Читать книгу Friend or Foe - Imani Black - Страница 6

Chapter 1

Brice

Brice sat across from his sister Ciara and smiled as she picked up her glass of water and took a sip. He knew he was being goofy with her, but he’d rather that than everything they’d been through before. Smiling now was the best medicine for the tears he’d shed over her in the past.

“What?” Ciara asked, watching him over the rim of her glass. “It’s just water.”

“I know. I know,” Brice said, putting his hands up for an immediate truce. “I’m just admiring you and everything about you, that’s all. Still out here killing it, despite it all. I’d call that black girl magic.” He made sure to keep his tone supportive.

Ciara’s shoulders slumped with relief. Brice’s did too. She was learning to trust her big brother again, and Brice was learning to let her.

They’d had a hard time getting their relationship back in order after everything that had happened when she was sixteen. It had been four years, and Ciara was an adult now, but Brice still couldn’t shake the experience of almost losing her to the streets. He was Ciara’s big brother, but he acted more in the capacity of her father. He had stepped in where his alcoholic stepfather had stepped out. Overprotective big brother had been an understatement back then, but Brice had quickly learned that if he sheltered her too much, she would never really learn the ways of the streets—or the world, for that matter. It was his sheltering in the past that had left Ciara naïve and open to the smooth talk of a sex trafficker. He still worried himself sick about her sometimes.

He picked up his own drink, a Heineken, and took it to the head for a swig.

“Ah!” He winced as the cold brew hit his throat. He was praying it would hit his brain as hard to ease his mind. Brice still struggled with PTSD and intrusive memories. They were sometimes better than others, but one thing remained the same—he couldn’t control when and where they’d tramp into his mind.

“So, what’s new?” Brice asked Ciara, putting his beer down noisily and looking at her across the table of a quaint restaurant in a newly gentrifying section of Brooklyn. A lot had changed, but at the same time, a lot had remained the same as it was back then. Brice had continued the same traditions he’d had with his sister—a monthly, or at least every six weeks, meetup to chat. After Brice left home and landed the promotion to detective, he didn’t have as much time for Ciara as he had before he became (in his assessment) a hotshot at the NYPD. But, just like now, he’d carved out time for her as much as he could. Back then, Brice had looked forward to spending time with Ciara, even if it meant taking her on one of her expensive mini shopping sprees.

“Nothing new. Same old things. School, work, home. Boring, boring, boring,” Ciara said, letting out an exasperated breath. She ran her pointer finger over the condensation on her glass and darted her eyes around the restaurant. Things felt awkward for them again. It never took long for it to get like this.

Brice shifted in his seat, immediately uncomfortable with her response. He looked up at her, and concern creased his brow. He lived on pins and needles when it came to Ciara and her safety. It was still hard for him to shake everything that had happened.

“But what’s wrong with that?” he asked, which was different than what he’d done in the past. Just as the question left his mouth, his mind reeled backward to right before their lives had imploded. Brice forced a weak smile, but as usual, he couldn’t keep that old memory from flooding back into his head. Another swig of beer didn’t help either. With him, the memories did what they wanted, and so did his mind. Brice had grabbed Ciara from school and taken her to her favorite spot. It was their tradition. He asked her what was up with her, and things had gone left from there.

* * *

“Nothing is up,” Ciara snapped. “Why you always asking me that question as soon as we alone?” Ciara continued in typical nasty-attitude teenager fashion, rolling her eyes and folding her arms across her chest.

“Ay, ay, what’s that attitude all about?” Brice asked in return, looking at his baby sister in a new light. His eyebrows crinkled so far into the center of his face he felt like they’d stay that way permanently.

“I know Mommy told you,” Ciara snapped, rolling her eyes and bouncing her legs under the table.

Brice couldn’t lie even if he wanted to at that moment. She was only sixteen, but his sister knew him well enough to know that their mother had indeed told him that Ciara had not come home until 2 a.m. one night, and when confronted about her whereabouts, Ciara had shoved their mother and run to her room. This wasn’t typical behavior for Ciara.

Although Brice wanted to shake the truth out of his sister, he tried to remain calm in his questioning. “Well, I’m waiting for you to tell me your version,” Brice replied, keeping his voice even. She was a teenager, and he tried to understand, but his patience had begun to grow thin.

“You’re my brother, not my father. I don’t have to tell you nothing,” Ciara spat, pushing her chair back and standing up.

Her sudden movement surprised Brice, so much so that he jumped into action.

“Where do you think you’re going? Sit down,” Brice instructed in a harsh whisper, trying not to attract the attention of numerous customers eating at Dallas BBQ downtown.

“I don’t want to have these meetings anymore. I’m not one of your suspects to be questioned all the time,” Ciara replied acidly as she rudely got up from the table and stormed for the exit.

