“Yes, Lord.”
“Our burdens will be lifted and we will be relieved of shame.”
“Tell it, brother!”
“This is the magic, the miracle, of Christmas, that each of us has it in us to build and raise up and be a foundation for each other and to be a repairer of the broken places in our worlds, our relations with each other, with our earth, with other nations and within our homes and communities—that we, you and I, may be called a repairer. ‘For unto us a child is born.’ We have a chance, a new beginning—to be reborn and repaired. Merry Christmas, brothers and sisters! Let us pray.”
Gray gave the benediction, arms upraised, short sleeves of his T-shirt revealing sagging triceps. The worshippers stood and Stone began gathering Bibles. Salt waited, and as the man and woman with the teen went to the front to speak to Gray, she went to Stone and handed him the Bible from her chair. “I was blessed by your reading,” she said, having thought about the word “blessed” and deciding that, while it wasn’t a word she’d ordinarily use, it might be the best for conveying what she wanted to say to him.
“. . . the great men, the rich men and the chief captains . . .” His recitations were as if he were chanting spells to ward off demons while continuing to gather Bibles from the chairs.
“Curtis?” She followed along. “Curtis?”
“Repair, repair, repair. I am broke.” At last he stood still. He turned toward her, wiped at his mouth, his eyes focused above her head.
“You knew Mary, Lil D’s sister. Did you know she was killed?”
“. . . the moon became as blood . . .”
“Someone said that Mary had been seen here at the church not long before she was murdered. Do you remember seeing her? It would have been around the time when you were released.”
“. . . every free man, hid themselves . . . Repair, repair, repair.” He rocked side to side, still focusing on the space above Salt’s head.
“It would help if I could talk to anyone who might have been with her or knew if she was in some kind of trouble.”
“. . . the wrath of the Lamb . . .”
“Here’s my card. Man knows how to get in touch with me, too. And I’ll give Reverend Gray my phone numbers.”
Stone took the card without looking and went back to gathering Bibles.
Reverend Gray came over. “I need a smoke. Outside?”
On the sidewalk in front of God’s World, under the ragged aluminum awning that fronted the strip mall, Gray shook out a cigarette and lit it with a gimme-lighter. Salt settled the fedora on her head; the overcast day had yet to warm up. From a pocket of her coat Salt took out and unfolded the photo of Mary with the two other girls. “About four months ago maybe,” she said, handing Gray the photo, “she was seen early mornings here outside the door of God’s World.” She pointed to Mary. Gray squinted at the photo through the cigarette smoke.
“You have a relationship with Curtis?” she asked.
“He kinda came with the territory.” He looked up from the photo. “Her name is Mary.”
“You knew her? The girl in the middle?”
“Knew?”
“Her body was found before Thanksgiving.”
He handed the photo back and drew on the smoke, his eyes watering. “Damn.”
“Did you talk to her? How often was she here? Ever see her with anyone else? Did you ever see her talking to Stone?”
“I should have called 911, Juvenile, DFACS—anybody,” he said, shaking his head.
“That had been done. She’d been in custody, released, and was supposed to be in the care of her grandmother. I should have known she was out, but I didn’t.”
“She was always alone—always dressed flashy, new clothes that I thought looked too suggestive. But what do I know about how girls dress these days? How old was she?”
“Fourteen.”
Gray hung his head. “The only time I ever saw her with anyone was one morning I got here earlier than usual and saw her dropped off from some kind of big black car.” He dropped the butt and ground it with the toe of his shoe.
“Could you see who else was in the car? The driver?” She drew her coat close, tightening the belt.
“No, but I remember thinking that the car was way, way too fancy for this neighborhood. So I asked her about it. She said it was just her friends. I knew something was wrong but didn’t know what or who to report it to. You see so much around here that is clearly a 911 call—but that’s no excuse. I should have—she’d come to the services and just sit. I figured when she was ready to talk she would.” He rubbed his bare arms against the chill.
