Chapter Eleven
What We Don't Say
Wednesday, June 11, 2014 — 8:32 AM
Nasir had been awake since before sunrise.
He sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee that had gone cold nearly twenty minutes ago.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
He looked at his phone again.
Nothing.
That was the problem.
No new information.
No new names.
No obvious threat.
Just questions.
Questions were easy to dismiss when they came one at a time.
A question about the Juneteenth schedule.
A question about who would be attending.
A question about which community organizations were involved.
A question about where certain people would be standing.
Individually, none of them meant much.
Together, they meant somebody was building a picture.
Nasir hated pictures he hadn't approved.
His phone finally vibrated.
Melo.
Nasir answered.
"Morning."
"You been up?"
"You know me."
"Unfortunately."
Nasir smiled faintly.
"What you got?"
"Bishop's still digging."
"And?"
"She found something."
Nasir straightened.
"What?"
"Not money."
"Then what?"
"Names."
Nasir waited.
"People who've been asking questions."
"Who?"
"That's the thing."
Melo paused.
"They aren't connected on paper."
Nasir stared through the kitchen window.
"But?"
"But they keep showing up around the same conversations."
Nasir's expression tightened.
"Send me everything."
"I already did."
Nasir checked his phone.
Three files had arrived.
He opened the first.
Names.
Organizations.
Businesses.
Community groups.
Nothing immediately alarming.
The second file showed dates.
The third showed locations.
Nasir stopped scrolling.
One location appeared repeatedly.
311 DeKalb Avenue.
He stared at it.
Melo heard the silence.
"You see something?"
"Maybe."
"What?"
Nasir didn't answer immediately.
"Find out who owns the property."
"Already working on it."
"And Melo?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't let anybody know we're looking."
"Wasn't planning to."
The call ended.
Nasir looked toward the hallway.
Jermaine's bedroom door was still closed.
He had no idea what was happening.
Nasir almost envied him for that.
10:17 AM
Lia sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor with her father's journal open beside her.
She had read the same page four times.
Don't chase headlines.
She traced the sentence with her finger.
Follow the paperwork.
Her phone sat beside her.
The note was still there.
311 DeKalb Avenue.
She hadn't searched it.
Not yet.
Part of her was afraid that looking it up would make everything real.
Her father had always taught her that curiosity wasn't the same thing as understanding.
She remembered sitting at the kitchen table years ago with a math problem spread between them.
She'd given him an answer.
He'd looked at the paper.
"Tell me how you got there."
She had explained.
He'd smiled.
"Good."
"Even though I'm wrong?"
"Especially because you're wrong."
She'd frowned.
He'd tapped the paper.
"Wrong answers tell me how you're thinking."
Lia looked down at the journal.
That was what bothered her.
Her father had been thinking about something.
Something important enough to document.
Important enough to hide.
And now she had it.
She opened the faded photograph again.
Four young men.
Her father.
Nasir.
Melo.
Victor Thompkins.
She still didn't know why the picture mattered.
But she knew one thing.
Her father hadn't kept many things without a reason.
Lia picked up her phone.
This time, she searched the address.
11:04 AM
Jermaine was on the basketball court at SSU before noon.
Rome had called it a "light run."
It wasn't.
Twenty minutes later, Rome was arguing with a guy he'd never met about whether a foul had happened.
"You hit my arm!"
"I got ball."
"You got wrist!"
Jermaine laughed from the corner.
"Y'all can argue about it while I score."
Rome looked over.
"Man, shut up."
Jermaine knocked down the shot.
"Scoreboard."
Rome pointed at him.
"I don't like summer anymore."
Monique sat several rows up with her laptop open.
She had promised herself she would spend the morning organizing graduation pictures.
Instead, she had been watching the two idiots below her play basketball.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Lia.
You busy?
Monique typed back.
Depends. Why?
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Returned.
Can I ask you something?
Monique frowned.
Of course.
Nothing came for almost a minute.
Then:
Do you know anything about my dad and Uncle Nasir's old friends?
Monique looked toward the court.
Jermaine was laughing.
Rome was complaining.
Neither noticed her expression change.
She typed carefully.
Not really. Why?
Lia stared at the screen.
She looked at the photograph again.
I found something of my dad's.
Monique waited.
What?
Lia didn't answer.
Instead, she locked her phone.
She wasn't ready to tell anybody yet.
Not even Monique.
Especially not when she still didn't know what she had found.
2:36 PM
Bishop placed a folder on Nasir's desk.
"311 DeKalb."
Nasir looked up.
"You found something?"
"Property records."
She opened the folder.
"Ownership changed hands twice in the last few years. Both times through companies."
"Names?"
"Different names."
Nasir scanned the documents.
"Same people?"
"No."
"Same lawyer?"
Bishop nodded.
"That's what caught my attention."
Melo leaned over the desk.
"So somebody's moving property through shell companies?"
"Not exactly."
Bishop tapped the paperwork.
"They're legitimate companies."
Nasir looked at her.
"Again with legitimate."
"They pay taxes. Employees exist. Offices exist. They file everything correctly."
"But?"
"But someone is using the same legal infrastructure to move ownership around."
Nasir sat back.
"Why?"
"I don't know."
Melo frowned.
"You saying 311 is connected to the financial stuff?"
"I'm saying I don't like how often the same names keep brushing against each other."
Nasir looked at the photograph of the property attached to the file.
Old brick.
Narrow windows.
Nothing special.
Nothing memorable.
That made him more uncomfortable.
"Keep going," he said.
Bishop closed the folder.
"There's something else."
Nasir waited.
"Someone accessed one of the property files this morning."
Melo's eyes narrowed.
"Today?"
Bishop nodded.
Nasir slowly stood.
"Then they know we're looking."
The room went silent.
For the first time since the questions started, Nasir stopped treating them like background noise.
He picked up his coat.
"Move the meeting."
"To where?"
"Somewhere nobody expects."
Melo nodded.
Bishop grabbed the folder.
Nasir stopped at the door.
"And Bishop?"
She looked up.
"Don't tell me what you think it means."
A beat.
"Tell me what you can prove."
Bishop nodded.
"Understood."
Nasir walked out.
7:19 PM
Jermaine came through the front door sweaty, hungry, and still talking about a shot Rome swore he missed.
Nasir was sitting in the living room.
"You eat?"
"Not yet."
"Go shower first."
Jermaine dropped his bag.
"Why?"
"Because you smell like the gym."
Jermaine laughed.
"You always say that."
"Because you always smell like the gym."
Jermaine started toward the stairs.
Then stopped.
"Dad?"
Nasir looked over.
"Yeah?"
"You good?"
The question caught him.
Nasir smiled.
"I'm good."
Jermaine studied him.
For a second, Nasir wondered if his son could see through him.
Then Jermaine nodded.
"Aight."
He headed upstairs.
Nasir watched him disappear.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
He pulled it out.
One message.
No name.
No explanation.
Only an address.
311 DeKalb Avenue.
Then another message appeared.
You should stop looking.
Nasir stared at the screen.
His jaw tightened.
Outside, Brooklyn kept moving.
Inside, the last warning had finally become a message.