Brice’s pride and feelings had been crushed like a bug on a windshield. His hands shook fiercely as he dug twenty dollars out of his pants pocket and threw the money on the table before he headed out after his sister.

He spilled out onto the street in front of the restaurant, his chest heaving. He spotted Ciara’s bright coat weaving through the crowd on the sidewalk.

“Ciara! Ciara! Wait!” Brice called after her as he picked up his pace. She ignored him and picked up her speed. Brice’s chest heaved harder, and his mind raced with questions and anger.

He’d never seen his little sister so uncharacteristically rude and disrespectful. They’d been best friends since she was born. Up until that point, Ciara usually told him everything. Brice even knew when she had her period before their mother. Ciara confided in him about her crushes and even her little spats at school. If something was bothering her, Brice assumed she would have told him about it.

Brice finally caught up with her. He’d grown winded and out of breath when he finally grabbed her arm roughly.

“What are you doing?” he wolfed, holding onto her with an iron grip.

“Get off of me!” Ciara screamed, wriggling to get free and managing to get some nasty glares from some of the patrons bustling up and down Fulton Street.

“Ciara, what is wrong with you? Why are you acting like this?” Brice gritted through his teeth, wringing her arm to bring her closer to him. “What the hell has gotten into you?”

“Ouch! Get off!” she screamed again. This time, people stopped and stared.

“Yo, man, the girl said get off her. You need to find one your own age,” a tall guy with a do-rag and baggy jeans said, moving closer to Brice and Ciara.

“This is my fucking sister. Mind your fucking business,” Brice spat, still holding on to Ciara’s arm with a death grip. She wriggled and fought him like he was a total stranger trying to kidnap her. Brice experienced both shock and hurt all at once.

“Who the fuck you talking to?” the skinny stranger snarled. Suddenly, as if they grew out of the brick buildings, six other dudes surrounded Brice like a hungry pack of wolves circling their dinner.

“I’m a fucking cop, so back the fuck up!” Brice shouted, letting go of Ciara for a second to pull out his shield. When he let go of her arm, Ciara broke free and ran. Distracted by the group of thugs and worried for his safety, Brice couldn’t run after her.

“Fuck!” he huffed, eyeing the group evilly.

“Yo, man, we were just trying to help the girl. You know what I mean,” the main guy tried to explain with his hands raised in surrender, unwilling to challenge Brice’s shield.

Brice spun around to display his badge, hoping to disperse the crowd that had gathered to watch. Out of his peripheral vision, he watched his sister’s pink jacket disappear around the corner. Exasperated, Brice finally walked back to his car and promised that he would be giving his sister a serious talking-to when he caught up with her.

That day would forever be etched is Brice’s mind, as it set off a series of life events he wouldn’t ever forget.

* * *

“Nothing is wrong,” Ciara answered, breaking up Brice’s memory of the past. “I wish you and Mommy would stop asking me that constantly. I’m not a kid anymore,” she said, slightly annoyed. She wanted to understand her big brother’s concerns, but at the same time, she wanted to forget all that had happened to her. It had been a dark time in her life, but everyone around her acted like they were the victims and not her.

Brice drank the last of his beer. He lowered his eyes. “I know, baby sis. You’re right, but I’m always super worried about you. I love you more than you know,” he said softly. The even tone of voice and understanding way was a sign of Brice’s growth. The old Brice, the one who’d been haunted by his past and had always been angry, would’ve taken offense and gotten defensive with his sister. Not the new Brice Simpson. He’d learned fast that being on the job had the potential to take you out if you let it. He’d found himself a good therapist and wasn’t afraid to say it.

As a homicide detective, Brice saw some of the worst crimes against humanity. After all, his career as a detective had blossomed out of one of the most horrific cold cases in New York. Brice had been a young street thug turned police officer when he was promoted to detective. That was kind of unheard of in the Department. Before gaining his gold shield, Brice was a New York City patrol cop for six years. He’d shot two fleeing armed robbery suspects who had turned their weapons on Brice’s partner, wounding him in the stomach. Brice was lauded by the NYPD for his heroic and courageous actions and earned a promotion to detective as a result.

What the Department didn’t know was that, yes, Brice had given chase and drawn his weapon, but the only reason he hadn’t also been shot was that one of the robbers was Brice’s childhood best friend, Earl. Brice and Earl Baker had been friends since before they were born. Their mothers met in the free prenatal clinic in downtown Brooklyn and realized they only lived a block from each other in the same projects. Brice and Earl were born two months apart and had literally grown up together. On their first birthdays, each was the first guest to arrive at the other’s party. Before they started school, they had play dates when their mothers had face-to-face appointments at the welfare office, and when they started kindergarten at the same school, they held onto each other like Celie and Nettie from the Color Purple after the school tried to put them in separate classes.

