Rachel flicked him off as he walked away, then spun back in Yvette’s direction.
“So, you had this interview set up and you didn’t think I should be included?” Rachel said, not bothering to hide her attitude.
“For your information, this is something that happened last minute and I did give the reporter your number and was planning to call you,” Yvette replied.
“Oh, I get called and she gets interviewed in person?” Rachel jabbed a finger in Jasmine’s direction.
“You know what?” Yvette said, throwing up her hands. “I can’t do this with you two. At this point, I don’t know if that interview has been canceled as well and that’s my priority.”
“How can we fix this?” Jasmine asked, rolling her eyes at Rachel.
Yvette dug in her purse and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Just go on over to Rev. Griffith’s place. Oprah’s assistant is there trying to find out if we can even still do the interview. But I need you in place in case it’s still a go.”
“But I rode with you,” Jasmine protested. “Can you at least call me a car service?”
“If you wait on a car, you’re going to have to wait out on the sidewalk,” the security guard interjected as he motioned for them to get moving. “I’ve been patient, but you two have got to go.”
“What’s the address?” Rachel asked, snatching the paper out of Yvette’s hand. “I drove so I’ll head on over there.”
“Fine. Jasmine, you can ride with her,” Yvette said.
“Are you insane? I’m not going anywhere with that woman.”
Rachel shrugged. “Fine by me. Go see if you can catch Pastor Griffith.” She smiled as she walked away. “I’ll make sure and tell the reporter you said hello in case you don’t make it there in time.”
Yes, there’s a chance to salvage things yet, Rachel thought as she speed-walked toward the car. She would fix this. She would dazzle the reporter and Oprah would be so in love with the story that all would be forgiven. Rachel had just approached her rental car when she heard the click of heels scurrying toward her.
“I don’t think so,” Jasmine said, snatching the passenger door open.
“What are you doing?” Rachel asked. She really hadn’t expected Jasmine to ride with her. She thought for sure she’d flag down Pastor Griffith and ride with him, or call a cab, or catch the train, anything but hop in her car.
“If you think you’re going over there without me, you’ve lost what little mind you have left.” Jasmine plopped down in the passenger’s seat.
Rachel sighed as she got in, too. “Get out of my car.”
“Drive the car, Rachel,” Jasmine said, pulling her seat belt over her chest.
Rachel was about to say something when her cell phone rang. She groaned as Lester’s name popped up on the screen.
“Hi, honey,” she said, answering in her sweetest voice.
“Rachel, what in the world is going on?” Lester bellowed. “Rev. Griffith just called and said that the show didn’t happen because you and Jasmine caused chaos.”
“Yes.” Rachel tsked, trying to decide if she was going to continue her conversation or push Jasmine out of her car. “Jasmine set off a fire alarm and they had to evacuate the place,” Rachel finally said.
“Set off an alarm? Why?”
“I have no idea. You know she’s old. She’s probably in the early stages of dementia and likely thought it was a doorbell.”
“I got your dementia, right here,” Jasmine said, shooting Rachel her middle finger.
Rachel rolled her eyes. “That’s so becoming of you, Madame First Lady.”
“Rachel, is Jasmine there with you?” Lester asked. He sounded extremely worried.
“Unfortunately.”
“Baby, what’s going on? Pastor Griffith was livid.”
Rachel really wasn’t in the mood for a lecture. “Lester, it’s not that serious. Everything is fine now. I’m on my way to Pastor Griffith’s place now. A reporter from O Magazine wants to interview me.”
“She doesn’t want to interview you,” Jasmine hissed.
“I swear, you act like a middle school girl sometimes!” Rachel snapped.
“Rachel—”
“Lester, hon, I’ll call you after this is all over, okay? Love you.” Rachel hung up the phone before he could say another word. After the day she’d had, she didn’t feel like getting harassed by her husband as well.
Rachel looked over at Jasmine, who was glaring out the window.
“You just remember who’s the first lady, and who was the runner-up,” Rachel felt the need to remind her.
“Rachel, don’t talk to me,” Jasmine said.
“Whatever,” Rachel mumbled as she reached up to put the address in the rental car’s navigation system. She turned on the gospel channel and pulled out of the parking lot. After a minute, Rachel heard Jasmine humming along to a Yolanda Adams tune, so she changed to a hip-hop station just to be spiteful.
As the sounds of Lil Wayne filled the car, Rachel pumped up the volume.
“You can’t be serious,” Jasmine mumbled.
Rachel ignored her and continued bopping her head. She didn’t even like Lil Wayne—anymore—but the irritation on Jasmine’s face was giving her immeasurable joy.
“Crap,” Rachel muttered when the navigation system led them onto a road closed for construction. “Now what do I do?”
Jasmine turned up her lips and looked out the window. It was obvious she wasn’t going to offer any help. And she had the nerve to talk about Rachel. That woman was so childish.