“Did she talk to Curtis?”
“I’m not sure they overlapped—if he was here when she was. It seems she stopped coming around the time he showed up.”
“What about him? What’s your relationship?”
“Even though he’s pretty scary, so far he’s been predictable. The guy at the Blue Room?”
“Man?”
“Young guy comes in around noon. Yeah, I think that’s the name I’ve heard people say. He asked me to monitor Curtis’ medication, make sure he’s takin’ his morning pills. He got one of those daily pillboxes and I just make sure he takes the ones for that morning. Man? He makes a contribution to the ministry.” Gray hunched his shoulders, shivering.
“You must be cold. Want to go back in?”
“I’m okay.”
“What about Curtis’ probation officer? Or his therapist? Doctor? At the clinic?”
“Sad, isn’t it? They put all these folks with a mental disability out on the street. I never see anyone official.”
Across the parking lot at Sam’s take-out window, a few people came and left with boxes of chicken. Atop the hills on the other side of Pryor Street, where The Homes was being demolished, a line of old water oaks that had been left standing spread dark limbs against the cloudy sky. “So, you and Man are Stone’s community mental health providers, his monitors,” she said.
Although it was early for Man, he drove the big black shiny SUV up to the curb in front of the Blue Room, parked, and went inside. “Exactly what does he do?” Gray asked.
“You could say he’s an entrepreneur. He started out street dealing. By the time he was beginning high school he’d already graduated to distributing weight—you know, running larger amounts of drugs, and guns. He ran the gang around The Homes for as long as I’ve known him, twelve or more years.”
“Now?”
“He says he’s trying to go straight, legit, in the strip club and rap music business.” Salt shrugged.
“Why is it whenever I see you you’re always alone? I thought cops, especially homicide detectives, were supposed to have partners. And around here?” He nodded toward The Homes, across the street.
“I’m working on the partner thing, Rev. Last time I saw you, you helped me with a couple of cases that involved the shelter. You’d just left there. What are you doing now?”
“I don’t know.” He brushed ashes off his shirt. “I’m still trying to figure it out. In spite of the graduate degree from an excellent seminary, I’ve become practically a street preacher. First, all those years in the hell of that shelter, and now here.” He turned to peer in the window to the sanctuary. “I try not to worry about what’s next. I’m still learning. I’m sorry about Mary.”
Salt handed him a card. “My contact numbers and e-mail. How can I reach you?”
“Just come by. If I’m not here, leave a note under the door—old school. I’m without technology.”
“Thanks for the sermon. It’s been a long time.” She walked to the Taurus and turned back to Gray still standing in the cold. “Merry Christmas!” she called, tipping her fedora.
• • •
That night late, right before the shift ended, she was called out on what turned out to be a natur
al death—homeless guy in his cat hole, a vacant boarded-up house not far from where Mary had been found. His pills for high blood pressure and heart disease were lined up on some bricks, a makeshift nightstand, beside his mattress on the floor.
CHRISTMAS SURPRISE
“Merry Christmas! I have a surprise,” Salt said.
“Well then we both do. Merry Christmas to you.” Wills lay on his side facing her, both of them beneath several layers of faded quilts. “You first.”
“It means we have to get out of bed,” she told him.
“No.”
“Come on.” Salt swung her legs to the floor, feeling for her slippers, then pulled on an old wool robe. “I’ll put the water on.”
Wonder met her in the hall, asking to be let out for his morning toilet. “I smell something green,” Wills said, coming into the kitchen, sniffing the air.
“Here.” She handed him a cup of Cuban drip coffee and took his other hand, leading him down the hall to her living room. “You asked me if and where we were going to have a tree this year. Ta-da!” She swept her arm toward the far corner, where a potted blue cedar, decorated with tiny white lights, sat twinkling. “It’s a live tree for your place. Merry Christmas.”
Wills went over to the tree. “Blue cedar—does it grow in Georgia?” He touched the prickly stems.
