I rarely read the business section, but I did today and was rewarded for my effort with an article about Drew Sampson under the heading “Home-Grown Businessman Makes Good.” The story gave a brief history of Sampson's life and told how he'd inherited a single drugstore from his father and turned it into a thriving small chain by the time he was forty. According to the article, he'd made a killing when he sold his business, and was looking forward to retiring and traveling to places “far and unknown.” He was eager to spend quality time with his family, the article observed, because over the years he felt he'd neglected them and wanted to make up for lost time. I sucked my teeth in disgust when I read that.
The article also said that Sampson was a “model” citizen who “gave back” to the community and was proud to have grown up in Newark. There was a blurb at the bottom of the story announcing his lunchtime appearance at the Businessman's Club to which the public was welcome; the fifty-dollar price tag could be written off because the proceeds would go to charity.
I glanced at my watch. It was almost 12:30. If I hurried, I'd be able to pay my fifty bucks and catch him at the club. Although I hated spending money on lunch when I'd already eaten, I knew I couldn't miss the opportunity to confront Sampson in person. I had no idea what I was going to say, but at least I'd have a chance to observe him and maybe get a reaction out of him that might be helpful. It was clear that he wasn't going to give me an interview, so this would be the best I could do. Surprise is always an essential element when you want to pry the truth out of somebody, especially if you ambush him in a public place.
I'd worn my good gray suit for my interview with Rebecca Donovan, and luckily taken off my jacket when I gobbled down my lunch so the mayonnaise that found its way to the front of my blouse missed the lapel. Fortunately, I keep a paisley silk scarf along with a spare pair of heels and a decent-looking pocketbook in my file cabinet for such emergencies. I tied the scarf jauntily around my neck, successfully concealing the stain, dumped the contents of my trusty Kenya bag into my leather handbag, and squeezed my feet into a pair of stylish heels. I ducked into the ladies’ room down the hall for a quick self-appraisal and figured I looked professional enough to walk into the club without arousing suspicion, especially if I folded my coat so the lint wouldn't show and checked it at the door.
The Businessman's Club is tucked away on a side street off Broad. It's been around for the last few decades, managing to avoid the devastation that followed the riots in the 1960s, just in time to hold its head high during the 1990s in the “renaissance” that now marks the city. In the old days, most of the members were white, but now there are nearly as many black and Latino faces. Club members have played an important role in the rebuilding of Newark, even though the vast majority of them live in the affluent suburbs, and until recently wouldn't be caught dead in the city after dark, but the opening of the New Jersey Performing Arts Center and the presence of the new baseball team, the Newark Bears, changed all that. The “Club,” as it's called by insiders, was and continues to be the civic organization to belong to, even though membership cost more than I make in six months.
It didn't surprise me that Drew Sampson was a member, and I'd read somewhere that Larry Walton had been inducted, too. I also recalled seeing a plaque from the club in the Donovan sunroom, so they counted the late judge among the membership. Jake had been invited to join, but declined the honor. He said he didn't completely trust the city's powers-that-be and was uncomfortable mixing and mingling with them.
As I walked into the club, I tried to maintain an air of self-confidence, but my “good” shoes had tightened around my feet like vises, making a graceful entrance impossible. I stumbled into the foyer like a drunk, then stood in awe of my surroundings. It was an old building that had been renovated to reflect the power of its members. The place was lit by chandeliers, and the mahogany walls and heavy velvet draperies kept sunlight to a minimum. The room was cavernous but divided into nooks and crannies designed for clandestine meetings and lucrative business deals. The air vibrated with testosterone. A maitre d’ dressed in a maroon uniform that matched the draperies stopped me when I entered.
“The lunch has begun, ma'am,” he said with a glare, as if he'd caught me swiping rolls from a serving tray.
“I'm so sorry, but I was held up in an important meeting,” I whispered back.
“I'm afraid the remaining tickets are for members and guests only.”
