Aftermath (28 page)

Baron froze. “Danno?”

Misa nodded. “Yeah. The poster said something about he was wanted for the rape, torture, and murder of somebody named Trina … um … Trina Samuels.”

Baron kept his game face on, but his ears were ringing, his head began to throb.

“It said that they found his DNA at the scene and—”

“You're sure it was Danno?”

“Yeah.” Misa nodded. “They had his picture. Hers, too. She was a pretty girl.” She saw Baron shift uncomfortably in his seat. “Have you seen him?”

Baron looked at her. “No,” he said. “Did you tell them that you knew who he was?”

“Hell no!” Misa snapped. “I'm not crazy. I told them that I didn't recognize anybody on that wall.”

“Did they believe you?” Baron was wondering how close he was to having the walls close in around him.

“I think so. They didn't press me about it. They just sent me to my cell and that was the end of that.”

He nodded. “Thanks for letting me know,” he said. He began thinking of how he would handle this now. Danno was on the police's radar in connection with a murder Baron had committed. Sure, Danno and his two nephews had been the ones to rape and torture Trina. But Baron had pulled the trigger and killed the girl. Now he had to decide how to handle the situation in order to save his own ass.

Just outside the room, Celia listened to their conversation. Having just returned from her lunch with Camille, she had come home and heard the two of them talking in the living room. She had heard Baron admit to having hit Misa, had heard him acknowledge that he hadn't been good to Misa. Celia had often wondered whether her son had laid his hands on his ex, Angie, and hearing Misa confirm her worst fears, Celia let out a sigh. Baron also seemed pretty interested in the murder of this Trina girl.

Celia walked upstairs to her bedroom, making a mental note to have a long talk with her son the next chance she got.

Red-Handed

February 2008

Gillian stood at her father's gravesite, fighting back tears. She missed him with all of her heart. She had always been the apple of her father's eye. No matter what she did, whether it was making some toast for breakfast or winning a golf tournament, Doug thought it was the most amazing accomplishment and would always tell her how proud he was of her.

The winter air was breezy and the cloudy sky only made her dark mood worse. She felt so alone. Frankie was preoccupied with the drama unfolding in his family. And she was still too angry with Baron to forgive him for their father's death. Her mother wasn't grieving the way that she was. In fact, Gillian was beginning to wonder if Mayra had ever loved her father at all.

She had hoped that settling the score with Jojo would make her feel better. She had been waiting for some sense of closure to come over her. But it never came.

Gillian's tears fell slowly and she bent down to touch her father's tombstone. “I miss you,” she said softly. “I feel so alone.”

She closed her eyes and felt the wind wrap itself around her body and imagined that it was her father hugging her tightly, reassuring her that everything was going to be all right and that he was still there with her. The thought made her smile and she opened her eyes and peered up at the cloudy sky.

“Thanks, Daddy,” she said. “I needed that.”

*   *   *

Camille had only
returned to her Staten Island home to retrieve her mail and to gather some more of her belongings. She had finally accepted that this house she loved so much was no longer the haven it had once been for her. Reporters were fewer now, but still present. Her neighbors still stared at her and offered to lend a listening ear if she needed to talk just so that they could get into her business. She had put her beloved house on the market. She would miss the luxurious estate, but was eager to move on to a new chapter in the lives of her and her unborn child. These days she was staying with her mother out on Long Island. It allowed her to achieve some sense of normalcy in her otherwise chaotic life.

In her bedroom, she packed some of her underwear and sweaters, her important papers and her pictures. She zipped the duffel bag and was descending the stairs to the living room when the doorbell rang. Camille sighed, assuming that it was one of her “concerned” neighbors. She glanced through the peephole and was surprised to see the cop who had escorted her out of Gillian's house a few weeks ago. He wasn't in uniform, but she recognized him nonetheless.

Camille opened the door and he smiled at her, said hello.

“Hi,” she said. “Officer King, right?”

