Murdergram, Part 2 Read online

  Murdergram

  Part 2

  Nisa Santiago

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  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Murdergram 2. Copyright © 2015 by Melodrama Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Melodrama Publishing, P.O. Box 522, Bellport, NY 11713.

  www.melodramapublishing.com

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015912543

  eISBN: 978-1620780565

  First Edition: January 2016

  Interior: Candace K. Cottrell

  Cover Design: CandaceK. Cottrell

  Editor: Brian Sandy

  Books By

  Nisa Santiago

  Cartier Cartel: Part 1

  Return of the Cartier Cartel: Part 2

  Cartier Cartel - South Beach Slaughter: Part 3

  Bad Apple: The Baddest Chick Part 1

  Coca Kola: The Baddest Chick Part 2

  Checkmate: The Baddest Chick Part 3

  Face Off: The Baddest Chick Part 4

  South Beach Cartel

  On the Run: The Baddest Chick Part 5

  Unfinished Business: The Baddest Chick Part 6

  Guard the Throne

  Dirty Money Honey

  Murdergram

  Murdergram 2

  The House That Hustle Built

  The House That Hustle Built 2

  The House That Hustle Built 3

  Killer Dolls

  Killer Dolls 2

  Killer Dolls 3

  PROLOGUE

  The house was a horrific crime scene. Body upon body was slaughtered in what appeared to be a drug related massacre. The room was blanketed with just fewer than twenty innocent lives that were snuffed out in such a heinous act. Police radioed in for a half-dozen coroner vans, as it appeared there was no proof of life. One detective had to compose himself as he happened upon the body of the first slain child.

  The next-door neighbor had reported the crime. He said he had seen a few individuals looking like stick-up kids in dark clothing lurking around the building, like they were up to no good. He said he knew someone was going to get robbed when he saw the same guys rough-handling the boyfriend, Hugo, and pushing their way inside the apartment.

  “What time was that?” the detective asked.

  “Yo, that was like”—He looked over his shoulder to see if anyone saw him snitching to the police—“It was like, five o’ clock.”

  “Excuse me, did you say five?”

  “Yeah, I had just finished watchin’ Judge Judy and was on my way to my girl’s crib.”

  “But the nine-one-one call didn’t come through until six thirty.”

  The neighbor looked at the detective like, And?

  “You mean you saw a robbery in progress that led to seventeen homicides, and you waited over an hour to call for help?” The detective didn’t allow the witness to answer, hitting him with a two-piece—a hard left to his jaw and a quick right to the abdomen—before his partner pulled him off.

  Everyone’s nerves were frayed. Seeing so many dead, and the manner in which they met their fate, had the most hardened detective on high alert.

  “I’ma sue ya ass!” the witness screamed, holding his chin. “The city’s gonna pay up. You fucked up now! Yeah, you fucked up now! I’ma have your badge, bitch!”

  “Get the fuck outta here!” another detective yelled, backing him down.

  It was a tense situation going on for all involved. The building was crawling with police officers, detectives, and naturally the captain showed up on the scene because this case was that huge. Channels 7 and 4, and Fox news cameras were all parked outside to get an exclusive from friends, neighbors, and any bystander willing to give any detail about the incident.

  Out of all the elderly, college students, or working-class residents, the news stations couldn’t find one individual without missing teeth, a headscarf wrapped around unruly hair, or who was fluent in anything but ebonics, making the information hard to follow.

  As the coroners began placing bodies in the body bags to place on the gurneys for autopsies, a loud yelp came from one of the workers. She had rolled one of the bodies into the body bag, and as she was zipping it up, the corpse inhaled deeply, startling her.

  “We’ve got a sign of life!” she called out. “Get an ambulance out here now!”

  ...

  It felt like an explosion went off in her head. It was like someone had turned on the lights, which was a switch to full-blown pain. Every part of her body was in agony as a team of doctors and nurses poked and prodded.

  A soft-spoken head surgeon shined a flashlight in her eyes, testing her reflexes. “Do you know your name?”

  She took several seconds before she responded. “Cristal . . . my name . . . it’s Cristal.”

  One

  It was a sweltering July evening, and hundreds of people were lined up around the block to meet the renowned author Melissa Chin at Standard Books, an eclectic, independent bookstore on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. A variety of fans—young and old, foreign and provincial—yearned to have a few words and a photo op with the gifted writer. They felt fortunate that she was in town. She was an intriguing writer; her stories jumped out of the pages and captivated her readers.

  The book signing had been publicized throughout the tri-state area on radio stations and social media, and the fact that Melissa Chin had had a few guest spots on a national reality show helped to launch her new book, Killer Dolls. It was already on The New York Times Best Sellers list, was flying off the shelves everywhere, and her downloads on Amazon.com were unprecedented. It was the author’s third book in less than two years, with every story being more engrossing and thrilling than the next. The murders in the book were well orchestrated, and the readers could feel the characters’ untimely demises as if they were the victims.

