I did recall him and along with that memory came the sorrow that always comes when I remember the murder of Hakim, Jamal's best friend and half brother. Jake still bore a physical scar; Jamal and I carried ours in our hearts. Griffin remembered my brother Johnny and had gone out of his way to be helpful and kind to me and my son on that terrible day. As far as I was concerned, Griffin had a special pew in heaven. Jake wrote down Griffin's telephone number on the back of an envelope and gave it to me.
“He may be able to give you a sense of where the case for the son is going. Tell him I told you to call him, but he probably remembers you anyway. Hey, Tarn, be careful!”
His words of caution made me grin. “Hey, Jake, I'm always careful!”
That made him grin, which I love to see because it lights up his whole face and when you see it, you know everything is going to be okay. And if it's not, he'll make it so. We sat there grinning at each other for a minute enjoying each other's company. Until the front doorbell rang and Jake answered it. Then the grin dropped off my face. My intuition told me who it was. I gulped down what remained of my wine; I'd need the fortification.
Ramona Covington swished into Jake's kitchen as if she belonged there. Although I didn't like to admit it, she was an undeniably attractive woman. Her short hair framed her pretty, square-jawed face in a style that said whoever wielded those scissors knew what he was doing. Her light-brown eyes were made up so flawlessly they looked natural, and her cherry red lips told me lipstick had just been applied. She was dressed casually, and her red cashmere sweat suit, if you could call it that, showed off the finer points of her well-toned body in sexy detail. Obviously surprised at my presence, she tossed me a grimace that only a fool could mistake for a smile and turned to Jake.
“So where have you been? I missed talking to you last night,” she didn't so much say as purr as she settled into the chair next to him, crossing her legs seductively. I noticed with annoyance that there was nary a spot on her blindingly white sneakers.
Jake looked mildly embarrassed. I wasn't sure if it was because of what she said or my hearing it. ‘At a game.”
“Game?” she asked as if she'd never heard the word before.
“Basketball. I tookjamal, Tamara's son, to see the Nets. Big fun. Nets won.”
Has he rhymed the words intentionally or did her presence have that effect on him?
“Oh, that's right, you mentioned it. So you're Jamal's mom.” She turned to me with a phony smile.
And you're the hitch from hell, I thought.
“Yes, we've met before,” I mumbled, pulling my lips into what probably resembled a sneer.
“Oh, that's right! I remember now,” she said, her condescending smile assuring me how easily forgettable I was. “How nice to see you again.”
There was no need to dignify that remark with a response so we simply gazed at each other in awkward silence until Ramona turned her attention back to Jake, essentially sweeping me from the room with a toss of her head. There seemed to be no graceful way for me to enter their conversation, so I watched them without saying anything, desperately trying to figure out what this woman really meant to my friend.
Ramona Covington had popped into Jake's life a couple of years ago. She was a hotshot young prosecutor who left Trenton for Newark because she'd heard that Newark was where the action was. They were both lawyers, so they had that in common, and Jake liked smarts and spunk in women, so I knew he admired her. He'd never actually said there was anything romantic between them, but I could feel the chemistry, and where there's smoke, fire usually smolders. There was smoke between me and Jake, too, but we've always smothered any flames. I suspected that he and Ramona were sleeping together, but I wasn't sure. I did know, however, that Jake Richards was and had always been a gentleman. There wasn't a cruel or arrogant bone in his body, and I knew he would be too polite to tell her to get lost. But I sensed he probably wouldn't want to. I was also sure that she was a woman who wouldn't take “no” lightly. She was the kind of person who always got what she wanted, be it a job, a prime piece of real estate, or somebody else's husband. Ramona Covington had the instincts of a predator, and Jake Richards was fair game for a woman who put relationships with men in the same category as hunting and fishing.
Jake loved his wife, Phyllis, and I'd seen him through many of her “spells” as he called them. There was always sorrow in his eyes when she was around, an edginess that shadowed whatever he did. He seemed relaxed this evening, so I knew Phyllis was in the “rest home” where she goes when she gets overwhelmed by things that most of us handle easily. Phyllis had always been a fragile woman who brought out the protector in her husband. I admired him for both his love for her and his loyalty.
Even if I could, I'd never try to step into her shoes. Although there have been times when Jake and I have nearly crossed the line that separates friendship from something else, one of us has always pulled back. We both know that if we took that step, it would be impossible to come back to what we have, and we both value our friendship. Neither of us wants to lose the relationship that nurtures both of us as well as Jamal and Jake's daughter. Jake and I are truly comfortable with each other, and that is no small thing to be with a man.
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 tha
t 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 al
one 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.”
Dying in the Dark Page 6