He nodded, flattered that she remembered his name.

“What did I do now?”

He laughed, shook his head. “No, you didn't do anything.” He looked around as if he had something painful to admit. “I looked up your license plate number and got your address. I'm not supposed to do that, so I hope you're not planning to rat me out.”

Camille frowned. “Why?” Her paranoia made her wonder if he was a stalker, or if perhaps he was part of a larger investigation into her husband's illegal operations.

“I thought about you after that night at your husband's … at his um…”

“Girlfriend's house.” Camille saw no point in beating around the bush.

“Yeah,” Officer King said, laughing uneasily. “Anyway, you're a beautiful woman.”

Camille smiled involuntarily.

“And I just couldn't help noticing that. I think your husband is a fool.”

Camille found herself reluctantly flattered by the lengths this man had gone to in order to tell her this.

“Wow,” she said, otherwise speechless. She realized that she hadn't been complimented by a man—her husband more specifically—in months. It hadn't occurred to her until now how much she had missed that.

“So…” He seemed like he hadn't thought his plan out this far ahead. “I'm sure you're not looking to get involved with somebody new right now, but I just wanted you to know that I'm available for friendship.”

Camille giggled a little.

He smiled again. “I have great credentials for friendship. I make a good listener, I won't borrow money.” He stopped joking around and got serious. “If you want to go and get something to eat or something, I would be honored to—”

“Officer King,” she interrupted.

“Elijah. You can call me Eli.”

She smiled despite herself. He was cute. “Eli, I'm broke, so there's no going Dutch. Is this your treat?”

His smile broadened. He assumed, based on the opulence of her million-dollar home, that Camille was joking about being broke. “Absolutely.”

She nodded, grabbed her keys and her bag. “Let's go.”

*   *   *

Misa sat with
her legs crossed, her hands folded in her lap as casually as possible. Her shoulders were relaxed, her gaze was steady and she didn't fidget, not even once. Her voice was firm, and the chignon in her hair gave her the illusion of being an innocent young mother. Her attorney Teresa Rourke was impressed. She decided then that Misa would make an excellent witness. The two of them had spent the past two hours going over grueling testimony, practice cross-examinations, and things to avoid doing in front of the jury. Misa had gone over her story step by step by step and it all added up. Everything could have happened exactly the way Misa said it did.

The only problem was that Steven wasn't alive to tell his side of the story.

“I think you're ready,” Teresa said. “But when we step into that courtroom next week, you have to know that every eye in that room is going to be on you. They're going to attack your character, your parenting, and even your family's reputation. So, you have to be blind and deaf to all of that and stick to the facts at hand. You believed he was molesting your son.”

“He
was
molesting my son.” Misa wasn't going to allow anyone—not even her own attorney—to question what she knew in her gut to be true.

Teresa nodded. “Okay. And you confronted him, armed to defend yourself in case he got violent. He lunged at you and you shot him in self-defense. To your credit, you didn't run or try to elude the police in any way. You have a good case, Misa.”

Misa was glad to hear that. Still, she felt a “but” coming on.

“But I want you to know that they're going to question whether or not Steven was truly guilty of what you say he did. He didn't admit it, according to your story. In fact, he denied it.”

“I don't give a fuck what he said!” Misa was vexed and her voice loomed larger than she was. “
He
did that to my son! And anybody sick enough to do that shit deserves to die.”

“See?” Teresa shook her head, her long hair bouncing as she did so. “You can't do that on the witness stand.
That
right there will make a jury turn against you.”

“Why? Because it's true?” Misa was sick of all this judicial bullshit.

Teresa sighed. “No. Because it sounds as if you made yourself judge and jury that night. You didn't call the police, Misa. You went over there and killed him. Self-defense is the only way this is a winnable case.”

Misa understood that. But it was hard not to erupt in anger whenever anyone suggested that Steven was somehow a victim in all of this.