“It’s a dwarf cedar. It won’t take up too much space in your yard. I checked for the climate range and Georgia is perfect. We can watch it grow—together.” She looked at him closely.
He came back to her and led her to the sofa. “Sarah . . .” He put his coffee on the side table.
“Uh-oh,” she said. “You only use ‘Sarah’ when you’re reading me the riot act.”
“We’ve had a couple of rough years.” Wills sat down beside her. “You’ve had to adjust to thinking about how your recklessness—”
“Hold on there.” Salt sat up, not liking the way Christmas was starting to shape up.
“Sorry. That was a poor choice of words. Maybe independence is a better word. Anyway we’ve both had to adjust. And then we’ve had to keep our relationship under wraps because of the job.”
I said we can watch it grow together, Salt thought, worried she’d made assumptions without sufficient evidence.
“We certainly can watch that tree grow together,” he said as if reading her thoughts. Then, reaching into the pocket of his sweatpants, he brought out a small blue box and got on his knees in front of her. “If I’m going to beg I might as well do it right. In spite of all those difficulties, we’ve prevailed, and that’s a better test than running through a field of daisies.” He opened the little hinged box and extended it to Salt.
Inside was a ring of art deco sterling filigree surrounding a dark blue sapphire. Salt raised her eyes to his questioningly.
“Sarah Diana Alt, I’m asking you to marry me. Put it on, please.” He took it from the box and slipped it on the ring finger of her left hand. “Say yes. Say, ‘Yes, Bernard Wills, I will marry you.’”
“It’s breathtaking.” She held her hand out, lights and live Christmas tree in the background. Then she inhaled and knew she’d always associate the fragrance of cedar, underscored by the old cedar aroma from the library, with this moment.
Wills, still on his knees, said, “This is painful.” He tried to smile, shifting his weight.
“Here.” Salt pulled him beside her on the couch. “Yes. Yes, I will marry you, Bernard Wills.”
“Really?” He leaned back to look at her.
“I don’t know how we’ll manage it,” she said, looking again at the ring. “I guess if I want to keep it, the marriage thing comes with it, huh?” She elbowed him in the ribs.
“So you like the sapphire?”
“Do they call this color ‘police blue’?” She centered the ring on her finger.
“Does it fit? I just had to guess.”
“Perfect. But Wills, all I got you was a tree.”
“Your having said yes is the best gift of my life, girl. I love you and I will always have your back.” He kissed the corners of her mouth, then full on. “The tree is perfect.”
She returned his kisses until it was time for her to get up and prepare to go back to the city and work.
SAPPHIRE
The elevator chugged, its mechanical groans echoing throughout the floors. Maybe Robbery had someone on call, but other than the 911 call center floors below, as far as Salt knew she was the only other human being in the million-square-foot structure. In the mostly deserted building, even the offices still occupied were empty Christmas Day evening. Huff had said to call him if she needed anything. She smiled while pressing the code lock for admittance to the office, admiring the silver and blue ring that seemed to her to feminize her hand. Rosie’s receptionist’s desk was neat, bare, and unmanned. Back in her cubicle she switched on the computer and monitor and notified dispatch of her on-duty status: “4133 to radio, radio check.”
“Merry Christmas,” answered dispatch.
The websites for Toy Dolls and Magic Girls advertised “Christmas Day Specials.” Salt took the original photo given by Mrs. McCloud showing Mary with JoJo and Glory from the murder book. Mary was smiling, a grin like her mother’s, Shannell’s. Her eyes were like her father’s, and she wore her hair in two fat braids on either side of her cheeks. “Merry Christmas, Mary.” Salt took a breath, reminding herself not to let the sentimentality of the holiday distract her. She held out her left hand again and turned the ring to catch the light.