Rachel thought about asking someone for directions, but the few people out in the brisk October weather seemed rather unsavory and not like anyone she’d feel comfortable stopping to talk to.
Rachel sighed as she reached back in her purse and pulled out her cell phone. She didn’t need to waste time being lost. She punched in Rev. Griffith’s number.
He answered on the first ring and issued a gruff “Where are you?”
“We’re lost. The navigation system sent us down a road that has construction.” She leaned in and peered at the street sign. “We’re on West Twenty-sixth.”
“Turn around and get back on the main street and go three lights and make a right. The building is on the left,” he snapped.
“Okay, fine. Is the—”
He cut her off. “Just get over here so we can figure out how to clean this mess up before the reporter gets here.”
“Okay, but—”
“No buts, I have to go. Someone is at my door. It’s probably the reporter.”
Rachel stared at the phone as it went dead. These people better recognize who she was. How dare he hang up the phone in her face?
“Are we going to sit here all day or what?” Jasmine said.
“You can walk, you know.”
Suddenly, a homeless man banged on the hood. “Got some spare change?” he shouted.
Rachel jumped, then quickly pulled away. She followed the directions Rev. Griffith had given her, and in minutes was pulling up to his building.
“Why don’t you just drop me off and you go park,” Jasmine said as Rachel pulled into the circular driveway in front.
“I wish I would,” Rachel replied, stopping for the valet. “I’m Rachel Jackson Adams, here to see Rev. Griffith,” she told him.
“Yes, he is expecting you. The concierge stepped away a minute so you can go on up,” the young man said as he took Rachel’s keys and helped her out. He raced over to open Jasmine’s door, but she was already out and stomping inside.
“What’s the unit number?” Jasmine asked once they neared the elevator.
Rachel glanced down at the 404 written on the sheet of paper in her hand. “It’s 804,” she said.
That heifer didn’t even say thanks as she pushed the Up button.
Suddenly, Rachel started shifting from foot to foot. “Dangit. I need to use the restroom and I don’t want to go into this man’s home, using his restroom. Can you
wait a minute so that we can go up together? That’s only fair.”
Jasmine looked at her like she was crazy, then smirked. “Sure.”
Rachel smiled appreciatively, then darted into the restroom at the end of the hall. As soon as she stepped in, she peeked out and as expected, Jasmine stepped onto the elevator. That had been too easy. As soon as the elevator doors closed, Rachel raced back to the elevator and jabbed the Up button.
If she played her cards right she’d get a chance to make the first impression on the reporter before Jasmine tracked down Rev. Griffith’s actual apartment number.
When the elevator doors opened on the fourth floor, Rachel spotted an elderly woman looking frazzled as she picked up what looked like a bunch of stuff that had spilled out of her purse.
“Are you all right?” Rachel asked, kneeling to help the woman retrieve her belongings. Rachel didn’t have much time—she needed to get inside before Jasmine got here—but the woman was visibly upset.
The woman shook her head. “I just don’t understand people today. No respect for their elders. Some fool was in such a hurry and just plum knocked me over, didn’t stop to say excuse me, to help, or anything.” She smiled as Rachel handed her her wallet. “Thank you, baby.” She squeezed Rachel’s hand. “Thank God for nice angels like you.”
“You’re welcome,” Rachel replied. How anyone could be so rude to the elderly was beyond her. Well, with the exception of Jasmine. She could understand how someone could be rude to that old hag.
“Well, my name is Ms. Martha. I’m a seamstress. I’m working on a dress for the lady that lives there.” She pointed to unit 412. “She’ll vouch that I’m pretty good.” The woman handed Rachel a card. “So if you’re ever in need of someone to sew you some nice dresses, please don’t hesitate to call.” She pointed to an awful plaid dress with lace around the collar she was wearing. “I made this myself.”
Rachel took the card, even though she had no intention of ever using it. She’d come too far to resort to homemade dresses.
“Thank you, have a good day,” Rachel said, dropping the card in her jacket pocket.
“You, too, baby.” Ms. Martha made her way toward the elevator. Rachel scanned the hall, looking for apartment 404.
She spotted the unit at the end of the hallway, took a moment to compose herself, then marched over and knocked on the door.
“Knock, knock,” she said, tapping on the front door, which was cracked open. She assumed the Reverend had left the door open for them.
After a few seconds, Rachel pushed the door open and eased inside. “Rev. Griffith. It’s Rachel Jackson Adams,” she called out.
No one answered. Rachel surveyed the plush living area. This man sure lived well for a retired minister. Paintings by John Biggers lined the walls. African statues sat in the corners and a thick African rug stretched across the hardwood living room floor. Rachel didn’t know much about art, but this stuff definitely looked expensive.
“Reverend, it’s Rachel. I’m here,” she called out as she walked into the kitchen area.
Historic pictures from the Coalition were strewn across the dining room table, so he obviously was preparing for their visit.
