Games Divas Play (A Diva Mystery Novel) (8 page)

CHAPTER 5

Vanessa

T
he dark Mercedes sedan headed downtown in the congested evening traffic, cutting seamlessly back and forth between a sea of honking taxis and cars. I stared out of the dark tinted windows into the crisp October evening. It was Friday night in Manhattan, and everyone seemed to be heading
somewhere.

For a moment I was thankful that Marcus was leaving tonight for a game in Chicago, but then the familiar knot hit my stomach as I tortured myself with thoughts of Laila joining him in the Windy City. He tried to call me several times after the video hit the Internet, but I sent his calls to voice mail. I wasn’t prepared to hear any more sorry lies about how it wasn’t what I thought. I didn’t think I could even look at him right now without clawing out
his eyes.

I glanced down at my silver snakeskin Philip Stein watch to check the time. The larger face on the watch was on New York time and read six forty-five. I was supposed to meet Nia for drinks at seven o’clock. The second smaller face was set three hours behind on Pacific time, reminding m
e of home.

The black car pulled up in front of the Gansevoort Hotel. I gathered my black Gucci Python shoulder bag and tossed my BlackBerry inside. Alex opened the door and helped me out of the car. As I stepped out into the chilly fall evening, I braced myself for the conversation I was about to have with my be
st friend.

I know I have to tell her e
verything.

Walking into the dimly lit bar, I scanned the beautiful room. The dark walnut walls, soft light accenting the black lacquer tables with mirrored tops, and a whimsical mix of bright red velvet and leopard print chairs gave the intimate lounge a funky twist. Heavy gold damask curtains framed windows that looked out into the city streets. I immediately spotted Nia seated at a table in a dark alcove. As usual, my girl was intensely scrolling through messages on her iPhone while she absentmindedly stirred her dark amber
cocktail.

I was glad to see she already knew that light and fruity girl drinks weren’t on the menu tonight. Hard liquor only,
thank you.

“Hey, girl,” I said as I approached the table and leaned down to give her a kiss on
the cheek.

“Hey, mama,” she said warmly as she closed her e-mail and laid her phone on the table. Her eyes looked tired
like mine.

“Sorry, I’m late,” I said as I sat down in the leopard-upholstered chair across from her. “Traffic was murder.” The waitress came over to ask Nia if she could refresh her drink and take
my order.

“Yes, I’ll have another, and she’ll have the same,” Nia said as she picked up her drink and threw back the rest of the remaining
contents.

“Damn, slow down,” I said with a chuckle. “Let me at least
catch up.”

“You’re going to have to drink really fast to catch up
with me.”

“That’s never been a problem for me, and you know I will still drink your little lightweight butt under the table.” There had been many a night in Cambridge when we drank late into
the night.

“Your hair looks cute,” I told her as I admired the new shorter haircut that skimmed perfectly arched eyebrows and framed her big almond-sh
aped eyes.

“Thanks. Your man Walter really hooked a sister up at the salon. And Armond tamed a sister’s crazy
unibrow.”

“I’m glad you liked Walter, and it’s about time someone tackled your Groucho Marx brows. And since you got that Lasik surgery and got rid of those funky glasses, people can actually see your beauti
ful face.”

“I know, right? The laser eye surgery was the bomb, and MJ was adamant that needed to be a part of my Manhattan makeover.” She
chuckled.

“Well, it all works, especially the hair. Walter’s been after me to do something with this boring mess on top of my head, but I don’t know what to do with it. Short hair is just so much work.” I ran my fingers through my thick shoulder-length hair and tucked the long layered sides behind my ears. It wasn’t like a new haircut would have kept my husband from
cheating.

“You should totally try something new,” Nia said. There was an awkward silence. I could tell that she wasn’t sure if she should bring up the video or wait for me to do it. I didn’t make her
wait long.

“So, you saw the video . . .
,” I said.

“Uh . . . Yes,
I saw it.”

“Can you believe it?” A single tear slipped out of the corner of my eye and slid down my cheek as I exhaled sharply. She reached across the table and too
k my hand.

The waitress returned with our drinks and placed them on the table. When she started to ask if we’d like any appetizers, I waved
her away.

“How did you find out?”
Nia asked.

“Well, this time I didn’t have to go searching online to find it. He got Kareem and Desiree
to do it.”

“Hold up. Kareem called you about the video?” she asked, clearly incredulous that Marcus would try to get his agent to break the news of his infidelity to
his wife.

“Oh yeah. They called, like they always do when there’s some news about to break with Marcus. Now, my dumb behind thought they were calling to talk about some news related to the trade to New York. But nope, not this time. They told me that a story was breaking online, that it wasn’t true, and they were doing everything they could to s
quash it.”

“So how did you see the video?” she asked, then sipped
her drink.

“I asked them what the story was, and they told me it was some video that someone took on their cell phone of Marcus leaving a business meeting, and that there was some woman in the background that the media was trying to link to him. So naturally, when I got off the phone, I searched online for
the clip.”

“Did yo
u see it?”

“Yes,” I choked out. “I must have watched it ten or twenty times, trying to talk myself into believing that he wasn’t leaving that hotel with that skank trick Lai
la James.”

I took another swallow of my drink. The warm liquid slid down my throat but didn’t numb the pain in my chest like
I wanted.

“I can’t even believe this shit. We just got to New York, and he’s already messing around after he promised me this trade would be a fresh start for ou
r family.”

“I’m so sorry, V.” Nia handed me a tissue from her purse to wipe the tears that were now falling down my cheeks. “So do you need me to come over and help you pack
tonight?”

“Pack?”

