Page 62 of A Week Away
September 17, 1996
Tuesday morning
Iwas back at the corporate flophouse by ten-thirty. I cleaned the Ruger as best I could, then loaded it. I had no idea if it would fire. Hopefully, I’d never have to find out. I put on the shirt with a collar I’d bought, dabbed on some Aramis, pulled the tags off my new jacket and put it on. The gun fit nicely in the pocket.
Then I drove back to Top Dog. Except for a few scraps here and there, the crime scene tape was gone, but they’d left the cement blocks. There was a janitor with a bucket and a mop working on the spot where Joanne’s body had been.
I drove around the building looking for two thing: first, a silver BMW and second, security cameras. I didn’t see any BMWs. I did see security cameras at the front entrance, which would include the front parking lot where Joanne was killed, the back entrance, and one side, the west side. I made a second ring around the building and parked near the back entrance.
On the first floor, like the second, a long hallway ran from one end of the building to another. I walked to the front. That’s where the security desk was. It looked just the same as it had on Sunday. There was clipboard for signing in but no security officer. That seemed odd. Especially, the day after a shooting.
I stepped behind the desk, which was custom-made. There was a cheap monitor hidden beneath the shelf where the clipboard sat. The screen was split into three: One angle showed the front parking lot—the janitor was still out there with his mop; another showed the west parking lot.
There was something odd about the desk and it took a moment to figure out what it was. Then it hit me like cold water to the face. There was nothing personal on the desk. No photographs of kids, no cute pencil erasers, no mints, no take-out menus, no souvenir coffee cups. Nothing. The desk was there to give the appearance of security—and nothing else.
I went up to the second floor and walked down to the Top Dog offices. I turned the knob and the door opened. Claudia was sitting at her desk, Discman plugged into her ears. Taking the earphones out, she said, “My, my, my… look who’s back.”
“Hello Claudia. It’s awful about Joanne, isn’t it?”
“I guess,” she said. And that seemed to sum up their relationship.
“I was wondering… is there ever a security guard downstairs?”
“I’ve never seen one.”
“Can you tell me what you’ve heard about what happened?”
“What have I heard?” She snorted. “Well, I’ve heard that someBlackkid came up from the city and tried to steal a White lady’s car but couldn’t even manage to do that right. That’s what I’ve heard. That’s what people say to my black face.”
“And by people you mean the police?”
“I don’t know that people is the best way to describe the police, but yeah… that’s who I mean.”
“What do you think happened?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Her whole family’s in the Mafia. One of them decided to whack her.”
She was right. That was more likely than some random kid from the city. I doubted it was the whole story. I also doubted the police would do much more than look for a Black kid in the wrong neighborhood.
“Did anyone actually see what happened?”
“Not that I’ve heard. There’s a lot of empty offices in this building.”
“Did you leave before or after Joanne?”
“I work ten to seven. Those last two hours I make calls.”
I didn’t ask whether she made them for Tog Dog or herself.
“I went out when I heard the sirens. Everybody was out there. It was like a fire drill.”
“When did Mr. Cray leave?”
“Right after Joanne.”
Something bothered me about that, but I forged ahead. “Did he see what happened?”
“I don’t think so. He called to tell me he wasn’t coming in. He’s kind of in shock, I think. Could barely talk about it. Anyway, he parks in the back. His car is crazy expensive. He was always telling Joanne she shouldn’t park in front.”
