Authors: Carmen Green

What a Fool Believes (14 page)

BOOK: What a Fool Believes

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Chapter Seventeen

“Tia, can I see you outside, please?”

The photos of purses in Tia's hands confirmed Byron's suspicions, but he didn't want to jump to any conclusions. He'd done that before, with disastrous consequences.

Today's break-in at her condo could be a coincidence. The only thing was that he didn't believe in coincidences and neither did his captain.

Byron believed that happenstance incidents were the mechanics of women, orchestrated to trick men into doing what they wanted. He'd heard it numerous times from his cop buddies.

“Yo, I met her in the meat section of the grocery store. She was just standing there, and I helped her pick out beef tips. How'd she know those were my favorites? It's like she knew everything about me.”

It wasn't until later that his friend found out that his new woman and the cashier were cousins, and they'd scoped out his shopping habits and had set a trap.

Now, one year after they first met, his friend had two jobs to support baby twins, her son from a prior relationship, an SUV, a minivanâwhich he droveâand an expensive house in Cascade, which they couldn't afford. The wife couldn't work and help with the bills. She had postpartum depression and had to get two massages a weekâso he was pulling the whole load.

Byron shrugged. No way was a woman sticking it to him like that. He wasn't a fool.

Byron believed what his eyes could see, and the evidence was in Tia's pretty little hands.

She stopped outside the room. “What's on your mind?”

“What have you got there?”

Her eyes darted from side to side, as if she didn't know what he was talking about. “Nothing?” she said sarcastically.

“May I?” Byron slid the pictures from her hands. “Nice,” he murmured, counting thirteen in all. Just the number of purses Ms. Wilkes had reported stolen while she'd been at work today.

“What are you planning to do with these?” Byron asked.

“You interested in carrying a purse? Might be a little over the top for the down low, but, hey, to each his own. Ronnie/Rhonda will be glad. You might free your mind and rid yourself of all your stress up in here.” She made a sweeping gesture from his head to his feet.

He took her insult in stride. “I'm a straight man, sweetheart. You know that for a fact, so you're not going to distract me. I got a call from the precinct. Somebody broke into Ms. Wilkes's place and relieved her of about thirteen purses, but left all the credit cards and other valuables alone.”

“First of all”âTia snatched the photos from himâ“she has valuables? I doubt that. Second, the condo is mine. Third, I can't steal my own stuff.”

“Ms. Wilkes seems to think so.”

Byron stared at her furious eyes, and he wanted her like crazy. One day wanting her would get him into trouble. He felt that inside. But Byron couldn't help himself.

“Why would I steal my own purses, then take pictures of them? That's just idiotic for anyone to even think that.”

“Are you calling
me
an idiot?”

She didn't open her mouth, but her look said, What do you think?

“What?” he demanded.

“You're a terrible detective.”

“Hey!”

“Hey, hell.” The smooth column of her neck worked, swallowing what he assumed was a profanity. “I know you don't think much of me, but I'm selling my purses on the Internet so I can raise money to get an attorney so I can get my house back. I'm already registered on eBay. And,
Mr. Police Detective
, these are the same bags you brought into the house last night. Satisfied?”

Byron glanced at the photos again. He had carried boxes, and there had been purses, but he hadn't bothered to inspect the contents of each box.
Damn.
She had him again.

He stood in the hallway, where he'd been made a fool of too many times to count, and old resentment shot through him.

He should have done better detective work before coming to her. She was stressed out, and she had a right to be.

There was one thing about Tia, and that was she was definitely transparent. She didn't bother to try to deceive him or anyone. And, on the other hand, Ms. Wilkes had everything to lose.

Why hadn't he thought of all this before approaching Tia? Because he wanted to categorize her, and as he was learning, Tia Amberson didn't fit the mold. “I can't hold you,” he conceded.

“Brilliant deduction,” she said, deceptively calm. “Now if you'll excuse me, I really need anger management class tonight.” Her voice dropped. “All day I've been wanting to get something long, thick, and soft or hard in the palm of my hand and then snap it in half !” She exhaled sharply. “Ever get that urge, Officer?”

She was definitely turning the crazy corner like her friend. “That's Detective, and I have a lot of other uses for my hands, soft or hard, notwithstanding.” Byron matched her even tone, then checked himself, the innuendo guiding them where he'd been wanting to take her for some time. “I will check on your story.”

“You do that, Mr. Efficient. You should worry about what I don't tell you.”

Byron gazed down at her but didn't respond. She always seemed to have the upper hand.

Tia started to go through the door, but he blocked her just in time, as Pebbles steamrolled in, dragging Ginger with her.

“Do you see her face? Why is she here
and
still getting her butt kicked by her fool husband?” Pebbles shouted to the classroom full of students.

Byron followed Tia inside and tried to control an instinctive wince. Ginger's face had taken the brunt of her ex's rage, finger marks imprinted on her cheeks, her lip split and swollen. He'd seen domestic abuse before, and it was never something he got used to.

The women in the class crowded around Ginger in a protective circle.

Tia shook him free, moving into the center.

Ginger smiled bravely. “Ladies, I'm fine.”

“You're fine, with your eye swollen shut?” Pebbles demanded, angry tears spilling down her cheeks. “This doesn't make sense.”

“Why did this happen?” Debbie wanted to know.