‘Actually I'm meeting one of your members, Larry Walton,” I said, taking a gamble, which considering the tone of our last conversation, was cheeky as hell. The manager hesitated for a moment and then led me to a chair in the back of the room.
“I'm afraid you'll have to sit here for the time being. Mr. Walton is seated in the front. I'd rather not interrupt the lecture.”
“Thank you very much,” I said as I settled into my seat.
As I glanced around the club, my lips curled in disgust; this place certainly lived up to its name. The only other women present were either waiting on tables or brought by their bosses as table decoration. By all rights, my friends Annie and Wyvetta, who both own small businesses, should have been members, but neither had ever been invited to join.
Larry Walton was seated near the podium as the maitre d’ had mentioned, and his attention, like that of everybody else, was fixed on Drew Sampson, who, I assumed by the rapt attention of the audience, was sharing vital advice on small businesses. But my small business had about as much in common with his as I did with the men who surrounded me. It was a big deal for me to pay my public service bill every month, and there were no potential buyers for Hayle Investigative Services anywhere on the horizon. I tuned out most of what he was saying and focused my attention on him.
He had the straight black hair and caramel-colored complexion of a South American expatriate, which made me recall Larry's comments about his Cuban grandmother. He wore an obviously expensive pin-striped suit with predictable trimmings—gold cuff links, conservative tie, black wing-tipped shoes—but his cocky manner and delivery was irritating. I remembered his rudeness on the phone and hoped he wouldn't curse me out when I approached him, even though in this rarefied world he'd probably watch what he said.
My ears perked up when he mentioned his travel plans. He repeated what had been reported in the newspaper about his desire to visit countries “far and unknown” adding a comment on his “curiosity” about distant kin he'd never met. He further emphasized the importance of connecting with his “roots” and how his “killing” would make it possible. I recalled his wife's comments about him being capable of murdering Celia, and the mention of “killing” and the grin on his face when he said it, made my skin crawl. His emphasis on family connections sounded as if he were preparing to move to Cuba, where he could live out his days untroubled by the American justice system. I've dealt with enough murderers to know that their violent actions often go hand in hand with their arrogance, and Drew Sampson struck me as just cocky enough to be publicly flaunting getting away with murder. Sampson wound up his talk with an appeal to all those who loved our “fair city,” as he called Newark, to support it in as many ways as they could.
The room gave him a standing ovation, and I headed with the rest of the crowd to the front of the room to offer congratulations. Drew Sampson obviously had no idea that I was the annoying PI who had called him earlier in the week, so I was embraced by the warmth of his phony smile along with everybody else. I tried to linger near the edge of the crowd waiting for it to thin out. Unfortunately, I was spotted by Larry Walton, as he made his way to the exit.
“Tamara Hayle, what are you doing here?” He was clearly puzzled by my presence.
“Well, you know, Larry, I'm a small businessperson, just like you and everybody else, and I wanted to learn how to make my business grow,” I stuttered, flashing what I hoped was a convincing grin.
“You're not here to—”
“Cause trouble? No, of course not!” I said, anticipating
his question. “I just want to say a few words to Mr. Sampson. Can I call you later?”
He hesitated for a moment. ‘A few words like what?”
“My feelings about his interesting presentation,” I said. “Can I call you?”
He looked doubtful. “Sure. I'm glad you're not still mad at me about the other night.”
“Mad about the other night? Oh, no. Of course not! It's completely forgotten.”
He looked relieved. “I'll talk to you later then?”
“Later!” I said, praying that the guest of honor hadn't heard Larry say my name.
Grinning all the way, I edged closer to Sampson, falling in step with the admirers who had gathered to hear his sage advice. As the only woman in the crowd, I immediately caught his eye, and he gave me that self-important, condescending smile that “successful” men bestow on women in these situations. I smiled back coyly.
“Well, miss. How can I be of help to you?” His high-pitched voice oozed charm.
