Dying in the Dark (8 page)

But much to my annoyance, I had to admit that I was jealous of Ramona and her relationship with Jake. She had a clear advantage over me because she didn't give a damn about Phyllis and had no respect for Jake's marriage. She sensed his loneliness and swooped around him like a buzzard on the trail of a wounded animal. Ramona Covington was the kind of woman who couldn't be trusted with another woman's man. I knew that about her, and she knew I did. And she didn't like it. But most men do not want to hear your opinion about where they put their dicks. In short, whatever relationship Jake had with the woman was none of my business, and he would probably tell me so if I said anything. Wiser to keep my mouth shut and gather the chips when they fell.

“Ma, when did you get here?” Jamal busted into the room and came to my rescue.

“I've been here a while.”

“Hey, Ms. Covington, how are you doing?” He graced Ramona with one of his winning smiles.

So just how many times has he seen her here?
I wondered.

“Hi, Jamal. I heard the game was great,” Ramona said with a 100-kilowatt grin. Add a few years and
Jamal
would be in her crosshairs.

“Yeah. They're probably going to make the finals.”

For one terrible moment, I thought he might ask her to accompany him and Jake to the next game. “Ready to go, Mom?”

“Whenever you are, son.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you. I was supposed to go by Charlie's tonight to work on that science project. Can you drop me off on the way home?”

“Science project? When's it due?” Concern was in Jake's voice.

“Monday.”

“Jamal!” Jake and I said in unison.

“Yeah, I'm going to spend the night. Got my toothbrush!” He pulled out one of the spare toothbrushes Jake kept in the house and waved it in front of us, trying to put us at ease.

Jake scowled. “Last minute don't get it, brother-man! You should have done that project instead of going to the game.”

“We're going to work all night.” Jamal pleaded for understanding.

Jake looked doubtful.

“Really!” Jamal added.

Jake glanced at me and rolled his eyes, which made me smile.

“Let's go. The sooner you get there the sooner you can get started,” I said.

“Catch you later,” Jamal said to Jake, giving him the half-hug that men give one another.

“You, too, man.” Jake grinned to let him know that all was forgiven. “Check with you later on tonight, Tarn?”

I didn't answer for a moment. I could hear the affection and concern he had for me, and I knew that he probably had something he had to talk to me about; maybe Phyllis, maybe his daughter, maybe even the feelings he had—or didn't have—for Ramona Covington. But I was mad that she was there, and I didn't want him to know it.

‘Actually I have plans for tonight,” I said breezily, avoiding his eyes as Jamal and I left.

I'm not sure where that lie came from, probably the same place as the one I'd told Larry Walton. Fortunately for me, Jamal was so overwhelmed by the sight of our new car, he forgot to ask me what those plans were.

“Wow!” he said when I pointed out the new Jetta, dashing toward it like a kid heading for the tree on Christmas morning. ‘And it's red, too! Ma, this is dope! This is dope!” I buzzed open the door for him and he jumped in, grinning so wide it made me chuckle. “Ma, wow. You really did it this time. You can even open it by remote. You really did it! I can't wait to drive this thing.”

“You'll wait until you get your license.”

“Soon, Ma, soon,” he said, which made me sigh. One more thing to worry about: Jamal on the road. He patted the dashboard as if it were alive. “This is way better than the Demon.”

“That wouldn't take much,” I said, and we both laughed at the fond memory of our trusted old car.

“Open it up!”

“I'm not going to ‘open it up’ in the city. A ticket would be all I need.”

“Let's go on the Parkway. If we have enough time. What time is your date?”

I didn't answer him. One bold-faced lie an hour was enough. I headed to the Parkway, shifting into fourth, then fifth, glancing in my rearview mirror to make sure I was clear of cops. It was fun chasing down the highway cheered on by my son as our car rang with his laughter. But my feelings were bittersweet because I knew how short the time left between us would be. After “opening it up” to Jamal's satisfaction, I dropped him off at his friend's house with a peck on his cheek and a quick scolding about the dangers of procrastination. I drove into my driveway, then sat there for a while, thinking about Jamal and how much I would miss him, about Jake and how I'd lied to him, and then, for some reason, about Larry Walton. I was smiling, though, as I got out of my car and headed into my house. I had a new car, a great kid, and, courtesy of a good friend, a job that would pay me good money in a week and a half. I had seen better days in my life, but I sure had seen worse.