• • •
Judging from the parking lot, quite a few people had decided to avail themselves of the holiday festivities at Toy Dolls. Salt’s Christmas spirit took a direct hit going through the heavy front door, where she was blasted by a disco version of “Jingle Bells.” The doorman wore a Santa hat and white beard, which he lowered, snapping its elastic under his chin. “Meerry-fucking-Christmas, Detective.”
She took off her fedora. “What’s the ‘special,’ Johnny C?”
Man’s little brother had the wide family smile, white teeth and dimpled cheeks. But he was shorter and thinner, a small-boned version of Man, and came off as more childlike than charming. “We made the lights Christmassy and the music . . .” He looked up, pursing his mouth, self-congratulatory. Indeed, the pin lights bouncing off the black matte walls were red and green.
“What can I do you for?” he asked.
She felt an inner groan transferring to her face, eyes and brows knitting. “Nothing really. I know my way around.” She tapped the countertop and walked on through to the main room. She stood there for a minute letting her eyes adjust to the dark room and stage lights. Onstage a girl wearing something vaguely Santa-like slid down the strippers’ pole. Salt skirted the perimeter of the room to the right of the stage and went in a door to an alcove that was lined with racks of costumes and separated from the dressing room by a heavy curtain. The laughter of the women inside met Salt as she parted the curtain and entered.
“Ladies.” Salt stood before the women, fingering the band of her fedora.
Both Glory and JoJo were among the seven women whose smiles halted, their glasses of brown liquid raised in mid-toast. A joint hung between the lips of one freckled girl wearing a pair of antlers.
“Merry Christmas,” Salt said, a little shyly.
“I seen you before. You the poleese,” said one girl, a little older, maybe in her early thirties.
The girl with the joint ate it.
Salt unfolded the badge case again. “Sorry to break in on your holiday. I just need to talk to JoJo.” She nodded at the girl. “And Glory. Is there some place we can talk, private?”
The clash of too much and too many perfumes rose as the women stood, grabbed flimsy cover-ups, and tottered out on high heels.
“Glory, I’d like to talk to you alone. Would you mind if I talk to JoJo first?”
Glory shrugged, wiggled a Minnie Mouse T-shirt over her Christmas pasties, and followed the others out. JoJo lit a cigarette as Salt pulled a chair from one of the illuminated vanity stations; half its mirror’s bulbs were missing or replaced by fluorescent coiled bulbs that cast an odd shadow over Salt’s reflection.
“You get used to it,” JoJo said, looking into the adjacent mirror. She was short, five two, but none of the rest of JoJo would be considered little: tits, ass, hips, waist small in comparison.
Salt handed her the photo. “When’s the last time you saw her?”
She glanced at it, then quickly looked back at Salt. “She missing?” she asked, her eyes squinting as if she’d had a sudden pain. “Or something?”
“I’m a homicide detective, Josephina.” Salt purposely used her given name.
“She dead?” Her eyes filled with fat tears. She tore tissues from a box on the vanity and tried to minimize the damage, creamy tracks running down her heavily made-up cheeks.
“I’m sorry.”
JoJo went to the mirror to repair her face, but her nose kept dripping and she continuously sniffed.
“Did you know her well?”
“She from my skreet,” she said, reverting to her Homes accent and dabbing under her eyes with the tissues.
“So you know The Homes?”
“I know you, too. I seen you all my life, much as I remember. You on nights, drivin’ the poleese car. ‘Salt’ they call you and your frien’ Pepper. They say you skrate.”
“Tell me about Mary.” Salt put her finger on the photo.
“How ’bout you get your shit”—JoJo looked up quickly over Salt’s shoulder; Salt turned to Johnny C advancing toward them—“and get.” He pulled JoJo up by one arm.
“How ’bout you let her go.” Salt stood taller than Johnny. “You’re interfering with an investigation and I know you and Man wouldn’t want your business permit yanked. Let her go.”
Johnny dropped the girl’s arm, but the damage was done. JoJo fled the room.
“How come suddenly Man doesn’t want me talking to them? You were okay with me when I came in and I know you didn’t change your own mind.”
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