Who She Was by Braylee Parkinson

Author:Braylee Parkinson [Parkinson, Braylee]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-07-07T16:00:00+00:00

***

The phone call with Archie Paladoski didn't expand any of my working theories. The gang angle was interesting, but since Carson had hired me, it didn’t make any sense. Not to mention, there still was no evidence of Liza having an affair-except for Abigail’s assumptions. There did seem to be some type of gang connection, based on the picture Peter Abernathy had given me. I stayed up half the night wondering about a myriad of possibilities before falling asleep on the couch. The next morning, I headed out to meet Detective Cole.

We met at a tiny café in Redford Township. Cole had deep bags under his eyes and his stripped tie was crooked. He looked disheveled.

“Hey. Rough night?”

“You have no idea. Archie might’ve had the right idea. Pull up stakes, quit this job and move west. Speaking of Arch, I heard he called you.”

“Yeah, he did. I appreciate you passing on the message. He had a few cryptic tips that will probably mean something later.”

“Everything means something eventually. No coincidences in this world. If this job has taught me anything, it’s that. Nothing is a coincidence.”

“What can you tell me about Demario Masters,” I asked. Shifting gears.

“I recommend that you reconsider working this case. You’ve stumbled upon a member of one of the most notorious crime families in Detroit,” Detective Cole told me.

“Really? Tell me more.”

Cole shook his head and fished a small envelope out of his back pocket.

“I can tell you he’s a dirty bastard. Born into a low-grade crime family, but the Masters are crafty. They make money, but they blow it on stupid things, which is why I call them a low-grade crime family. The Masters have been killing and selling dope since the late sixties. None of them have ever done time for either one of those offenses, and only Demario has done hard time. Demario’s father was a supplier of heroin at an automotive plant, his brother has served time for identity theft, and his pseudo brother-in-law allegedly killed his dad. The Masters are Detroit at its worst.”

Cole dumped the contents of the envelope onto the table and spread out pictures of a tall, wiry man with long, smooth braids cascading down his back—the same man who was in the pictures Peter had given me. In one photo, the man was posing with a sawed-off shotgun. In another, he was flanked by a man and a woman— his siblings presumably, based on the matching high cheekbones and slanted eyes. The trio held up wads of cash as proof of the family fortune.

“This dude is smart…Almost won his most recent appeal, but he’s insane—that’s what lost it for him. The prosecutor exposed his psychopathic tendencies; proved that he was just as unstable as we'd speculated. Generally, he had been unable to hold down a job, was a known abuser of women and children, and he came off as calculating to the jury. There was no way he could have been innocent in the jury’s eyes. And it’s a good thing that they felt that way: this guy is a pariah.

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