she been a widow?”

  “About five years. Her husband was a fireman. He died in a big warehouse fire on the westside.”

  “Walter likes her a lot.”

  “She’s sweet on him, too.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yep, she told me so, but don’t you dare tell Walter.”

  He mimicked locking his lips. “My lips are sealed.”

  Meanwhile, downstairs, the maître d’ told the impatient, foot-tapping Faye that because she had no reservation, it would be at least another forty-minute wait before she and Clark could be served.

  Clark said to Faye, “Let’s go.”

  But Faye didn’t want to leave. This was the newest place to be seen, and she wanted to be seen, even if it had to be with a man on a cane.

  “Let’s go, Faye,” Clark repeated firmly. “We’ll eat somewhere else.”

  Faye didn’t like it, but she let him lead her out.

  Once their driver got the limo under way, Faye flicked on the small opera lights, then pulled down the vanity mirror so she could check her makeup and hair.

  Clark watched her primping. “So that was Chandler’s new wife. What do you know about her, other than she’s fine?” Clark already knew all he needed to know about the lovely Sarita Grayson Chandler. His people had hunted down the remaining members of Fletcher Harris’s crew, and they’d sung like Mariah Carey before being sent to gangsta heaven. Clark simply wanted to hear Faye’s take on the woman.

  Faye didn’t care to hear him singing her rival’s praises. “She’s some ghetto social worker he found. Rumor has it she runs a kids’ center, in the hood.”

  Faye looked over at him. “Why are you interested in her?”

  “I’m interested in everything about Chandler. Aren’t you?”

  “Not her, no.” Thinking about the new Mrs. Chandler and what she’d done to Faye’s future made the seething Faye so heavy-handed with her lipstick, she wound up looking back at a clown. Grabbing a tissue from the dispenser in the armrest beside her, she wiped off the big red lips and started over.

  Clark watched her angry movements. Faye was such a plastic bitch. She didn’t like sex much, but he’d taken her to bed anyway; taken her like the whore she was beneath all that paint and expensive clothing. Vain, greedy women like Faye would sell their souls to the devil as long as he gave them a no-limit charge card and paid the bill. Were she fifteen years younger, she could go far in Clark’s underground world, but she was pushing thirty-five, far too old for the kind of trading she’d need to do to make the kind of money she wanted to have. He did know a few men overseas who’d be willing to pay a reasonably fair price for her aging goods, though, providing she did a better act in bed. Clark knew just the right coach. “How long she and Chandler been married?”

  Faye swung around. “Why do you keep asking about that little slut?”

  “Answer the question.”

  Under the low opera lights of the limo’s cabin, the steel in his eyes shone bright, and it made her nervous. She flounced back to the mirror. “I don’t know. Late October. The reception was a few days after Halloween.”

  Faye was warm in her new fur coat, so she took it off, then spent a few slow moments smoothing her black cashmere sweater over her ample breasts. She was certain she had Clark’s eye the entire time, and it pleased her. Some men are such fools, she thought caustically.

  “You know, Faye, for a woman your age, you’re not too bad.”

  She cut him a stony look. “What do you mean, for a woman my age?”

  “A woman your age. What are you, thirty-five, thirty-six?”

  “Thirty-two, thank you very much.”

  He laughed.

  She did not. “What’s so funny?”

  “You. I like you, though. Come here and give me some head before we get to the restaurant. Thinking about Chandler’s woman has got me hard.”

  Faye was outraged. “I beg your pardon.”

  “You heard me,” he whispered smiling. And so that there would be no misunderstanding, he undid his pants, grabbed her hand, and placed it on him.

  The sight and feel of him hard, thick, and awaiting her oral ministrations made Faye scoff derisively, “You must be kidding.” She tried to pull her hand back, but he forced her to keep it where it was.

  “Now, Faye, I thought we were partners?”

  His smile touched Faye with an iciness that made her shiver. His manner brought to mind visions of the serpent in the biblical garden. “We are partners,” she allowed, her voice shaking.

  “Good,” he oozed, “and since I’m the partner paying the freight, I think I deserve a bit of added compensation, don’t you? You asked for help getting revenge on Chandler, and I’m the only man equipped for the job.”

  Faye refused to acknowledge the double entendre and again tried to pull away, but his other hand painfully attached itself to her jaw.

  Her gasp of pain made his eyes glow with sinister pleasure. “Do this real good, and I’
ll buy you the biggest diamond you’ve ever seen.”

  The next day, after two hours of looking at pictures in the perp books Myk had given to her, without explanation as to how he’d obtained them, Sarita fingered the man on her porch. His name was Big Tiny Crane, a local, for-hire bodyguard. Armed with a name, Myk, Drake, and their Federal friends put out the word to find Crane and pick him up.

  It was now the second week of December, and the city had already gotten its first dusting of snow. Sarita had heard no more from Big Tiny Crane, and for that she was thankful. Sarita also hadn’t seem much of Myk since the dinner at Andre’s. Helping his brother work on the city’s budget was keeping him at the mayor’s mansion until late every night.

  However, the city was seeing more and more media reports on the drug house busts. People living near well-known crack outlets took to staying up late at night in hopes their local drug dens would be the next target on the list and they could catch a glimpse of the men whose campaign had everyone so excited. The police were calling the masked men vigilantes, the mayor came on TV urging calm; but the citizenry didn’t care. They were openly supportive of the mysterious men and their success in accomplishing what thirty years, and millions in government money, hadn’t. The dealers were on the run, and on Sundays in churches all over the city, congregations prayed the men in black would keep on keeping on.

  Seventeen

  Myk returned home from his night’s work weary in both body and soul. They’d had to shoot two young dealers tonight, kids no older than Keta and Jerome. He slowly climbed the back stairs to his wing in the 3 A.M. darkness and replayed the confrontation in his mind. The men and women under his command always tried to take a house down with as little violence as possible; a canister or two of tear gas was all it usually took. Not tonight. Tonight the kids holed up in the abandoned house had busted out the plywood over the broken windows and, with their faces covered behind towels and T-shirts, came out blasting. Myk and his people scrambled for cover as semiautomatics barked bullets that sliced through cars, trees, and everything else that could hold lead. Myk took a bullet in the initial fray; and he’d cursed because it was the same shoulder Sarita had shot him in. Fearing innocent people in the neighboring houses might be struck next, Myk clutched at the burning in his shoulder and radioed one of his operatives to take the kids down. With the aid of a nightscope, the ill-trained dealers were picked off in quick succession, and ten minutes later, the street was quiet except for the faint wail of sirens.