“If you give off the impression that you planned this, they will convict you. We want them to see you as a scared young mother who only wanted to protect her baby, to protect herself.”

“Okay,” Misa said, and she knew her attorney was giving her good advice. But in her mind, she wondered if she could really sit silently and watch them paint that devil as a saint in court. She nodded, apologized to Teresa for her outburst, and prayed for a miracle.

*   *   *

It was Grammy
night, and Dominique felt like such a grown-up. Tonight, she could party guilt free until the wee hours of the morning for once. She had been spending every spare moment of her time with her daughter in order to make up for lost time. She enjoyed her child's company, but she was eager for a night to let her hair down and be a grown-up! Octavia was safely accounted for at Toya's house for the night while Dominique had been at L.A. Reid's Grammy party to celebrate the success of some of the label's biggest acts. But all the dancing had taken its toll on her. The loud music and louder outfits worn by the entertainers and their entourages was enough to make Dominique feel like an old lady. She wanted to be anywhere else but here.

The party was jumping. R&B sensation Kiara was performing and Dominique was seated at a table with three of the five nominees for best new artist. Sangria and conversation flowed nonstop. Dominique sucked on a piece of fruit from the bottom of her glass and glanced at her phone to see what time it was. It was 1:54
A.M.
She took a chance and text messaged Archie.

Are you still up?

After a few minutes, a reply flashed across the screen.
Yeah.

She smiled, encouraged by the alcohol in her system and typed a reply.

Can I come over?

She thought about Jamel and his constant phone calls lately. He was full of apologies and excuses for why he'd gone back to selling drugs, back to his baby mama, back to everything he swore he was finished with. He had even resorted to passing messages to her through his mother, hopeful that hearing how sorry he was might soften Dominique's determination to hate him forever. She didn't want to hear anything he had to say. To her, he was a scared little bitch, deceitful and full of shit. There were two things she hated more than anything—liars and cowards. Jamel fell into both categories.

Minutes more passed, with Dominique second-guessing herself. If Archie didn't respond or if he said no, she'd be humiliated. Then she felt her phone vibrate in her bag and looked at the screen.

Of course.

Dominique was overjoyed. She spent another few minutes at the party before hurrying out and hitting the FDR. Traffic was surprisingly light and it wasn't long before she parked her car outside of Archie's apartment building and refreshed her lip gloss. She climbed the stairs to his apartment and knocked. Archie quickly opened the door.

Ushering her inside, he noticed that Dominique was teetering slightly on her four-inch Louboutin boots.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She stepped into the living room, stripped out of her black leather jacket, and grinned. “Nope.”

Archie smirked, caught off guard. “You are
not
all right?” His accent was so thick and so sexy to her.

Dominique shook her head. “I'm a little tipsy,” she admitted before slumping onto his love seat and crossing her legs.

Archie smiled and joined her there. “So you shouldn't be driving.”

She knew he was right. “I know. I just didn't have the patience to sit at the party till I sobered all the way up.”

He nodded. “I guess you had fun tonight?”

She smiled. “Yes. I was drinking sangria … Delicious!”

She kicked off her boots and regaled him with some details of her evening rubbing elbows with the music industry's elite. Together, they watched an old Eddie Murphy movie on cable and before long, Dominique had sobered up somewhat. Archie didn't want her to be too tipsy tonight. He didn't want her to forget what he was going to do to her.

Laughing at one of Eddie's jokes, Archie leaned close to her. With little room between them, and their faces merely inches apart, their kiss happened easily. Archie pulled her onto his lap and she straddled him as they tongued one another passionately. Firmly, and ever so carefully, Archie palmed her ass and stood up, lifting her easily in his arms as he carried her slowly toward his bedroom. Their kiss uninterrupted as he walked down the long corridor, Dominique wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. She felt herself melting into his arms, feeling so safe there and so wanted. Finally, they entered his bedroom. Gently, he placed her on his bed and shut the bedroom door behind them.