by the house today? Callie suddenly looked toward the front door, as if he might show up at any moment.
“Did you—you talk to him?” Callie asked, then swallowed.
“Briefly. He said he came in to pay respects to Uncle Dave and the family. He offered us condolences, said how sorry he was for our loss, then he left.”
Did he ask about me? That was the next question on Callie’s lips, but somehow she stopped herself from asking it. As if she even had the right to think that after what she’d done.
Her stomach clenched, knowing that what she had planned to do was going to be excruciatingly hard. But it had to be done. As difficult as it would be to face Nigel, she knew that she had to.
She only hoped that when she dropped her doozy of a bombshell on him, he didn’t hate her forever.
Chapter 2
“Detective Williams?”
Nigel Williams sat up straight when he heard the soft voice on the other end of the line. Was this the call he had been waiting for?
“Yes,” he said. “This is Detective Williams.”
“I hear you wanted to talk to me.”
“Dominiqua?”
“Yes,” came the low reply.
The murder victim’s girlfriend. Thank God. “You were there last night? When Garrett was shot?”
“Yes.” The girl began to cry.
“I need you to come in to the station,” Nigel said. “So we can talk about what happened.”
“I—I’m scared. If I talk to you, people will find out. And…”
Her voice trailed off, but her sentiment was clear. She was afraid to talk, because of the code on the streets—never snitch.
It was an all-too-common conundrum. People were afraid to come forth with information for fear of retaliation against them. But the catch-22 was that when people didn’t come forward to report the bad guys, the bad guys were still on the streets to hurt other people.
“I can come to you,” Nigel offered. “Just tell me—”
“No! No cops. I can’t be seen talking to a cop—”
“If you saw what happened, if you have information, it’s important that you tell me,” Nigel said, speaking as gently as possible. “We can figure out a spot to meet that will be safe for you.”
“I’m sorry,” Dominiqua said. “I—I can’t.”
And then she hung up.
Nigel heard the dial tone, and groaned in frustration as he replaced the phone to the cradle. Damn, he’d wanted Dominiqua to give him a name. At least, however, he had been given a lead. Dominiqua did know something. It might take time, but he was certain she would eventually come clean and let him know who had shot down her boyfriend in cold blood.
Nigel shook his head as he thought of last night’s murder of a young male. Twenty years old, gunned down in the street. The distraught mother being held up by family members at the crime scene, where her son lay bleeding from a gunshot wound.
Murder on the streets of Cleveland and another young life lost in a senseless manner. When would people stop taking the drastic action of murder as a way to solve their disputes?
Not any time soon, Nigel knew. Ever since his move to the homicide department within the Cleveland police three years earlier, his caseload had always been full.
Marshall Jennings, his best friend of twelve years and partner on the police force, had gone out to speak to the boy’s mother once their evening shift had started, while Nigel had stayed in the office looking up information on the victim, that could possibly link to any suspects.
“Hey, Williams.”
Nigel, who had been staring at the computer screen, looked to his right. Marshall was heading toward him, his blazer wet. Clearly, he had been caught in the torrential downpour. It was the end of May, and the showers had been intense lately. Mostly because even though it wasn’t yet summer, the weather was extremely hot.
The good thing was that if the rain kept up this evening, it wasn’t likely anyone would be gunned down on the streets.
“How did it go with the mother and the family?” Nigel asked.
“They’re devastated, understandably,” Marshall said, shrugging out of his jacket. “They saw Garrett at least two hours before he was shot but don’t seem to know anything useful.” Marshall hung his blazer on the back of his swivel chair. “They gave me some names of people who might have had a beef with him. Some leads to follow.”
“Well, I heard from Dominiqua, the victim’s girlfriend,” Nigel told him. “Those early leads were right—she did see the shooting.”
Marshall’s eyebrows rose as he took the seat at the desk beside Nigel. “All right. She name the shooter?”
Nigel shook his head. “I tried to get her to come talk to me, or to tell me something over the phone, but she hung up before she did. She’s too scared to talk.”
Marshall nodded his understanding. “She’ll probably come around.”
“I hope so. If she loved the guy, I’m thinking she’s going to want to see the shooter brought to justice.”
“No doubt,” Marshall agreed. Leaning forward, he typed something on his computer screen. Then he said, “Guess who I saw today?”
“Who?”
“Callie.”
Callie Hart…Nigel felt as though someone had just punched him in the gut with a sledgehammer. “You did?”
“Yep. I dropped by the church earlier to pay my respects on my way to the dentist. As I was leaving, I saw her getting out of an airport limo.”
Nigel turned his attention to the pile of papers on his desk. He needed something to do, a distraction. “So you didn’t talk to her?”
“Nope. But get this—she’s got a child.”
At the news, Nigel whipped his head in his friend’s direction. “What?”
“A young boy was getting out of the car with her. Maybe eight. It must be her kid.”
Nigel felt a tightening in his chest. Callie had a child? “Was she with someone?” he found himself asking. “A husband?”
Marshall’s eyebrows rose at the question. “Still carrying a torch for her, hmm? Even after how she left you?”
“Just curious,” Nigel responded. “She’s got a kid, she likely has a husband.”