  Melissa basked in the spotlight as her handlers hovered around, warding off enthusiastic fans. She sat there behind the folding table, dozens of books piled in front of her like some kind of literary partition. She smiled, autographing book after book, and snapped pictures with a few fans.

  Melissa was a stuck-up bitch, but she knew how to play nice. She had recently cut her long, soft hair into an edgy style made popular by Rihanna—shaved low on one side and long on the other. Her bright pink Candy Yum-Yum MAC lipstick accented her pink form-fitting Fendi romper. Her pale Puerto Rican skin had a subtle tan, and her gold bangles sparkled in the summer sun. Melissa wanted the moment to last forever. She was made to do this—to be famous, sitting at the table with hundreds of her books selling fast, chatting, signing copies, and taking selfies with her readers.

  The cameras snapped away, flooding the room with quick flashes like a disco ball. It felt like a party. She felt high, with the attention and spotlight all on her.

  As everyone in the bookstore grasped for the author’s attention, snapping pictures of her from every angle, one person stood off to the side from it all, lurking.

  Unbeknownst to everyone in the room, this person was the real Melissa Chin. Draped in oversized goggle shades, a fedora hat, and unassuming garb, she played her position, amused. Hiring the wannabe actress/model was a great business decision.

  The young woman pretending to be Melissa Chin was really Daisy McLeod—originally from a small town in Idaho, a one-traffic-light kind of town nestled away in Middle Americ
a like summer shorts in the closet during winter.

  Daisy looked immensely different now than when the twenty-five-year-old author had first found her. She had been a loner with purple-and-pink hair who listened to heavy metal and worshiped the devil. She had been a punk and a high-school dropout.

  Now, she wore six-inch Louboutin heels and designer gear, and her hair was styled trendily in its original dark brown color. She was making a killing with the appearance fees she was charging Melissa, and she also had a side hustle Melissa didn’t know about. She would charge $100 dollars for signed copies and $50 for photo ops, and had started charging local club promoters $2,500 per appearance. She was milking her masquerade as Melissa Chin for everything it was worth, and the money she made went to breast implants, booty-plumping injections, drugs, and having a good time.

  Daisy McLeod was no longer recognizable to anyone from her past—not even to her own mother. Mrs. McLeod could have easily bypassed her own daughter in the streets and not said a single word to her.

  Four hours later, the crowd in the bookstore began to dissipate.

  Daisy finally sauntered over to her boss with a hard stare. “You know I’m the shit,” she said. “Who can do this better than me?”

  Melissa remained expressionless, looking at her protégée evenly. Their relationship was transitioning.

  Daisy walked around the bookstore red-carpet style, as if walking a runway for Givenchy. She was getting all the spotlight and media attention only because of the books Melissa wrote and feared that her celebrity status and fifteen minutes of fame would vanish the moment Melissa stopped writing books. Without her, she would once again become a lost and confused no-talent, small-time girl from Idaho.

  Daisy had sat down numerous times and tried to write a book herself, to piggyback on Melissa Chin’s success, but there was one hiccup—she couldn’t write. She didn’t have the patience or the knowledge, and her creative skills were limited to spray-painting graffiti signs back in the day. She thought it would be easy to write a book, but once she realized it actually took talent, her resentment toward Melissa began to fester.

  “I want two thousand per appearance from now on, a driver to pick me up and drop me off to all book signings, and I want a thousand per radio or media event I show up to, and some clothing allowance for each book signing,” she said gruffly.

  Melissa remained calm. She looked at the sassy nineteen-year-old bitch and saw a glimmer of her former self.

  The current arrangement between them was $150 per appearance, and her publicist usually set up ten to fifteen book signings per title. The new proposal would cost Melissa a minimum of $30,000, not including car service and clothing allowance.

  “Let’s be reasonable,” she said to Daisy.

  “This is reasonable,” Daisy spat back. “Without me, you wouldn’t have this. And if I decide to talk, you know, tell the public the real deal, can you imagine the ruckus that would stir up?”

  Melissa’s cold stare was hidden behind her dark shades. Daisy had forgotten who was the boss and ignored the golden rule—never bite the hand that feeds you.

  “Either I get paid more, or I’ll talk. I think you have more to lose than me. It was my face that launched a million book sales. You think your scarred face could make this happen? You need me. Don’t forget that. You wouldn’t be able to handle the spotlight like I can,” Daisy said, hands on her hips, thinking she was in control of it all.

  Melissa exhaled loudly. “Okay, we’ll talk.”

  Daisy smiled. “I know we will.” She pivoted on her expensive heels and strutted out of the bookstore like she was the best thing since Spanx.

  Melissa kept her cold eyes on the young small-town girl. Daisy no idea what she’d just created for herself. Although Melissa had agreed to have a talk with Daisy to renegotiate her terms, there would be no negotiating. Daisy was only a pawn that she’d put into the game, and now that pawn needed to be put down. The Melissa Chin the world knew would have to take a nap—a permanent one.