Brice and Earl had always been inseparable in everything they did. For as long as each could remember, they had done everything together, including committing the heinous act of rape. When Earl first suggested that they rape one of their middle school classmates—a special education student who had a huge crush on Earl—Brice had told him no. But Earl always had a way of getting in Brice’s head, calling him a faggot and sissy if he didn’t give in to Earl’s every whim. Brice would always remember that day so clearly—the girl’s screams, her vacant eyes after the third boy climbed off her, and the fact that she never returned to school.

When Brice went to high school, he poured himself into his academics, and Earl became more immersed in street life. The day Brice received his diploma, Earl got sentenced to three years upstate for armed robbery. In the time that Earl had been locked up, Brice became a police officer. He thought that if he fought enough crime, he could erase his past. Brice had never shared his profession with his best friend or with any of his friends from the old neighborhood, until that fateful day when he came face to face with Earl on opposite sides.

Brice could still hear Earl’s words every time he thought about it.

* * *

“Wait, nigga. Don’t shoot. Wait the fuck a minute! B-boy? You a fuckin’ cop?” Earl asked, calling Brice by his childhood tag name. Earl’s wide-stretched eyes and hanging jaw said that he was clearly shocked to see his former best friend in the gravee blues. That was what they called the navy blue NYPD uniforms on the streets, making reference to how many black boys the NYPD had put in the grave.

Brice ignored Earl’s question but kept his gun trained on his old friend. They locked eyes, their past indiscretions standing between them like a giant ogre, scary and threatening to eat them alive.

“Drop your weapon!” Brice screamed like Earl was any other criminal in the streets.

“A’ight, B-boy, I’ma drop my weapon,” Earl said, calmly placing one hand up and preparing to bend down to drop his weapon.

“Fuck that!” Earl’s accomplice screamed out, raising his gun.

With that distraction and without thinking first, Brice opened fire on both of them. He watched Earl fold to the ground like a deflated balloon.

“Damn, B-boy, you was my brother from another mother,” Earl rasped before throngs of police officers descended upon the scene in response to the 10-13 that Brice had previously called over the radio.

Brice found out a few hours later that he had “heroically” taken the suspects down. He had not planned for Earl to find out his secret like that. Brice was determined to take his promotion to detective and fuck the wheels off of it to move up the ranks. The further removed he was from the streets, the easier it would be to live with the choice he’d made during the robbery.

So, Brice’s first day as a detective was both sad and proud for him. He looked at his new gold badge again and again. He even breathed on it and rubbed it on his shirt to get it to shine. Brice was enamored with himself, and he liked the sound of his new title, Detective Brice Simpson.

That first day, he’d placed his belt badge back on his brand-new Armani suit pants, stretched his arms out, and looked around the bustling detective squad room of the Brooklyn North Task Force. He tapped his fingers on his new desk—an old, gray, rickety holdover from the 70s. He had finally made it. As a patrol cop, the only thing Brice had was a tiny steel locker sandwiched between slews of other lockers in his precinct, but street patrols and uniforms were a thing of the past. Brice was a detective, and he had a chip on his shoulder the size of the Rock of Gibraltar.

Brice looked around the room at the WANTED posters. Being only twenty-eight years old at the time and from Brooklyn himself, he recognized more than a few faces on the posters. He probably knew where to find the suspects, too.

“Hey, Simpson, you think the good commissioner promoted you to sit there and look at the manicure Kim Ling gave you?” Detective Sergeant Carruthers yelled out as he walked toward Brice. His joke garnered snickers from the rest of the squad.

Brice felt his cheeks flame over. He opened his mouth to pipe up, but he didn’t get the chance.

“Save it. Here you go, some work. I know you’re not used to it, but up here, we work,” Sergeant Carruthers said, slamming a stack of case files on Brice’s desk.

“I ain’t never scared,” Brice came back jokingly, letting out a short, nervous chuckle.

Looking down at the files, he saw a big red sticker labeled: COLD CASE fiLES.

“Aww, shit,” he cursed, flipping through the stack. He looked up and saw that the other detectives were staring and laughing at him. Brice’s insides churned.

“The new guy gets the dogs. You know, the shit nobody else wants. We don’t care how much cops and robbers you played as a street cop. Solve those sons of bitches and you really earn this promotion,” Sergeant Carruthers said, popping his suspenders that looked stretched to the limit over his huge gut.

Brice reluctantly flipped through several of the cold case files. Many of the cases were related to indigent people found dead under bridges and in abandoned buildings. Some were of known gang members found dead in project elevators and stairwells, and others of dead crackheads. But one case stood out from all the rest. A fourteen-year-old girl had been found bludgeoned to death in a dumpster behind a Brooklyn bodega.

