“Not really. The amount of illegal goods and services these kids can already get on any street corner, from drugs to guns to phones . . . This whole area is a black-market economy. You don’t need valid ID for those kinds of transactions.”
He raises a good point. Marjolie had wanted her ID to keep up with her club-hopping boyfriend. So there were some things the local dealer couldn’t supply. But apparently, not much.
“What would’ve happened if you’d caught DommyJ selling fake IDs?”
“We would’ve kicked him out of the program. Zero-tolerance policy, remember?”
“Like you did with Livia Samdi’s older brother?”
“J.J. Samdi? Yes, there were issues. He was banned from the rec center after a volunteer caught him selling drugs. The police were informed, though I don’t know what became of the matter. We do not hold the sins of the brother against the sister, however. Livia Samdi remained welcome.”
“Very enlightened of you.”
Frédéric simply waits.
“Did you ever interact with J.J.?”
“Yes. As part of the after-school programming. We open up the courts for basketball, other sports, while offering mentoring opportunities, tutoring instructors, and special classes in art, video design, computer programming. Our mission is to keep these kids off the street. We must help them make good decisions, as they are growing up surrounded by bad ones.”
“I have a friend who says he helps out with the mentoring. Charlie.”
“Ah yes, Charlie. The kids, particularly the boys, like him very much. He is one of them. A survivor. When he talks, even our tougher teens will listen. And every now and then, it is enough to make a difference.”
“J.J. wasn’t the every now and then.”
“No. Sadly.”
“But Livia?”
“I didn’t know her well enough. She was a gifted artist, as I said. But very quiet. She did our after-school programming, too. She worked with one of our teachers in one of the trade school courses.”
Trade school catches my attention. “You have teachers come help out?”
“Of course.”
“What about computer design classes? Say, taught by a Mr. Riddenscail?”
“Absolutely. He is very good. One of our few white teachers. The kids don’t make it easy on him, but he is tougher than he looks. Has been working our after-school program for years.”
“Were he and Livia close?” I ask immediately.
“She took one of his classes.”
“And you have computers here?”
“A dozen. We got them through a special grant.”
“What about a 3D printer?”
“Yes.” He regards me curiously. “Through the same grant.”
“Did Mr. Riddenscail write that grant?”
Frédéric sits up straighter. “As a matter of fact . . . Wait, I don’t understand.”
But I’m already moving. I need to reach Lotham. Demand that he get a warrant and return here immediately.
“I’ll be back,” I inform Frédéric.
“Wait,” he says again.
But I don’t. My sense of urgency has taken over. I must move, I must act. Livia is dead, Angelique may be next. The rec center, computers, 3D printers, forgeries. It all ties together. I feel like I’m on the edge of watching the pieces click into place. If I’m not already too late.
I nearly run down the long shadowy corridor. I bolt out the doors, back into the blinding sun, whipping out my cell phone to call Lotham.
And run smack into J.J. Samdi.
“Lady, I’m gonna fucking kill you.”
CHAPTER 32
I don’t have my whistle in my pocket, or my tactical clips in my hair. I’d left my apartment in too much of a huff. I glance at my cell phone, move my thumb to hit emergency. But J.J. is one step ahead of me, knocking it out of my hand.
“Don’t move a muscle.” He pulls back the flap of his unbuttoned shirt enough for me to see the black butt of the pistol he has shoved into the waistband of his jeans. An intimidating sight, but a dumb move. He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t blow off his own balls.
We are twenty feet outside the rec center doors but out of sight of the street and, given how deep in the building is Frederic’s office, light-years away from the closest known human. That leaves me and my charming personality versus a homicidal drug dealer.
I tell myself I’ve faced worse.
That might be a lie.
“Is the safety on or off?” I ask J.J.
The question catches him off guard. Score one for me.
“I would have the safety on. I mean, don’t you have valuable body parts currently in the line of fire? Knee. Thigh. Or if you fumble getting it out, penis.”
I like saying the word penis in front of boys. It never fails to fluster them.
“Stop talking!”
“I’m not saying it’s common to shoot off a penis,” I continue now. “But after seeing it once, it’s not the kind of thing you forget. So really, I’m thinking of your own well-being.” My voice drops. “Don’t you think your mother has lost enough for one day?”
My quiet words hit him harder than my smartass comments. He recoils and the look on his face . . .
He’s not just a homicidal brother. He’s a grieving one.
“Stay away from my family. My mother doesn’t need you or your fucking gorilla.”
I take it Charlie’s outreach didn’t go as planned. I don’t blame him. The situation had been dicey from the start, with Roseline Samdi in a very dark place, and that was before she’d learned her daughter was murdered.
“Did you shoot at me the other day, Johnson—”
“J.J.!”
“Are you the one who chased me out of your house?”
He regards me belligerently. His silence makes me believe he didn’t do it. But there’s a vein thrumming in his sweat-dotted brow and I swear the coils of ink snaking up his arms and around his throat are nearly vibrating with agitation. He’s on something. His dark eyes are too dilated, his fingers twitchy. He’s high, he’s angry, and he hurts. A very dangerous combination.
I know. I’ve been there myself.
“Who is your older brother?” I ask.
“I don’t have no older brother.”