Ink

PROLOGUE

A misty rain fell over the rust-colored apartment building taking up the entire block between Saunders and Boothe Street in Rego Park. This was to be one of the grandest days in Queens, NY, history but that wasn’t to be so. The day was far from grand. The day was marred by tragedy and loss. To some, it was a wonderful day. To most, it was just another day. To others, it couldn’t have gotten any worse. Then there were those that were exposed to such misfortune that breathing seemed like the most trying of tasks. In apartment 6J, a family prepared for a funeral. The four bedroom apartment is lavish with its opaque walls and hardwood floors. The apartment is shaped like a woman’s boot with a large heel. The hallway from the main door leads to another hallway on the right and the foyer straight ahead. The foyer has two built-in bookcases adjacent to one another; separating the foyer from the living room. A little table sits in the corner with today’s mail, some keys in a small straw-woven basket and a couple of white i425 Boost Mobile phones. A salon style hair dryer stands on the wall opposite the entrance to the kitchen. There are some clothes strewn here and there. The living room is modest in that the only pieces of furniture are a chocolate-colored sectional sofa and a black forty-two inch flat panel LCD television mounted on the black stand that comes with it. Black dress shoes sit in front of the sofa. A middle aged man sits in the living room in front of the television with the remote control in one hand and the belt to his suit in the other. His white shirt is askew and oddly, only four buttons are fastened. The middle aged man channel surfs and checks the time on his watch as his wife walks into the kitchen adjusting her drop earrings made from pearls encased in diamond chips. Harold? she calls out as she adjusts the belt to her simple yet elegant black satin dress.

What is it, Millie?

Are you going to get dressed or are you just going to watch television? I mean, come on.

Harold switches off the television with a scowl. He finishes dressing. Mildred peeks out the kitchen door to peer at him. He slips on his dress shoes and buttons his shirt.

You know I hate funerals, Millie. I don’t know why I just can’t stay here and relax.

You know as well as I do that your daughter needs you at a time like this.

I know. I know. Harold says as he tucks his shirt into his pants. Mildred comes out of the kitchen and helps him with his tie.

Here, let me. She starts twisting and turning the flaps of the silk black tie until it is perfectly knotted and secure around her husband’s chubby neck. You know this is so hard on her. She loved him more than life itself. Now he’s gone. She looks her husband square in the eye. I would be the same way if something like that ever happened to you. She says as her soft brown eyes begin to fill with tears.

Millie, I didn’t mean anything by it. We all loved that boy. You know that. I just don’t want to see him… like that. Harold sweetly embraced his wife of over thirty years. It was a rarity these days to find Black people married for longer than the expiration date on a carton of milk; especially in New York City. Harold knew that. And it was moments like this that remind him of such a fact. When you are in love with someone, more than the flesh intertwines. The very depths of your souls are simultaneously touched with that warming light of love. You begin to feel. Not just with your fingertips, but with every fiber of your being. It is the most profound emotion. Even when poisoned, it never relinquishes its hold. But on this day, what saddened him most was he knew that his only child may never get to experience the joys and pleasures of being in love and having her soul mate next to her for all her days.

I’ll go check on Ebony. Mildred says, slowly pulling out of Harold’s manly grasp. He still sends chills through her anytime he touches her. It gives her strength. And boy, did she need it now. Not for her, but for her daughter. How do you help your child cope with something this tragic? As a young girl and an adult, Mildred never experienced anything like this. How can I even ask her to?

I’ll go get the car ready. Harold says as he watches his wife straighten her dress, push her shoulders back and proceed toward their daughter’s room. She stops at the hallway entrance.