Brice opened the folder, and on the inside cover were several crime scene photographs. Brice winced and almost gagged, thinking of the pain the girl must have endured. He could hardly make out the girl’s face in the pictures. Her head, from the neck up, resembled a blob—a red clump of flesh with no definition. Brice wasn’t able to distinguish her eyes or nose. Her hair was matted with blood. Whoever had murdered her left her butt naked. She’d been beaten all over her body and then dumped atop bags of trash, an indistinguishable mass of flesh and blood. Bugs had already started eating away at the flesh by the time the pictures were taken.

Brice shuffled the photos and looked at the girl after she had been cleaned up by the medical examiner. Although her face was completely disfigured, Brice was able to tell that she was just a baby, her breasts barely developed, her fingers small and slender like delicate straws. The medical examiner had ruled the cause of death as a brain hemorrhage.

Who would beat such a young girl so unmercifully? he thought with his fingers closing tightly around the file.

He meticulously reviewed each piece of paper and flipped through all the notes. A handwritten Post-It note had been left in the file, where someone had scribbled: Runaway prostitute got herself killed. Case closed. Brice squinted his eyes into little slits and feverishly turned the pages to find out which detective had been assigned the case.

“D’Giulio,” Brice mumbled under his breath. “It fucking figures. A white prick. If she was a white runaway, would he have come to the same conclusion?” Brice asked himself under his breath. It was apparent that the detective who had been assigned the case didn’t bother to fully investigate before deeming it a cold case.

Eager to get his career off to a good start, Brice glanced at the address where the body had been found. He grabbed his gun out of his desk drawer and put it in his shoulder holster.

“I’ll be back!” he yelled to no one in particular.

Little did Brice know back then that the cold case would be the real start of his career as a detective and also the beginning of a series of events that had changed his and his sister’s lives forever.

* * *

“Well, let’s change the subject,” Brice said to his sister, finally snapping out of his reverie. He’d let the long stretches of memory interrupt their date long enough. His therapist had tried to help him control the nightmares and flashbacks. It didn’t always work out so well. He’d been doing much better with it than in the past, but he still wasn’t free of what he believed was karma for what he’d done as a kid.

“Yes, thank you,” Ciara said, her words coming out on a long sigh.

Brice opened his hands as if to say, Well, talk.

Ciara picked up her water again. “I’m dropping out of college,” she said as she put the glass down. She looked at Brice and quickly averted her eyes.

Brice’s nostrils flared, and he immediately knitted his fingers together to keep them from curling into fists on their own. It was a method his therapist had recommended.

“Say what?” They were the only words Brice could muster at the moment.

“I’m leaving college because school is just not for me, Brice. I’m twenty years old now. I have the right. I will not have my feet held to the fire for the rest of my life for something that happened when I was sixteen. It was a childish mistake back then, and I’ve moved past it, even if you and Mommy haven’t,” she said flatly but with enough feeling that the words felt like ice cold water had been thrown in Brice’s face.

He balked a little, taken aback all over again. This time, instead of getting angry right away, Brice cleared his throat—another therapy-taught method to slow down his racing brain and to keep him from saying something he’d later regret. Brice still couldn’t help his rocking jaw, though.

“So, how will you take care of yourself in the future if you don’t go to college?” he asked levelly. “You know the job situation all over the United States... no education, no life.”

“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Ciara said tentatively, gnawing on her bottom lip like she always did when she knew she was about to piss her brother off.

Brice raised his eyebrows as if to ask, Really? He just knew his sister must be losing her damn mind if she thought he was going to take care of her financially as an adult. He’d done enough for her in the absence of what her own father could do.

Brice had grown up in the Kingsborough projects in Brooklyn. As a child, he had watched helplessly as his alcoholic stepfather beat his mother. Each time Brice had tried to help her, he’d end up beaten up so badly that he’d have to miss school the following day. Brice took to the streets and started acting out as a way to vent his frustration with his home life, but when Ciara was born, one look at her and Brice vowed to always take care of her. Up until this moment, Brice had lived up to his end of the promise, although his sister never made it easy.

“It’s not what you think,” Ciara clarified as she watched Brice’s facial expressions display ten different emotions at once. “I not going to sit around doing nothing, Brice. I’m going to move to Vietnam and teach over there,” she announced, smiling as if she’d just said something good. “It’s such a good opportunity to give back and do some good for the world.”

Brice felt like five bombs had gone off in his ears. He instinctively put his fingers to his temples and moved them in a circular motion. Speechlessness was something that didn’t happen to Brice too often, but right then, Brice couldn’t find one word. Ciara had put Brice and his mother through enough, but this would take the whole entire cake. He swallowed hard, still at a loss for words.

Just then, his work cell phone vibrated next to him on the table. It was his lieutenant.

“I have to take this,” Brice huffed, shooting up from his chair, completely relieved for the distraction. Work had saved the day once again.

“Of course you do,” Ciara mumbled, shaking her head. “Nothing has changed.”