“I just have a couple of questions for you. Is this a good time?” I added a cute shoulder twitch that suggested I might be up for some fun and games later if he wanted to wait around.
“Sure, miss. Now's as good a time as any.” He nodded benevolently.
“Did you kill Celia Jones?” I asked, the grin still on my face.
Confusion filled his eyes. “What did you say?”
“I said, did you kill Celia Jones?”
The color drained from his face, and a hush went through the surrounding crowd. Still grinning like a fool, I kept my eyes glued on him. “Mr. Sampson, the cops didn't grill you like they should have, and somebody has to. You had reason to kill Celia Jones, and she was my friend. Now I'm asking you the question again, did you murder Celia Jones?”
I didn't really expect an answer and got what I expected. He'd been pale before, now his face turned as red as a strawberry. For one awful moment, I thought he was going to hit me, and the thought must have occurred to him, too, because he raised his hand and that look came into his eyes. He must have thought better of it, though, because he dropped his hand down to his side, but his fingers beat an impatient rhythm on his pin-striped leg.
“Who the fuck let this woman in here?” he said to nobody in particular, all the veneer of the classy businessman dripping away with the “f” word. It didn't seem to bother him, though, because he said it again. “I asked you people, who the fuck let this bitch in here, somebody get her the fuck out of here.”
People moved away from me so fast you'd have thought I'd pulled out an AK-47. I didn't give a damn, though; I stayed right in his face.
‘And why did you bother to go to Celia's funeral after what you did? Why were you there when you hated her like you did? It was guilt, wasn't it? You're damned guilty!”
He stepped toward me, the only person who dared. I took a step backward nearly tripping in my too-tight heels. His eyes narrowed in hatred, and when he spoke his words came straight from his heart.
“Now you listen to me, and you listen good. I didn't talk to you before because it's none of your damn business. I didn't kill Celia Jones and anyone who says I did is a liar. You want to know why I went to that tramp's funeral? Because I wanted to spit on her coffin for what she did to me and my family. I wanted her to know that I had the last laugh. I had the last word on my wife and kid, not her!”
‘And you said those words when you shot her through the belly, just like you're saying them now, didn't you!” I shouted out my last words, just as two burly brothers dressed like waiters grabbed my arms.
“What the hell are you doing?” I screamed in protest.
“Seeing you to the door, lady,” the larger of the two replied.
“Let me go!”
“Sorry, lady. Orders are orders.”
“I'll see you in court!” I said, thinking of Jake.
“This is a private club, lady, and you have no business here,” the smaller guy said.
“How do you know I'm not a member?”
They looked at each other and laughed, then dragged me through the crowded room and gently tossed me out the front door.
The small crowd that had gathered outside watched without comment as I picked myself up off the sidewalk with as much dignity as I could muster. Head held high, I smiled at the open-mouthed spectators. Thankfully, I didn't have to walk far to my car. I got in without looking at anybody and got the hell out of there as fast as I could.
Although my low-life departure from the high-falutin Businessman's Club hadn't proved much, I'd put Drew Sampson on notice that he might think he was beyond the reach of the law, but he wasn't beyond mine. Besides that, if something happened to me over the next few days, there were a helluva lot of folks who would start paying attention to what I'd said.
I was happy, though, that Larry Walton hadn't been around to see my performance and exit, although I was sure Sampson would tell him about it. I was sorry I'd had to use his name to get into the place, and I hoped they wouldn't penalize him for it. If he ever spoke to me again, I'd apologize.
I headed back to my office to make some notes on my work for the day—namely my conversation with Rebecca Donovan and my impression of Drew Sampson. I also called Detective Griffin and asked if I could drop by his office and talk to him as soon as possible. I hoped he'd let me review his file on Celia, and I wanted to share some of what I knew about Annette and Drew Sampson. Griffin seemed eager to talk to me, which was encouraging. We made an appointment for the following afternoon. I jotted down what I wanted to say to him and then drove home.
