Twenty-Seven
RHONDA WILLIS AND Bo Green sat in the living room of a nicely maintained row house on Quincy Street, in the Petworth area of Northwest. They had cups of coffee set before them on a French provincial-style table. The house was clean and its furnishings tasteful and carefully selected. It did not look like the home of a girl who danced at the Twilight and ran with a murderer, but this was the place where Darcia Johnson had been raised.
Her mother, Virginia Johnson, sat on a couch. She was an attractive woman, light of skin and moderately freckled, dressed stylishly and properly for her age. An eleven-month-old boy sat in her lap, making sounds of contentment. He was smiling at Bo Green, who was making faces at him.
“What’s she done, Detective?” said Virginia.
“We’re looking to speak to a friend of hers,” said Rhonda. “Dominique Lyons.”
“I’ve met him,” said Virginia. “Speak to him about what?”
“It’s regarding a murder investigation.”
“Is my daughter under suspicion of murder?”
“Not at this time,” said Green. Squeezed into a small chair, he looked like the bull who’d decided to have a seat in the china shop.
“We know that Darcia and Dominique spend time together,” said Rhonda. “We’ve been to the apartment she shares with Shaylene Vaughn, over in Southeast. And we know where Darcia works. But she hasn’t shown up at those places for the last couple of days.”
“Have you heard from her?” said Green.
“She called last night,” said Virginia, her finger being held by the boy. “She was checking up on little Isaiah here. But I don’t know where she was calling from.”
“Is Isaiah hers?”
“He came from her.”
“Is Dominique Lyons the father?”
“No. Another young man who’s no longer in the picture.”
“We’ve got no fixed address on Lyons,” said Green. “Any ideas?”
“I’m sorry, no.”
Green leaned forward, picked up his coffee cup off the saucer, and had a sip. The cup was hand-painted, delicate, and looked endangered in his huge hand.
“I’m sorry about bothering you with this,” said Rhonda, her empathy genuine.
“We thought we did everything right,” said Virginia Johnson quietly.
“You can only try.”
“This neighborhood is changing now for the better, but it wasn’t always this way, as you’re well aware. My husband grew up here in Petworth, and he was adamant about sticking it out until the bad wind blew past. He said that two strong, watchful parents and our involvement with the church would be enough to keep our kids out of trouble. Mostly, he was right.”
“You have other children?”
“Three others, all grown. All attended college, all are out there in the world, doing fine. Darcia is the youngest. She was tight with that girl Shaylene since grammar school. Shaylene was into drugs and promiscuity starting at thirteen. She was never right. God forgive me for saying that, ’cause most of it wasn’t her fault. She had no home life to speak of.”
“That’ll do it,” said Green.
“But it’s not everything,” said Virginia. “You can be here all the time, give them all the guidance and love they need, and still, they go ahead and jump off that bridge.”
“Does Darcia have a close relationship with her son?”
“She cares for him very much. But she’s not fit to be his mother. I had my twenty-five in with the government and I took early retirement. My husband’s career is strong, so we can afford to get by on one job. The two of us will raise Isaiah. Unless things change.”
“Like I said, Darcia’s not a suspect in this crime,” said Green.
“But we are going to have to bring her into our offices,” said Rhonda. “She might be a witness.”
“Does she drive a car?” said Green.
“No, Darcia never did get a license.”
“So chances are,” said Rhonda, “Dominique would be driving her around.”
It was not a question. Rhonda Willis was thinking out loud.
“Did that young man kill someone?” said Virginia.
Rhonda nodded at Bo Green, a suggestion that he answer Virginia, and also that they begin to press.
“It’s a strong possibility,” said Green.
“It would be a good first step,” said Rhonda, “to get Dominique Lyons off the street and away from your daughter.”
“We’ve got her cell phone number,” said Green.
“But she isn’t answering when we call,” said Rhonda.
“Maybe if she thought her son was sick or somethin like that,” said Green.
“She’d be concerned enough to come on by,” said Rhonda.
“I’ll call her,” said Virginia Johnson, using a soft towel to wipe some drool off Isaiah’s chin.
“We’d appreciate it,” said Rhonda.
“She’ll come, too,” said Virginia, now looking at Rhonda. “She does love this child.”