“Me too, Candy, me too,” Claire agreed.
“I’m not afraid as long as you’re with me, big sis. I know Mimmy will be sad that we went out like this,” Candace said.
“People got do what they got to if they want to make it. There is no right or wrong way, Candy.”
“Oh man, what a nice day to go out, huh big sis…?”
“Candy, it’s time,” Claire said, looking at the trap door.
Candace scurried over to it and attached the explosive device to the latch on the door. She grabbed an M203grenade launcher and fired a grenade through the window. The concussion ammunition landed in the center of the police squad moving forward. They quickly fell back, racing behind cover and returning fire. Bullets crashed through the warehouse with deadly accuracy. One hit the explosive device on the lock inside the abandoned building, causing a major explosion. Flames and debris were hurled everywhere.
“Take cover, take cover!” squad leaders sounded off.
There were simultaneous explosions. Newsmen and camera crews jumped inside their news vans. Not far off, the situation was being closely followed by the occupants of a parked black sedan. Quietly observing the scene, Melanie, the only female of the three people occupying the car, shook her head. Pauli, the driver and right-hand man to his underboss, Goldie, made up the observing trio.
“Some friend you are. If those two were in there, then they gotta be deep sixed now. C’mon, let’s get the fuck outta here,” Goldie said.
“Ya right, nobody not even my girls could’ve survived that. And I love my girls. Now I gotta go buy something nice for their funeral,” Melanie said. Both men turn to look at her seated next to Goldie in the backseat of the Bentley. “Shame, shame, shame,” she continued. “They had so much talent, them two,” she continued, pulling out a handkerchief and dabbing her eyes. “Too bad…”
“Hey Goldie, let’s go find us a spot with some nice peppers and sausage,” Pauli said.
“That’s a good idea, Pauli,” Goldie said. “Get me the fuck outta here.”
“I know the perfect spot,” Melanie said between tears.
They drove off leaving while the tactical squads were arriving. The police rushed into the destroyed warehouse and began searching through the rubbles. Shoulder to shoulder the units of the Miami Police and members of the FBI searched the destroyed warehouse. Their eyes were peeled for any evidence of the girls’ body parts. Nothing was found. The police assumed that they had to have been killed. Their bodies were totally demolished in the explosion.
“I’m sorry, there’s no one or nothing in here,” the lieutenant said.
“Nothing…?” The captain echoed in disbelief.
“So far sir, no bodies, nothing… It’s like they vanished in thin air. There’s a canine unit on the way. We’ll get the dogs in there, but so far nothing…”
“Good,” the captain said in disgust.
He glanced around and walked away shaking his head. Seemingly caught up in sisters’ demise, Lt. Cooksey stared at detective Street.
“Ha, ha, they deserve whatever they got,” Lt. Cooksey said, laughing triumphantly.
Detective Street sat on the hood of the police cruiser watching him. She closed her eyes and whispered a silent prayer for the two sisters.
CHAPTER 1
Sheryl Street sat in a rental car staring through dark shades at the crowd of people entering Ortiz funeral home next to Fort Tryon Park, uptown Broadway. Feelings of whether what she had done to bring her this day was right or wrong ran amok in her troubled mind. Through her torment she saw them gossiping. Most of them she knew, they were from her old neighborhood at 179th Street and St. Nicholas Av.
Emotions were being displayed on the sleeves of everyone who was in the place. She could see the tear-stained faces even though their eyes were hidden by designers’ shades. Sheryl didn’t know if she wanted to deal with facing them, but she knew she had to attend.
A few more minutes went by and Sheryl took a couple of deep breaths. After adjusting her makeup, she got out of the car. Slamming the door shut, she turned and checked her appearance through the window. Her confidence was jarred and she slowly walked across the street. She was on her way to pay respect to the memory of Candace and Claire Osorio, her adopted sisters.
However, instead of showering her with hugs and greetings, mourners outfitted in black were waiting to rip her to shreds. Their deadly looks met her every shaky step. A bevy of mourners and character assassinators outfitted in distress drabs, pointed fingers while staring her down.
Digging her three-inch heels, black patent leather pumps into the floor, Sheryl held her head high without returning their threatening glares. She could feel the angry stares penetrating through the clothes that she wore. It didn’t help that she had to keep adjusting her top because her thirty four C’s were threatening to pop out. The outfit felt a little snug for any wake, especially this one, but it was all she had brought with her.
“That chica really looks chic,” a mourner said.
Street glanced to see the face and caught a nasty snare from a young girl on the arms of her boyfriend. They snickered and rudely pointed their fingers at her.
“Yeah that’s the cop that cause all this,” the boyfriend scoffed.
Clothes weren’t her only undoing. A change of mind could be costlier. She struggled with the decision she had made to attend. Sheryl did not plan on being at the wake, but changed her mind at the last minute. Entering Ortiz funeral home she immediately heard the dissent and started regretting her decision.
“She got some nerves!”
“That skank, that whore, she deserves a beat down!”
The voices of angry relatives and friends rang in her head, and Sheryl glanced at the door, wanting so badly to change her mind. Maybe she could go outside and explain her side of the story. Tell family and friends who no longer wanted to speak to her about all the pain raging inside of her. She felt like running away from it all, but Sheryl had to face up. There was a force stronger than any she could resist and it swept her in through the doors, and passed the angry rants behind mean stares greeting her.
Inside the small hall was set up like the inside of a small church. There were rows of benches on either side. Sheryl’s presence caused tension to crackle like electricity in a lightning storm. Holding her breath, Sheryl Street stood in the eye of the controversy and felt her stomach muscles tightening.
Open chatter dogged her every move. She glanced without staring back and bit her lips. She released a heavy sigh while holding on to her emotions. Sheryl felt like breaking down and crying while making her way through the throngs of mourners. They turned their heads in the direction of the altar when she got close.
On top of the altar, two red urns filled with ashes sat on a stand filled surrounded by burning candles. The urns contained the remnants of her enigmatic adopted sisters Candace and Claire Osorio. Sheryl stared for a beat when she saw the photos on the wall behind. Her tears flowed easily. She cried looking at video footage of the sisters playing basketball. Sheryl’s conscience fell on her like a ton of bricks. She was directly involved in their deaths. Sheryl felt sorry for having come back. Still she had to face Mimmy, the woman who had raised all three of them. There were women here who used to greet her with hugs, now openly scoffed at her.
“Murdering cop, she really got some nerve showing her face round here after killing her own sisters,” one woman in the tightest black dress said.
“But they weren’t no flesh and blood,” another