“Sure. What is it?”
She hesitated. “I don't want to go into it now. I can't.”
‘Are you sure you're okay?”
“Yes. I'm fine now. Can we meet tomorrow afternoon?”
“No, I can't tomorrow afternoon,” I said, remembering my appointment with Griffin. “How about early tomorrow morning?”
“No, I have another engagement, but Friday afternoon is okay. I'm fine now, really,” she added as if she sensed my apprehension.
She did sound better, so we agreed on Friday afternoon at three. But I had a nagging feeling that things weren't right with her, and I couldn't get what she said about the Lord punishing her for Celia out of my mind.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The room was depressing as hell. The walls were a sad blend of institutional gray and brown, and the furnishings a variation on the same tired theme. The air stank of the sweat that comes from hard work, fear, and rage mixed with the smell of overboiled coffee, last night's KFC, and cheap aftershave lotion. In short, this room filled with narrow cubicles and fluorescent lights was like every other squad room I'd ever been in.
I felt a vague sense of discomfort as I gave the young officer at the reception desk my name and waited for him to take me to Detective Griffin. Being in this space brought back both a tragic day in my life along with my memories of the racism and sexism that eventually drove me from the force in Belvington Heights. Those memories were bitter, and I tried hard not to think about them. There was no sense in going to my meeting with Griffin clouded by angry memories of a bunch of evil bastards. Griffin was a good man, I knew that. Most cops I knew were good men, and I couldn't let the memory of a few rotten apples distort my feelings for the whole bunch. Yet I was always uneasy in police precincts; I just couldn't shake it.
Griffin and I spotted each other at the same moment, and his face broke into a grin as the young cop led me to his cubicle. It was one of the largest in the room, which told me he'd achieved some rank since I'd last seen him. Griffin hadn't changed much, although age had taken its toll like it does on everybody. There was just a hint of the reddish-brown hair that once covered his head, and his stocky frame carried more pounds than it should. The deference the younger cop displayed indicated he'd won the respect of those under him, which is no small thing to gain. Citations from half a dozen community groups and photographs of him receiving awards from various city dignitaries decorated the wall behind him as did his diploma from the police academy. He'd been in the class under my brother Johnny, and I recalled how much that fact had comforted me the first time I met him. Always a gentleman, he rose as I entered his cubicle and took my hand.
“Tamara Hayle, it's good to see you again. I'm glad the circumstances are different this time.”
“Thank you so much for giving me this time, Detective,” I said, settling into the rocky chair across from him.
“How's that son of yours? Jamal, isn't it?”
I eagerly filled him in on what Jamal was doing, and how much I would miss him when he went off to school. Griffin smiled at that, and we both chuckled about how quickly time passes and children grow up. I was touched by his interest in my son and reminded again of how kind he'd been to us on the day that Jamal's half brother was murdered. After a few more moments of niceties, he discreetly glanced at his watch, a subtle indication that it was time to explain why I'd come.
The mention of Celia Jones brought a sad nod that made me wonder if they were any closer to solving her case than he'd been a month ago. Cecil's name, however, brought a different response.
“We're reasonably sure we've identified the person who killed the boy,” he said with a self-satisfied smile. ‘As a matter of fact, we were on the verge of making an arrest when, shall we say, fate stepped in and took charge of the situation.”
“Fate? What do you mean?”
“Well, let's leave it at that for now.” He was a good cop, and knew better than to compromise an investigation by sharing information that shouldn't be shared. His eyes softened momentarily and he added, “It's a sad thing what's happening in our neighborhoods. Kids with guns. Kids with knives. Well, in my day, well, I won't even go into that, but the kid who murdered young Cecil—”
“Kid? Are you sure it was a kid?” His response surprised and disturbed me.
“We're very sure,” he said. ‘As for Celia Jones? There, we're not so sure, but we have a couple of good leads. Could I ask you what your interest is in these cases?”
“Someone hired me to find out who killed Celia Jones.”
“So they didn't like the progress we were making, eh?” he said with a self-deprecating chuckle that let me know I was stepping into his territory.
“It was her son.”
He looked skeptical. “The kid who was stabbed?”
“Yes, Cecil Jones. He came by my office a few days before he was murdered, and said that he wanted to talk to me about finding his mother's killer. He dropped off some things. A journal she was keeping, a few knickknacks, a—”
I could hear the annoyance in Griffin's voice when he interrupted me. “Journal? What kind of journal? Why didn't you bring these things in? And what were these knickknacks?”
“There was a piece of jewelry that I didn't think had anything to do with the murder, and the journal was the property of her son. I didn't feel I should turn it over to anybody without his permission.”
“But he's dead.”
“I know.”
“It could have been helpful to us. You should have known better,” he said, scolding me like an annoyed parent, and I found myself responding like a naughty child.
“Well, I know, I should have, Detective Griffin, but, well, it belonged to the kid. It was his property after all, and I thought he was coming back.”
I didn't bother to add what we both knew, that as a private investigator my first responsibility was to my client and not to the police, thus any property that I received from him should go back to him or his heirs, which in this case might be Cristal's baby son. But I also knew that Griffin was doing me a favor by talking to me about an open investigation. There was no need to rub it in his face; I needed to stay on his good side.