“He wants me to stay married to him. He wants to use my money for his lifestyle. I'd hired some people who were able to get back the money he initially took. So he came home Monday and begged me to forgive him.” Her head dipped. “I did, thinking he had changed. He's not even converting to a different faith. He just wants me to participate in that lifestyle with him in Utah.”

“In bigamy?”

“No. Polygamy.” Ginger's soft voice hitched. “I just can't. I want him. Not a life he shares with other women.”

“You said no, and he did this to you?” Peggy asked, hovering over Ginger.

“I called the police, and they came out and took a report. These officers have been to the house several times. I think they're tired of me.”

Grumbles livened up the crowd.

“The police don't care about us. That's why we're in this class instead of our spouses,” Debbie insinuated.

“They have other, more serious, things to worry about,” Pebbles stressed. “Domestic abuse just isn't a priority.”

“Yes, it is,” Byron asserted. “There are officers dedicated to domestic cases. They're a high priority for all police departments.”

“We need to stop depending on the law to fix our problems and deal with our lying, no-good, two-timing, low-life, lazy men ourselves. Every one of them deserves to have his butt handed to him!” Pebbles shouted.

“Yeah!” a chorus of women cheered Pebbles's irrational tirade.

“Ladies, please,” Fred pleaded. “Let's start by writing in our journals. Instead of letting this passionate moment slip away, we can examine our levels of anger and work through them constructively. We are at the point where we can state our affirmations and walk away from troubling situations.”

Ten disbelieving glares were shot at Fred, who backed into the blackboard and bumped his head.

“I didn't do anything to provoke him,” Ginger said, pleading her case. “I took him back. That's what he asked. If I go back home, he's going to hurt me. I can't live that way.”

“Don't go home, Ginger,” Lacy stated.

“Make the police do their jobs,” Ann Marie advised. “Make them uphold the law.”

“Or we can do it ourselves to each and every one of them.” Pebbles struggled to her feet.

Byron held up his hands, stepping in front of the unsettled group. “Ladies, I'm an officer with the Atlanta Police Department.” Angry grumbles resounded. “Revenge isn't the answer. If you seek vengeance against him or anybody, you'll be prosecuted, and you'll go to jail. I'm telling you, it's not worth it. Let the courts mete out justice.”

“You're a spy!” Ann Marie screamed. “I'll bet you were sent here by one of our husbands.”

All of the woman glared at him. “Who sent you? Was it my husband, Brent? Is he trying to get ammunition for a divorce?” Peggy demanded.

“I was my husband's affair before he divorced his wife and married me. Now I guess he's got something new, and he wants me gone. Is that it?” Ann Marie said.

“Ladies, I'm not a spy. I was sent here as a punishment, which is why we're all here,” Bryon reminded them. “Retaliation isn't the answer. You'll just end up in a worse situation. Let us do our jobs.”

“You're not doing your job good enough. Her face is evidence of that,” Lacy said matter-of-factly.

“Fred, we're taking a break,” Debbie told him.

“We're just about to begin,” Fred told them.

“You want us to journal first?” Pebbles grabbed her notebook, and the other women followed suit.

“Yes,” Fred said, his face hopeful that the worst was over. “We're going to come up with reasonable solutions on how to use our anger constructively.”

“Okay. I think I'll get a drink and write in my journal in the commons area,” Tia said, and started out.

The other women grabbed their books and purses as a chorus of “me toos” rang out.

“Oh-oh.” Fred stuttered, unable to think fast enough to stop them from leaving. “Okay. Take a break and come back ...”

He gave up. No one was listening.

After the door closed with a decisive snap, Byron turned on Fred. “Was that the best you could do?”

“You weren't so great yourself. They think you're a husband spy,” Fred shot back hotly, shocking Byron. The man had finally asserted himself.

Fred folded the short sleeves up and down on his shirt. “What do you think they're going to do when they come back? Beat me up? I can't handle another woman hitting me.”

The tiny balloon of respect Byron had developed for Fred exploded. “You're abused, too?”

“When I was fourteen. In PE. We were playing touch football. A girl I liked tackled me. That really hurt. I haven't forgotten.”

“Man, you're pathetic.”

“At least I know when I'm in over my head. You're the law,” Fred said, uncharacteristically belligerent. “Do you think they're cooking up a plan?”

“I'm almost certain of it.”

Alarm made Fred wipe his comb-over repeatedly. “What do you think they'll do?”

Byron sighed in resignation. “Follow the tradition of scorned women.”

Fred walked to the desk, put on his Mr. Rogers sweater, and began packing his things.

“What are you doing?” Byron wanted to know.

“Firing myself. It's inevitable. I'm no good at this. You already knew that. I'm trying to think of a new occupation for myself that doesn't involve dealing with people. Maybe there's a job in forestry.”

“Do you know anything about dendrology, the study of trees?”

“No,” Fred admitted. “But there's no people. That's a bonus.”

Byron took Fred's backpack, put his colored pens and notebook back on the desk, and shoved the book
How to Deal With Strong-Willed Women
deep into the canvas. If the women saw that, they'd have poor Fred in a bra and panties before eight-thirty.

“Fred, you're staying.”

“Help me, Jesus,” Fred whispered and put his head down on his desk. His comb-over flapped onto his arm, and he didn't even bother to fix it.

Neatness and order had always been a part of Byron's life, but even he wasn't going to touch another man's hair.

BOOK: What a Fool Believes

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