Ok. We’ll meet you downstairs. Mildred turns the corner of the hallway and walks to the second door on the left. She raises her hand and tenderly strokes the face of the door. Questions like what to say? and where to begin? pulsate through her mind. Slowly, she reaches for the doorknob. A dusty gray light wafts through the window of Ebony Asante’s room. A small breeze drifts in, making the pink and white curtains flutter. The entire room’s color scheme is pink and white. Those have been her favorite colors since she was a three year old. It all started with Mr. Bubby. Mr. Bubby was a pink and white stuffed bunny rabbit her father gave to her on her third birthday. She couldn’t say bunny correctly at that age so the name stuck. She loved him so much she slept with him every night for the next seventeen years. Mr. Bubby’s special place has been in the center of her dressing table; next to her jewelry box and her French carved sailboat replica. That’s where she keeps her hair clips, barrettes, little mementos and other knick knacks. Things like her love for art or fashion, history or literature, or any other effects that are cerebral or spiritual, Ebony gets from her mother. Those are only some of the things they have in common. They are only physically different. Where Mildred stands at five feet five inches, Ebony is five feet eight inches. Mildred’s skin tone is that of tapioca and she has a slim build with modestly beautiful features like that of Hillary Clinton. Ebony, however, has the physical appearance the likes of Serena Williams, except for the fact that Ebony’s three inches shorter and a shade darker. Plus, she has light-brown eyes and high cheekbones like her father. Her black hair is two inches below her shoulders. She inherited her physical features from her father’s side of the family with him standing at six feet and weighing approximately two hundred and twenty pounds. Her mother looks more like a politician’s wife than the wife of a college football coach. Her demeanor is like such as well. Her job as curator at the Natural Museum of History could explain it. Or it could be just her passion for history, art and books in general. Ebony is much wilder than her mother ever was. When she was ten years old, she would run, jump around and climb trees like all the boys in her class. One day, outside on the playground, one of her classmates dared her to ride Snake Mountain. Now this wasn’t a real mountain. It was just the biggest pile of dirt any of the children had ever seen. They called it Snake Mountain because a green hose was left at the base of the dirt pile one day and one of the children saw it and immediately assumed it was the snake from his nightmares coming to eat him. The dirt was actually there because the school was to undergo renovations during summer vacation. Ebony didn’t care about the dare. She just liked to beat anyone that wanted to compete against her. Her father was a professional athlete turned coach. The competitive spirit runs in her blood. The next day after school, all the kids gathered around the dirt pile while Ebony perched at the top on her bicycle. Come on, Ebony. Do it! they all started yelling. Ebony looked down. It was a longer way down then she expected.

It looks a lot shorter when you look up at it. She thinks.

What’s the matter?! You scared?! one of the boys shouts up at her. He nudges one of his buddies. I told you she couldn’t do it. She not built like that. Ebony hears that little remark. Her eyes fill with tears.

I’ll show him. I’ll show them all. She thinks as defiance resonates through her small frame. A single tear glides down her chocolate cheek. She grits her teeth and gives her bike a small shove down the small mountain.

Look! someone shouts as the little black girl on the pink and white bicycle descends down the side of the dirt pile with increasing speed.

I can’t believe it. The loudmouth little boy says as he sees a girl do something he wouldn’t have dared attempt. Ebony flies down the dirt pile like a bullet shot out of a gun. The rush of the wind by her face is cool and refreshing but then a thought hits her like a freight train.

How am I going to stop without getting killed?! As soon as that very thinking crosses her mind, the front wheel of the bike hits a clump of dirt directly in her path.

Look out! someone shouts as they see Ebony careening out of control down the remaining portion of the mountainous heap of sand and rock. Little Ebony starts panicking as the ground accelerates toward her.

I’m not going to die! I’m not going to die! The words echo in her ears as her heart beats a mile a minute. The bike bursts onto the ground and heads for the dumpsters located to the northeast of the dirt pile. Ah! Ebony screams as the bike’s momentum snakes toward the rancid cesspool filled with garbage and rats the size of domesticated cats. Ah! she screams again and…

Ebony, Ebony. Are you ok? I heard you scream. Ebony slowly begins to stir. Her mother stands over her with a concerned look on her face. Ebony sits up and rubs the lengthy scar on her right forearm.

What a dream. I haven’t dreamt of how I got this scar in years. Ebony groggily looks at her mother. Did I scream out loud? She embarrassingly inquires in that husky morning voice people have when just waking up. Mildred starts toward her daughter’s closet.

No dear, you didn’t. Now please, pull yourself together. We do have a funeral to attend. Ebony’s mother searches through her closet. She keeps a firm grip on her emotions during times like this but she couldn’t help a tear streaming down her face as she pulls her daughter’s black satin dress out of the closet. Mildred wipes the tear off her cheek before turning to face her daughter. Here, you can wear this. I’ll just put it over on the chair. She retrieves Ebony’s black two inch heel shoes from under the bed. They are the appropriate kind. She places the shoes in front of the chair. I know this is a trying time for you. Mildred says as she sits at the foot of the bed. I just want you to know that your father and I are here for you; no matter what. Ebony begins to tear. Mildred moves closer to her daughter and comforts her. It’s ok, baby. Go ahead, let it out. She says as Ebony sobs even harder. I wish I could take all your pain away.

Just then, a small black bird perches outside of the window. With no sunshine in sight, its shadow slowly creeps into the cozy little room.

CHAPTER I

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Damn. Did I even sleep? A hand slithers from under the bedcovers and steadily makes its way to the off button of the alarm clock.

Beep. Beep. Instantaneously, the hand darts the last few inches and switches it off. The hand then retracts just as quickly back under the covers. The tall wiry-framed Black man, wrapped in bed sheets, is not ready for the day. Not this day.