My self-satisfied grin was still on my face as I turned the lock and came into my kitchen. Then I stopped short; something was wrong. Someone had been in my house. Small things were out of place: The chair that leans against the wall had been turned to the right. The blue glass jars that hold my sugar and flour were pushed away from the wall. The tablecloth was askew, the window cracked, the doormat pushed to the left.

My heart pounded. I held my breath.

Was he still here?

“I'm warning you, I've got a gun and I'm licensed to use it!” I made my voice sound tough, threatening, but I had no gun. It was locked in a safe in my bedroom. I was scared, and the tremble in my voice gave me away because I wanted to turn tail and run.

But was I imagining things?

Could Jamal have left the chair pushed out, the tablecloth crooked, the doormat out of place. I had been in a rush to buy the car this morning, maybe I simply hadn't noticed.

Trust your instincts.

That
had been drilled into me so often when I'd been a cop, I said it in my sleep.

Always trust your gut.

My place had been violated. I was sure of it now, but by whom? And what was he looking for? Had he known I wouldn't be home? Or had he been looking for me? Was he still here?

I stepped farther into the kitchen, my ears alert for any sound, my eyes searching for any sudden movement. I grabbed a butcher knife out of the knife holder next to the blue glass containers, stepped carefully, the knife tight in my hand, ready to use it if I needed to.

Silence.

Slowly, I climbed the stairs, listening for sounds, glancing behind me, all my senses sharpened. The smell was different. It was an odor from my past, heavy like perfume, but I wasn't sure where and when I had smelled it before. I stood there trying to identify it, but I couldn't remember. I entered my bedroom, scared as hell, and went to the locked chest that held my gun. My fingers shook as I turned the combination,
opened the chest, picked up the gun, and clicked off the safety. Then I searched my house—Jamal's room, closets, under the beds, basement—my .38 in one hand, kitchen knife in the other.

I found nothing and after a while I felt foolish for having been so afraid. I placed the knife back in the holder, locked the gun back up, then collapsed on the couch, my body tense. I thought of calling Jake, then dismissed the thought. The telephone rang, the jarring sound of it startling me. It rang four times before I answered it.

“Tamara?”

“Who is this?”

“Larry Walton. I said I'd call you later, remember?”

“Yeah.”

“I was wondering if you're free tomorrow. For brunch.”

“Yeah.”

“How about Jay's in Newark, is that okay? Let's say around one?”

“Yeah,” I said, and hung up the phone, my fingers as tight around it as they'd been around the gun.

I'm not sure what made me pick up the pencil lying next to the phone and write the letters I'd seen in Celia's book on a scrap of paper. I don't know why the letters came out in the girlish script that had been in her book, as if her hand were guiding mine.

A.
Was it for Annette or Aaron?

B.
Brent? Beanie? Both?

C. D.
Clayton Donovan?

Or was C for Chessman?

CHAPTER SEVEN

I
asked Larry Walton about
Celia Jones the moment we sat down to brunch.

“Do you mind if we order first?” he asked with the charming grin that marked everything he said. He was a good-looking man, that was for sure, and the teenage waitress acknowledged it with a nause-atingly sweet smile as she set our table. He ordered brunch like he was serious about food, which is always a good sign in a man. Jay's was jammed, like it is every Sunday morning. I usually throw caution to the wind when I come here, wolfing down calories and carbs like they won't show up on my hips, but even the fried fish and biscuits didn't tempt me this morning.

As Larry Walton sipped his orange juice, I gulped down the first of three cups of coffee lined up in a row in front of me. It was tacky as hell to order three cups at once, but I needed the jolt and didn't feel like waiting for refills. Last night had been another rough one. I spent the first half of the night tossing, turning, and waiting for somebody to try to break into my place again, and the second half trying to figure out what Larry was going to say to me this morning.