  Two

  Clutching a bouquet of flowers, Sharon Green stepped out of her white Fiat 500L under the bright, hot sun and took a deep breath. The smell of freshly mown grass and flowers infiltrated her nostrils. She looked at the sprawling cemetery before her and heaved a heavy, emotional sigh. She headed toward the entrance and walked through the rusty gate leading into the path of graves spread out in every direction, the white and gray polished-granite tombstones reflecting the sunlight. Very few of the graves were cared for. It seemed like once you were dead, you were forgotten.

  She walked evenly to Pike’s grave and knelt before his headstone. She missed him greatly and thought about him every single day. His death was uncalled for and still unsolved. She removed the dead flowers she’d left from her previous visit and replaced them with the fresh set she had, with its rainbow colors.

  Etched into Pike’s headstone were the words “Always loved and forever missed.” He was mostly missed by her. Sharon saved every penny she had to pay for his headstone, and the drug money he had stashed in his apartment provided him with a comfortable eternal resting place.

  She sighed deeply as she wiped away the few tears trickling down her face. She planted her knees into the ground and curved over, trying to maintain her composure. She didn’t mind staining her pants with grass and dirt, wanting to be as close to him as possible. She’d loved him, and he’d loved her. Her happiness was stolen from her.

  “I promise, Pike, I will find the people that did this to you, that put you here, that took you away from me. I will.” Her voice cracked, but her heart never wavered.

  ...

  Sharon Green had come a long way from smoking weed with her friends in a Brooklyn park to busting her ass to make rank in the NYPD from uniformed officer to detective third grade. From the day Pike died, she knew what she had to do. She was going to find and arrest those responsible for his murder.

  As she studied and trained at the Academy, her heart went out when she heard about Mona. Hers too was an unsolved murder. When she tried to find her former best friends, Tamar, Cristal, and Lisa, she kept coming up on dead ends. Then, news about Cristal and her family came about—an entire family brutally murdered on Thanksgiving. The carnage was devastating to hear. Unreal. So quickly, things had drastically changed.

  Sadly and with a heavy heart, she went to the closed-casket funeral for the murdered family at New Baptist Church in Brooklyn. The crowd that came to pay their respects was massive. The unspeakable murder of Cristal and her family had been national news for more than a month—children, the elderly, men and women, all shot execution-style in the small Brooklyn apartment like they were casualties of war. New York was sickened by the news, and the country was in shock.

  “What monsters could commit such a ghastly crime?” was the question everybody was asking. The city was confused. Two of the alleged gunmen were shot and killed on the scene, leaving the police department scratching its head. The mayor vowed to the public that the remaining killer or killers would be found, tried, convicted, and punished to the fullest extent of the law.

  The large church was jam-packed with one thousand people, standing room only, as all members of the community came out in droves to pay their respects to the seventeen closed caskets that lined the stage, from grandmother to grandchild. It seemed like everyone in Brooklyn had come to the funeral, and there wasn’t a dry eye in the place.

  Sharon looked around for Tamar and Lisa at the funeral, but neither girl was anywhere to be found, which was odd.

  Thinking about Cristal’s demise along with her family was heartbreaking. If Sharon were a weak woman, she would have broken. But she didn’t break. She bent a little, but the pain wasn’t enough to snap her in half. In fact, it only made her stronger.

  ...

  She touched the headstone, trying to hold back her tears. Though years had passed since Pike had been gunned down in cold blood, it still felt like yesterday.

  “I will always love yo
u,” she softly said. She took another deep breath and rose to her feet.

  There were so many questions. Did he know his killers? Was it a past beef with someone? What if he had survived? What if he were still alive? Where would she be? Was becoming an NYPD officer her calling?

  After a year on the job, Sharon had begun gathering documents on Pike’s murder—witness statements, ballistics—anything to help her solve it. As a detective third grade, she had access to a few things and a little legroom to investigate Pike’s murder on her own time. The case became as cold as ice, as did Cristal and Mona’s murders. All the murders were clean. There was no trace evidence, no solid witnesses, and most importantly, no solid motives. Only speculation. She didn’t see any connection between Pike’s death and Cristal’s and Mona’s, but her gut feeling was telling her there was one.

  She exited the cemetery and got behind the wheel of her Fiat, where she lingered for a moment. So much was on her mind.

  Her service piece, a Glock 19, was holstered on the passenger seat. It had never been fired. Her career in the NYPD had been a cool stint so far—nothing too complicated; no shootouts or life-threatening situations. She didn’t have any wild stories to share with her coworkers, like most experienced officers. She’d made a lot of collars and did her job respectfully, amicably, and with adherence to the rules. She’d started out as a beat cop in the Bronx, and then made patrol with a ten-year veteran who taught her the ropes of the job—the dos and don’ts, and how to survive. Sharon learned fast, and her captain took notice.

  She started the ignition. She wanted to cruise through her old neighborhood before going home. Since she’d become a part of the NYPD family, some of the people in her old hood despised her, calling her a pig and a traitor. They wanted nothing to do with her. Others were proud of her accomplishment, that she had actually done something with her life. She was one of the few who’d made it, and that meant a lot to them.