“Yeah, pack. Aren’t you leaving his ass t
his time?”

“It’s not that simple, Nia. We have
a child.”

“Yes, I know you have a child. Damon’s my godson. But V., he’s been cheating on you for years. How long are you going to take this mess
from him?”

“You don’t understand, Nia. You’ve never been married. It’s much more complicated than
you know.”

“Complicated? How complicated can it be? I stood by your side while you both took those vows to love, honor, cherish, and be faithful. Or was it just you who promised to do
all that?”

“Damn, Nia. I don’t need your sarcastic bullshit right now. I’m dealing with a lot of stuff that you don’t even un
derstand.”

“I saw the video, too, Vanessa. Despite what shady Kareem says, there’s no way he wasn’t leaving that hotel with th
at woman.”

“You think I don’t know that, Nia?” I hissed across the table at her. “You think I don’t know for one hundred percent certain that he’s fucking Laila? Of course I do. But it’s not that easy to pack your stuff, take your son, and walk out
the door.”

“Why not? You’ve got money, you’ve got credit cards, and you’ve got friends. And all you need now is a pit bull divorce lawyer to start working on taking half that bastard
’s money.”

“No, what I really need right now is a friend who’ll listen to me.” I slumped back into my seat, absentmindedly twisting the large yellow diamond on my ring finger. I took another large swallow from my half-empty glass. I needed t
o be numb.

“I’m listening, but you’re not making any sense right now,” Nia said, leaning across the table, her voice low and deep. “Look, I’ve never tried to tell you how to live your life. I’ve always been there when you’ve called me at two o’clock in the morning, sobbing on the phone, devastated because of Marcus’s cheating. I’ve listened to you cry, and it broke my heart. I’ve listened to you after you went to therapy sessions, and bit my tongue. I’ve listened when you told me he said it’s going to be different this time, desperately hoping like you that he had changed. But maybe, just maybe, it’s not ever going to be different, Vanessa. Maybe, just maybe, this person that you married is who he is, and nothing you do and nothing he says is ever going to cha
nge that.”

Nia had tears in her eyes, too. I knew she meant well and that she only wanted to do what she thought was best for little Damon and me. But she didn’t know the wh
ole story.

I wiped my tears again with the soggy tissue and then reached into my handbag for an
envelope.

“This is why I can’t leave right now,” I told her as I slid a plain manila envelope with my husband’s name typed neatly across the front across the table to her. No postage, no return address. “This came addressed to Marcus at the apartment y
esterday.”

Nia picked up the envelope and looked at me qu
izzically.

“Just open it,” I told her. An icy cold chill went through my body when I heard
her gasp.

“Oh my God, Vanessa,” Nia said as she gripped the papers in disbelief. She began to go through them o
ne by one.

The first page was a crude collage made up of tattered pieces of images of Marcus that looked like they were scratched and stabbed. The words
It’s Your Turn to Die
were handwritten on the bottom of the page in a heavy bla
ck marker.

Nia turned to the second page, which had glued to it a grainy newspaper photo of Marcus holding Damon’s hand as he walked down the street from our apartment. The photo had been splashed across the cover of the
Daily News
paper when we first got to New York two months ago with the headline “The King and Little Prince Come to New York.” This photo, like the first, had the same manic slash marks cutting at the faces of my husband and the message,
You Will Pay for Wha
t You Did
.

The third photo I received this afternoon. The image showed me leaving a Manhattan boutique with an armful of shopping bags last week. Violent slashes marked my image as well, but this time the sender took the time to dig the razor deep into my eyes so all that was left were empty black holes. On the bottom of the page, written in the same heavy black marker, were the words
You Wil
l All Die
.

Nia’s eyes were wide, and all the warmth had drained from
her face.

“Vanessa, when did you get these?” she asked, her brow suddenly furrowed and her eyes narrowed. She spread the papers out across the table, looking back and forth bet
ween them.

“These particular letters started coming after we came to New York,” I answered. “The one of Marcus and Damon came last week. The third image, of me shopping, came today. In addition to this, we’ve also received threats on our cell phones and in
e-mails.”

“Have you gone to the police?”
she asked.

“
We can’t.”

“Why not? Someone is threatening your family,” Nia said as she shook the papers at me, her voice rising in the t
rendy bar.

“Marcus says this type of stuff goes with the territory of being a professional athlete. Miss a key shot at buzzer, everyone hates you, and you get a barrage of hate mail. And, don’t get me wrong: over the years, Marcus has received his fair share of angry letters from obsessed fans, religious fanatics, and racists. And since they call me First Lady of the NBA, occasionally there have been letters about me, but they tended to criticize what I wore or my hairstyle. This is very different. These letters are targeting our entire family. His mail usually goes directly to his fan club, which is managed by Kareem and Desiree, but these letters are coming directly to
our home.”

“Wait a minute,” Nia said as she interrupted me. “You said these particular letters have come to the apartment now. Are you saying you were getting these kinds of letters sent to your home in Phoe
nix, too?”

I nodded my he
ad slowly.

“And there’s more,” I said. I suddenly felt grateful to be able to talk to someone about this nightmare I’d been living for so long. I pulled three other large envelopes from my bag and gave th
em to her.

“This is all of them.” These envelopes were heavier, containing printouts of all the text messages and e-mails we’d
received.

“Oh my God, Vanessa. There have to be at least twenty here.” The pile of grotesque images and hateful words covered the small table as she shuffled through the evil
messages.

“Twenty-two,” I
answered.

“So, why exactly haven’t you gone to the police again?” Nia asked, holding up some of the papers as if they were evidence o
f a crime.

“Because Kareem said we couldn’t,”
I replied.