Any other day but today. It is a Tuesday. Under different circumstances, it would have been just like any other Tuesday. Unfortunately, that isn’t the case. The man pulls the covers from over his head so he can see if it is going to be sunny or if it is going to rain. It’s going to rain. He lets out a sigh. He’s not frustrated that it’s going to rain or that it’s a Tuesday and it’s going to rain. Today’s my sister’s funeral and my first day at a new precinct. How the fuck am I going to pull this off? The man suddenly casts the sheets to the side and springs to his feet. He looks at the clock. Five fifty a.m.? Thought I laid there longer than that. The fucking alarm is set for five forty-nine. He walks to the bathroom like a boxer entering the ring. The stride of his six feet two inch physique is confident and sure. His broad shoulders and slim waist indicate that he works out at the gym regularly. He groggily turns the light on and squints from the glare. He then begins his daily ritual that was started those ten long years ago when he first graduated the academy. He turns on the shower. Not too hot, not too cold; slightly above seventy degrees. He takes a leather black case from under the sink and places it on top of porcelain. He goes back into the bedroom, looks at the clock and prepares his clothes for the day. Five fifty-two a.m., are you kidding me? Time can’t go any faster? Its hard enough starting over at a new location even though I am pretty good at my job. On top of that, I got to bury my sister and I have no one to lean on right now. During his train of thought, he dresses himself in a long sleeve khaki colored denim button-down shirt with a red and white Chinese dragon on the back, a pair of khaki colored slacks and a pair of Sperry Top-Sider Barracuda Chukka boots. He checks out his glowing dark exterior and chic New York City style in the mirror mounted on the wall next to the apartment door. You look good, brother. Now go out there… and don’t forget to hold it together. He says somewhat flustered. He puts on his army fatigue Yankee fitted baseball cap and replica Desert Storm army jacket. He grabs his keys off the little table and heads out the door, locking up behind himself. Sam David Lucas is not your ordinary police officer. He isn’t your ordinary anything: a first degree black belt in The Way of the Intercepting Fist created by his hero Bruce Lee. He was an Army Ranger in the Special Forces unit. He is a lover of movies, home-cooked meals and anything on E.S.P.N. Other than that, he is just you with better than average looks and an I.Q. many of which would actually kill for. Sam buries his sister and immediately takes a two week vacation with out even stepping into his new precinct. Today, he pulls into the police station parking lot with a focused mind and a clear heart. The red brick-faced structure with handicap accessible entrances on the north and east wings housed the Forty-Fourth Precinct on River Avenue in the Bronx. This is his first official day on the new job. The precinct’s surroundings are quite familiar to this veteran New York City detective.

Lucas, get in here. Sam gets up from the wooden bench located to the right of the lieutenant’s office and proceeds to enter. Close the door behind you. Lieutenant Michael O’Callaghan says from behind his wooden desk. Sam notices the lieutenant’s desk is cluttered with files and loose sheets of paper scattered to the edges like the snowcaps of the Andes Mountains. The brown antique bookshelves in the office contain various mementos and photographs of the lieutenant with his family, colleagues and some other individuals Sam can’t quite distinguish. Have a seat.

Thanks. Sam says as he sits in one of the chairs in front of the desk. What’s on your mind, Lou?

We just got a kooky case that I want you to look in to.

What kind of case?

The kooky kind, the crazy kind, you know. The lieutenant leans his stocky stature across the colossal disaster that is his desk. This ties into… The lieutenant stops himself and looks around. Various people pass by the windows of the lieutenant’s office. The lieutenant gets up and quickly pulls the blinds closed on all the windows. I’m not supposed to be doing this but I thought that maybe we could finally have one these crazy cases solved under our roof instead of some cockamamie F.B.I. prick getting all the glory. He grabs a disturbingly large manila folder from under the catastrophe on his desk and hands it to Sam. I want you to take that, read it and get started. You have the rest of the day off.

But Lou, it’s only ten thirty in the morning. What am I supposed to do for the rest of the day? The lieutenant looks at Sam for a spell. He then looks at the obese manila folder Sam holds. The lieutenant leans back slowly in his chair. The chair moans under his weight, it’s old age and lack of maintenance. You are going to need the rest of the day to get prepared.

Prepared for what?

If I’m right, the case of the decade.