But he didn't back down. “You were a good cop, and you're a good private detective, Ms. Hayle. You should have brought the book in. It might have something in it that would be helpful. You know as well as I do that if clues aren't found, if you don't interview witnesses in the first twenty-four hours after a crime, it's harder than hell to solve it. We're lucky—”
“I'm sorry I didn't bring it in, but I've done some research on my own that I think might be helpful,” I interrupted him, eager to share what I knew and reinstate myself as a responsible member of the law enforcement establishment.
Griffin moved to the chair beside me, pulling it around to face me so that we were eye to eye. I took it as a good sign; he was ready to listen. “Why don't you tell me what you have, and I'll see what we can do with it,” he said, his eyes fixed on mine.
“Well, I mentioned the book,” I said, glad to have his attention.
“Which I want to see as soon as possible.”
“Yes. Well, she'd written some names in it and telephone numbers.”
Griffin picked up a pad and pencil waiting for me to continue. ‘Annette Sampson, Aaron Dawson, and Rebecca Donovan,” I said.
“Clayton Donovan's wife? Shame about the judge, wasn't it?”
“She introduced Celia to Annette Sampson.”
If he was surprised by the names I mentioned he didn't show it. But I'd been trained as a cop, too, and I knew never to show what I really felt. That was one of the rules of the interview, and although I was doing the talking, I realized suddenly that I was the one being interviewed.
“So what else was in the book?”
“Well, there were the telephone numbers, some scribbling, letters from the alphabet that made no sense. I called the telephone numbers and I've done some informal interviews.”
“With who?”
For the first time, I detected irritation in his voice. “Well, I spoke to Annette Sampson, Rebecca Donovan, and Larry Walton. I also had an unfortunate run-in with the boy's father. Brent Liston. By the way, did Celia Jones have a restraining order against him?”
Alarm registered on his face. ‘Against Brent Liston? Not that I know of. What did he do to you?”
“He threatened me.”
“If he does that again, call us immediately, do you understand? You may have to get a restraining order against him.”
“Thank you, but I can take care of myself,” I said.
He looked at me uneasily and then continued, “So what do you think Larry Walton has to do with this?”
“He knew Celia Jones.”
“Walton's the guy who sells cars, right?”
“Yes.”
“My wife bought a car from him last year. Sweetheart of a deal. Helluva nice guy. So you said you interviewed him because he knew Celia Jones, right?”
“Yes.”
“If the number of men in Newark who knew Celia Jones were interviewed, we'd have to talk to half the city,” he said with an ironic smile. “Did you say that Walton's name was in her book?”
“No, it wasn't. Actually our interview was informal. I ran into Larry Walton when I bought a car from him, and I remembered him from high school, when Celia and I were best friends.”
“Wait a minute. So you were close to Celia Jones?”
“Well, I hadn't seen her in a number of years.” I knew by the tilt of his head that my objectivity was being questioned. I hoped my answer would dispel his skepticism.
‘And you bought a car from Larry Walton, the guy you ended up interviewing?”
“Well, it was a coincidence,” I said, uncomfortably aware of the subtle criticism of my professionalism.
“Where did you interview him?”
“Well, as I mentioned, it was quite informal. It took place in a restaurant in Newark. Jay's.”
He all but rolled his eyes. “Jay's. I see. So what did you find out?”
“Were you aware that Celia Jones was involved with Drew Sampson's wife, Annette Sampson?”
“Yes.” His slow pronunciation of the word told me my information was anything but a revelation.
‘And so, I guess, they were both questioned by the police?”
“What else do you know about Celia Jones?” he asked, ignoring my question and reminding me that he, not I, was in charge of this discussion.
“Well, I know that Aaron Dawson was her last boyfriend. I also know that she was pregnant.”
“She told you that?”
“No. Like I said, I hadn't seen Celia in a number of years.” Was he trying to catch me in some kind of a lie?
“Then how do you know she was pregnant?”
‘Annette Sampson told me.”
“What else did Mrs. Sampson tell you?” His interest seemed to perk up.
“Well, that she was in love with Celia Jones, and that her husband was furious about the relationship. She also stated to me that she suspected that her husband had something to do with Celia's death. That he was capable of murder.” I studied Griffin's face for some sign of what was on his mind, but for all the expression he showed we could have been discussing a recipe for barbecue sauce.
“I think that both he as well as the boyfriend, who I have not been able to contact, may have had something to do with Ms. Jones's murder. I think that her son, Cecil Jones, knew or saw something he shouldn't have, some small thing that could identify the killer, and that was why he was murdered, too. I believe that the same person killed them both.”
‘And this is all from Annette Sampson, Celia Jones's ex-lover.”
“No, this is my theory.”
‘And could I ask, what led you to that conclusion? Woman's intuition?”
