The Superman Project by A. E. Roman

Author:A. E. Roman
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781429938235
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

SIXTEEN

The NYPD had found the murder weapon, a bloody knife marked Michael Jordan’s Steak House, in Yayo’s shopping cart and arrested him for the murder of Esther Sanchez. His old gray New Balance sneaker footprints matched the prints found at the crime scene. There were two sets of bloody footprints. One set belonged to Elvis. The other set belonged to Yayo. Yayo did it. Killed a kindhearted woman who offered him shelter, food, and pocket money in the past. For drug money.

Yayo told the police only that he had been in the apartment, had found Esther, had taken the knife out of her back because he felt terrible, realized she was dead and what he had done by touching a murder weapon, and left the apartment taking the murder weapon and a cell phone with him to buy drugs, but swore up and down that he was not the killer of Esther Sanchez.

Samantha even got me a quick interview with Yayo at Rikers: “You’re not lying to me, are you?”

“I swear by my dead mother and my dead sister,” Yayo said. “The front door was open. I found her like like that. I didn’t do it.”

Yayo’s mother and sister died six months apart from one another. Yayo took to drinking and then drugs, lost his job as a computer graphics designer, then his apartment, and then he took to walking the street. But everybody in the Heights was saying how he was a good, smart kid, trying to get off the street with Esther Sanchez’s help. Word on the street was that Yayo couldn’t have done it and the real killer was out there free.

No matter.

Elvis got sprung.

Yayo got jailed.

Them’s the breaks.

But Gabby Gupta was still missing and so I still wanted to take a look at Utopia Farms where she kept an art studio. It was hot outside. Zena was tense and sitting in the driver’s seat of her Mini Cooper, blasting the air conditioner. Aretha Franklin’s “Chain of Fools” played on the car radio.

“For five long years, I thought you were my man . . .”

Zena was wearing a white blouse, bell-bottom jeans, and brown sandals, her flamboyant nest of black hair draped across her beautiful shoulders.

But don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t in love. I was still working a case.

Sure, I was almost happy for the moment looking out the car window at the bright lights of New York City at night, my head full of the possibility of Zena, not thinking of Joey Valentin or of murder, but dreaming of a happy ending. The only thing that made me nervous was that I had just found the fourth knife. The fourth knife marked Michael Jordan’s Steak House in Zena’s glove compartment with a bunch of other junk. She also kept a packed suitcase in the backseat of her car, as she said, for the last year because she had thoughts of leaving poor Hari once and for all.

Other than that, nothing suspicious at all.

Maybe it was nothing.

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