Sam thought it ironic how he is given the day off only to work from home. He knows there is something strange about this case and it is going to be up to him to find out the who, what, when, where and why. The why; that’s what it always boils down to. The suspects in the case mean nothing unless you know the why. Once you know the why then you have the culprit. Case closed. Sam lets this profound thought mull over in his mind as he unlocks his mailbox in his apartment building lobby. He reaches in, grabs its contents and slams the small metal door shut. He takes the elevator to the third floor. His apartment is the second door to the right of the elevator. Sam enters the apartment, shuts the door and tosses the obese file with the mail onto the tattered upholstery that is supposed to be a couch. He hangs up his jacket and tosses his baseball cap onto the little table stationed by the apartment door. So I guess I’m Lou’s guinea pig, huh? He thinks as he strips out of his clothes. In just his white Hanes boxer briefs and socks, Sam goes into the kitchen to get something to drink. He steps in front of the kitchen cabinet and pulls out a glass. Why me? Why’d he pick me? If it’s that important, why give it to me? If I were lieutenant, I would have given the case to my best detective. Unless  . . . Sam grabs a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and shuffles his size eleven and a half feet back into the living room where the case file sits. He grabs a notepad from off the rinky-dink coffee table in front of the sofa and sits next to the file. He looks around for his cordless house phone. He hits the locater button on the base charger sitting on a small dusty end table to the right of the couch. He hears a muffled beeping sound coming from under a pile of clothes next to his computer slash workstation. He retrieves the phone and continues to set up his makeshift home office. I’ve worked many crazy cases but this here . . . Sam runs his hand over the plump case file to his left. This must be the craziest of them all if Lou handed it to me on my first day. Usually, you get stuck with some arbitrary assignments. There is a knock at the door. Sam puts everything on top of the coffee table. He finds a wrinkled pair of old basketball shorts and puts them on. The person on the other side of the door raps again. Sam makes his way over to the door and peers out the peephole. Ms. Meyers. What does she want? He opens the door to find Ms. Meyers, in her navy blue Louis Vuitton track suit with matching Nike ACGs, standing there with her little Lhasa Apso dog in her arms. What can I do for you, Ms. Meyers?

Detective, I just stopped by to request your presence at our monthly tenant’s meeting this Friday. she says in that tone associated with the upper echelon of society.

Sure, Ms. Meyers, I’ll be there with bells on. Ah, what time? She looks at Sam up and down with that disapproving look teachers give smart students who misbehave. She would be a decent woman if she just loosened up a bit. Maybe get some dick in her life. Even dick as old as she is would be good.

Six p.m.

"O-kay." Sam flashes her half a smile and closes the door on her and her little pooch. She always gives face-to-face announcements. She must hate memos. Hell, at seventy-two years old, going from door-to-door might be the only real exercise she gets. She only leaves the building to walk that dog. Sam makes his way back to his improvised office. Upon settling down, he grabs the folder and opens it up. As he does, the only window in the living room starts to rattle. He gets up and closes the window while gazing out at the spectacular view of the Manhattan skyline. From his apartment on Astoria Boulevard, he can see it clearly. A quiet sigh escapes his lips as he turns back to the task at hand. No more pussyfooting. Time to get to work. He seats himself in the same position he was in a few moments ago. He looks at the clock on the wall above his slightly dusty thirty-two inch television, sitting on the stand. Twelve thirty-five p.m. Sam grabs the folder. He props his legs up on the coffee table and begins to read. For a moment, he is unable to focus on the pages. It just dawned on me that I haven’t thought about Diane. Damn  . . . He doesn’t notice the small black bird that just so happens to perch on the sill of the exact window he had previously closed. As the bird pecks and pokes, its shadow stealthily slithers its way into the living room.

CHAPTER II

College is the greatest place to learn how to make the transition between puberty and adulthood. That’s how Dexter Mason sees it. In his eyes, college is the best thing that has ever happened to him. Standing at six feet three inches, Dexter is a handsome and sleek looking dark-skinned Black warrior with dreadlocks to his shoulder blades. He has faced a lot of hardships along his life’s path. At twenty-eight years of age, he knows that every choice he makes can mean the difference between life and death. Dex, as his family and friends like to call him, had a mind well beyond his years. It may come from the fact that he experienced so much in his short stay on the planet. He didn’t have both parents which was normal in his neighborhood in the Bronx. He knew who his father was but he disappeared when Dexter was five. His mother was a decent parent but the devastation of being left by the man you devote your entire being to, took a severe toll on her. She was a shell of a woman during Dexter’s life. She actually favored his younger brother Henri over him. She did teach him a few things along the way though. Still, Dexter’s heart looked to compensate for the love that he felt was missing from his soulless mother. That single notion led him down a rocky path that only God could have saved him from. However, Dexter maintained a vibrant outlook on life. For instance, at age five, he lost his virginity to his twelve year old babysitter. Nowadays, a lot of people would call that child abuse. Not Dexter. To him, that was the beginning of something tremendously wonderful. He didn’t know much about what was happening