His tone wasn't nasty, but rather patient, as if he were responding to some dumb-ass theory tossed out by some dumb-ass rookie. I realized then that I was on the verge of making a fool of myself. For a hot minute, I considered apologizing for wasting his time, using the old standby excuse that I hadn't been sleeping well and was under considerable strain. Then I could rise with some degree of dignity, thank him for his valuable time, and quickly leave his office with my tail between my legs. But that felt cowardly, and truth is, I'd rather be a fool than a coward.
“No, Detective Griffin, it's not woman's intuition,” I said firmly, although I knew very well that most of it was. “I haven't been able to get in touch with Aaron Dawson. I was hoping that you'd be able to tell me how to locate him. I also spoke to Drew Sampson, Annette Sampson's husband, and, frankly, I was shocked by the level of his anger and hatred toward Celia Jones. As we both know, violence against women often springs from jealousy, and I think his motive for killing Celia Jones was anger and jealousy about her relationship with his wife, which would be quite a blow to a macho guy like him. I'm also sure that on closer examination, his alibi won't hold up. He has also stated publicly that he will soon be leaving the country, and I suspect his will be a permanent move to a place from which he can't be extradited.”
“What about the wife? Annette Sampson? She would have more reason to kill Celia Jones than her husband since she left her husband for Celia Jones and then Jones left her.”
“I don't think she did it. She was angry, but she didn't strike me as a killer.”
‘And the husband did? I don't have to tell you, Ms. Hayle, that killers don't have horns, tails, and pitchforks. They look just like you and me.”
“I'm aware of that,” I said, feeling like the dumb rookie cop again.
“So then, this is what you think you know about the murder of Celia Jones: that she was pregnant. That she was shot in a jealous rage by either her boyfriend Aaron Dawson, who you haven't talked to, or by Drew Sampson, who you admit has an alibi, and that her son Cecil was murdered by the same person because he saw or knew something that would tie the murderer to his mother's death. Is that it?”
“Well, not exactly, I—”
He rose slowly and moved back behind his desk, stepping back into his role as authority and letting me know that my time with him was just about up. He picked up his phone, and asked for a copy of the case file on Celia Jones, which was promptly brought to him. He handed it to me.
I opened it with a feeling of dread. It contained all the paperwork, reports, and newspaper articles about my old friend's death. I read the death certificate and autopsy report and examined the grisly photographs from the crime scene. Even after all these years, seeing Celia's face again, as dead as it was, brought tears to my eyes. I tried to swallow them down. The last thing on earth I wanted was for this man to see me cry, but the tears came anyway. I closed the folder and handed it back to Griffin without looking at him. He opened his drawer and pulled out some tissues, which were soft and scented like lotion, and then spoke to me in a gentle, paternal voice.
‘As you can see, Celia Jones was not pregnant, the autopsy report states that clearly. She was murdered at approximately eight A.M. with a .22 caliber handgun. Her boyfriend Aaron Dawson, whom we spoke to at length, left her at six A.M. to visit his mother. As you may recall, it was New Year's Day, and he wanted to take his mother to an early service at her church. His alibi for where he was at the time of Ms. Jones's death is not only his mother, and mothers are known to cover for their sons, but the minister of his mother's church and half the congregation.
“Whoever killed Celia Jones waited patiently for him to leave. The person who killed her was a friend or acquaintance because there was no sign of a break-in or a struggle. Neighbors thought the gunshots were firecrackers that someone had set off late to celebrate the holiday, so they didn't report anything. She lived in the kind of neighborhood where they don't report that kind of thing.
“We think the murderer must have been a jealous lover. We're still not sure who, but we're investigating all those with a motive. You're right about the Sampsons, but ou
r focus is on the wife, not the husband. We're just not prepared to move in that direction yet, but we will be shortly. Her husband has a strong alibi. As you probably know, it's Larry Walton. We're not so sure about the wife. Brent Liston, our first suspect, also has an alibi. He was with some woman named Beanie, aka Bernadette Reese.”
We sat there silently for a moment or two. “Would you like a glass of water?”
“No, I'm fine,” I said, although I was anything but.
“If you don't mind, I'd like to offer you a piece of advice, one good cop to another.”
I nodded meekly, a repentant child glad to still be considered one of the fold.
“First, stay the hell away from Brent Liston. He's violent, dangerous, and quick to anger. Second, don't make any public accusations about Drew Sampson. He's a very powerful man with friends in high places. He's also a vindictive, nasty son of a bitch; I know that from personal experience. He wouldn't hesitate to prevail upon his friends to pull your license, and I'd hate to see that happen. Understand?”
I nodded that I did.
‘And something else.” His voice softened and I could see the kind eyes of the cop who had helped me through that difficult day so many years ago. “You're too involved in this case, Tamara. You know as well as I do that it's never wise for an officer to investigate the murder of someone he or she knew personally because you get too caught up in your emotions and you can't see things clearly.
“If I'm not mistaken, her son was about the same age as Hakim, your son's half brother. That has probably raked up feelings of grief and vulnerability that you thought you'd buried, and it's affecting your judgment. As I said before, we're almost a hundred percent sure who killed the boy and, sooner or later, we're going to find out who killed his mother. Give yourself a break. Go home. Rest. Take care of your kid and thank God he's alive. Let us do our job. That's what you pay us for.”
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