It had been a long, grueling day, beginning with my interview with Rebecca Donovan and ending on the sidewalk downtown. My new job was going to start on Monday morning. There were far more big-time impressive detective agencies than Hayle Investigative Services, and I sure didn't want to let Cosey down. I had only a few more days to spend on Celia's and Cecil's murders. With luck, what I told Griffin tomorrow might turn the heat up under the pot, at least enough to get it to simmer.
With the possibility of an increase in funds, I decided to take Jamal to Red Lobster for dinner. We hadn't done that in a while, and it would give me an opportunity to catch up on what he was up to. But when I entered the kitchen, I was greeted by the scent of Calvin Klein for men floating down the stairs followed by my son in his new cashmere sweater.
“Hey, Ma. You home already? I was just on my way to take the bus over to the Clearview to check out that new movie everybody's talking about.”
“The bus, huh?” I was his only mode of transportation, so his choice of the bus told me he was meeting a girl and would rather not be seen getting out of his mama's car. “Jamal, it's a school night.”
“No, it's not. They're having some kind of teachers’ workshop tomorrow, so there's no school.”
“How come I didn't know about this?”
“Mom, I gave you the notice! Don't you remember?” He pointed to a xeroxed sheet taped on the refrigerator door. I remembered then that he'd mentioned something about it earlier in the week. I'd been so preoccupied with Celia and her boy, I hadn't half heard him.
“Okay, but I think you should restrict dates to the weekend.”
“Date!” He looked alarmed. “Who said anything about a date. I'm just kind of meeting some friends across town for a movie.”
‘And one of these friends is female?”
He shrugged with a bashful grin.
“So I guess you don't feel like going out to Red Lobster with your tired old mom for some fried shrimp tonight, huh?”
He hesitated, but just for a moment. “No, Mom. Not tonight.”
I smiled despite my disappointment. “Be home by midnight. Don't forget your cell, and if you need a ride home, don't be too proud to call me.”
“Okay. Love you, Mom,” he said, as he headed out the door.
I sat down at my kitchen table, poured myself a glass of chardon-nay then called the Chinese restaurant down the street for some egg foo young and spring ro
lls, which I polished off in record time. My body was feeling sore from the trip to the sidewalk, so I decided that a warm bath might do me some good. I was just about to climb into the tub when my cell phone rang. I had to dig through my bag to find it. The woman was crying so hard, I didn't recognize her voice.
“Tamara Hayle?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“It's Annette. Annette Sampson. Pik is dead. Drew Junior's best friend Pik is dead. That boy who Drew hung out with. Pik! He's dead! Somebody stabbed him through his heart just like they did Celia's boy. Somebody stabbed him right through the heart.”
“What! When did it happen?”
“Pik is dead!” she said again. “My boy is next. Drew is next. Whoever killed Pik is coming after Drew, too. I know it in my heart. I know it in my heart! I'm being punished for Celia. I know the Lord is punishing me for Celia!”
I sat down on the bed, my own heart thumping. “Do the police have any idea who did it?”
“No!”
“Where is your son now?”
“I don't know. I don't know! Please help me!”
‘Are you at home?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to come over there?”
She waited so long before she answered me I thought something had happened to her. But when she finally spoke, her voice was calm. “No, that's okay.”
Somebody was with her; I was sure of that. ‘Are you there alone?”
There was silence, and then a muffled sound, as if she'd put her hand over the receiver. “I can't talk now.”
‘Are you afraid? Do you want me to call the police?”
“No. Please don't call the police. Definitely don't call the police!”
“Okay. I won't. Are you all right?”
“I'm fine now,” she said and did sound better. “Ms. Hayle, are you still there?” she said after a moment.
“Yes, I am.”
“What we talked about before, you know when you came to my house, you made me remember something that Celia showed me that might make a difference. I don't think it's important enough to go to the police about, and I couldn't do that even if I wanted to, but I need to talk to you about it. Is that okay?”
Dying in the Dark Page 11