“You sure you don't want anything else?” he asked as the waitress set down his order of eggs, biscuits, fried porgies, and grits. The smell of fried fish has always had the power to break me, but professional integrity beat out greediness this morning. It was better not to let him treat me to brunch until I knew what role he played in Celia's drama, and I didn't want to pay for it myself; brunch at Jay's was not in my budget.

“No, I'm fine,” I said.

He grinned, dimple showing. “That's what you told me yesterday. When aren't you ‘fine,’ Tamara Hayle? Is there ever a time when you aren't self-sufficient and self-reliant?”

“I'm fine then, and I'm fine now.” I hadn't meant to sound so snappish, but it came out that way, and I didn't bother to apologize. Larry shrugged as if it didn't matter and bit into a biscuit. Neither of us spoke until he'd finished eating, and I asked the question that had been bothering me since yesterday afternoon.

“So why were you at both of their funerals?”

He took a sip of coffee, placed the cup carefully down on the table, and looked me in the eye.

“You mean Celia and her son?”

“Why else are we here?”

“Because I knew Celia.”

“In the biblical sense?” I asked, hurled into nastiness by three cups of coffee on an empty stomach. “So just how close were you?”

“Close enough so I cared about her and Cecil. Close enough so that if I had ten minutes alone with the son of a bitch who killed her, they'd put me in jail for life,” he said in a way that told me more than he knew. “I was at loose ends for a while. Marva, my wife, and I were
still together, but I was very lonely, and being lonely in a bad marriage is the worst kind of loneliness. I was looking for someone to help me through a bad time. I needed some fun, and my relationship with Celia supplied both.”

“So basically, you just fucked her,” I said, using the “F” word to both shock and bluntly define what I suspected was at the core of their relationship. It had the desired effect: He blushed and dropped his gaze for a moment before returning his eyes to mine.

“I suppose that some people might put it like that, but Celia was very vulnerable and kinder than anybody I've met in a very long time,” he said, implying with a slightly raised eyebrow that she had it on me in the kindness department. “Celia Jones was a decent woman who never got a break, and during the time I was with her, I treated her like a queen because beneath all that tough bravado, that's what she was.

“I wasn't in love with Celia, and she certainly wasn't in love with me, she had too many other men in her life for that, and she made no secret of it, but I respected and liked her, and I hope she felt the same about me. Fucking her, as you put it, was a very small part of our relationship.”

It was my turn to blush. For a minute, I thought he was going to stand up and stomp out of the place. Instead, he politely asked if I'd like some more coffee, and ordered another cup for himself, keeping me on tenterhooks as he added cream and sugar and leisurely stirred it.

“So do you still play chess?” I asked, sick of the strained silence and trying for neutral ground.

He was surprised by the question. “Yes, once a chess player always a chess player. It's a game that influences your life.”

I couldn't think of a follow-up to that so I asked the obvious. “Why did you invite me to brunch?”

“When I saw you yesterday, I remembered you'd been Celia's friend in high school. I figured you'd cut her out of your life like everybody else, so I didn't bring her name up, but when you came to her son's funeral I knew that at least you'd cared enough about the two of them to show up. I asked you out because I wanted to find out if you had any idea who could have killed her or her son. Will you tell me what you know?”

It's always tough to tell if somebody is leveling with you or simply tossing out a bunch of crap to see how much you know about a given situation. That was one thing I learned in my short stint as a cop: Never immediately believe what somebody says, search for the forgotten detail that will point to the truth, don't take anyone at his word. My bullshit meter is usually pretty accurate, but the needle was jumping all over the place this morning. The only person who could verify what Larry'd told me about him and Celia was dead. I didn't answer his question, but came from another direction.

“So was Celia the reason you and your wife broke up?”

“No. Me and Marva parted ways a long time before I started going out with Celia.”

“When did you start your relationship with her?”

‘About three years before she died.”

“Could your wife have had it in for Celia?”

It was the first time he'd laughed since we sat down, yet his eyes didn't reflect his amusement. “Marva? No. She left me for a preacher man a year before Celia was killed. Took my daughter, Jamillah, and moved with him to Nashville. She married him the day our divorce
was final. She was pregnant with his baby last time I saw her. Marva has cut out a new life for herself, and I'm happy for her.”