“Doggone it,” she said, when she noticed the reporter wasn’t here. She had really wanted to get to the reporter before Jasmine. “Hello!” she called out again. Rachel hated wandering around the man’s house but it was obvious the old man was hard of hearing.
She noticed a long hallway that must’ve led to his bedroom. Maybe he was in there. She headed to that room. “Reverend,” she said, knocking. When she still didn’t get an answer, she eased the door all the way open.
Rachel’s heart dropped as she noticed Rev. Griffith on the floor beside his bed. “Rev. Griffith!” she said, panicked. Had the old man fallen? Had a stroke? “Oh, my God, are you okay?” she asked, kneeling down beside him. She immediately put two fingers to his neck to check for a pulse. She felt nothing and reached under him to turn him over when she felt something wet and sticky. It was then that she noticed the blood pooling around his head. Rachel felt a scream building in the pit of her gut as she backed against the wall. Pastor Griffith was dead! He was really dead!
Chapter
SIX
Jasmine pressed the number eight on the elevator panel, then jammed her thumb on the Close Door button so that the door would close before two of Rachel’s brain cells had time to rub together and she figured out what Jasmine had just done.
When the elevator began its ascension, Jasmine leaned back against the wall and laughed out loud. Sometimes, Rachel made things just a bit too easy. She was such a simple girl, not much going on between her ears at all. How dumb was it for Rachel to give her the apartment number and then leave her by the elevator? Really? Please! That girl was so dumb it probably took her two hours to watch 60 Minutes.
Well, Jasmine was going to use this little bit of time she had. Hopefully, the interviewer would already be here because Jasmine wasn’t all that anxious to be anywhere near Earl Griffith. That man not only gave her the creeps, but he was off the Richter scale when it came to being dangerous.
According to her sources (through Mae Frances) Griffith and his drug cronies were moving major weight and funneling most of that money through the ABC. The drug cartel had tripled its financial foothold in the ABC and really, Jasmine couldn’t understand why none of this had come out. She had thought that by now, Lester Adams would’ve been dragged away in shackles. But it seemed that the Reverend was just as dumb as his wife—he didn’t have a clue to what was happening, and how they were being set up.
But that was okay; surely, it was just a matter of time and when the ABC began to crumble, Hosea would be ready to step into that cornball preacher’s position. Up to this point, Jasmine had been willing to just sit and wait for what was naturally going to happen, but after what Rachel pulled today, Jasmine was ready to take over now. As soon as she returned to New York, she was gonna talk to Mae Frances to see what they could do to expedite the Adams family’s return to the backwoods where they belonged.
When the elevator doors parted on the eighth floor, Jasmine stepped quickly; she wasn’t going to have that much time advantage on Rachel, and every minute counted.
She knocked hard on 804, then inhaled as she wondered what it was going to be like to be alone with Pastor Griffith for the first time since the ABC election in which he’d been so invested. That man had worked hard to make sure that Hosea won and Jasmine had a feeling that the pastor had already figured out that she’d rigged the election so that Lester Adams had the victory. And if Pastor Griffith knew that, he was probably also aware that Jasmine knew about his extracurricular activity. But, he had to know that she wouldn’t say a word; that must be why he’d left her and Hosea alone.
Well, at least this would just be one meeting, a short meeting.
As the door to 804 opened, Jasmine exhaled, pasted on her best smile, then frowned.
“Come on in!”
Jasmine stared for a moment at the white man—well, actually, he was more of a boy. The sandy-haired, blue-eyed young man couldn’t have been more than twenty, twenty-five years old. Dressed only in a pair of beige cargo shorts, he made a grand gesture with his arms, motioning for her to come in.
What in the world? Who was Pastor Griffith hanging out with now?
“Is the pastor here?” Jasmine stepped slowly past the young man and entered the apartment.
He laughed. “Pastor? Is that what you call him?” His chuckles continued as he shook his head, then yelled out, “Hey, the other stripper is here!”
“Stripper?”
She couldn’t believe Pastor Griffith was going to play her like that. At the convention, he’d found out (because of Rachel) that she’d stripped in her younger, naïve days. But that was a long-ago life. Why would he bring that up now?
“I am not a stripper,” Jasmine said just as another guy stumbled out of a back room. This one was older than the one who still
stood at the door; he was at least twenty-seven. But Jasmine wasn’t sure how she exactly figured that out because she could hardly see his face—not with the way the two strippers, who were clad only in G-strings, were hanging off him.
“Hey, we weren’t expecting you for another hour,” the twenty-seven-year-old said. Then he paused. “I’m gonna like you. I haven’t had a black girl in a long time. But I guess you gotta have variety in an all-day bachelor party!”
Jasmine’s fingers curled into a fist. Rachel!
Without saying another word, she pivoted and rushed through the door.
“Hey!” one of the boys called behind her. “Where you going?”
Jasmine ran down the hall and punched the button to the elevator until her finger turned red. “Ugh!” She couldn’t believe she’d been tricked by that troll . . . and twice in one day. Who did this kind of thing? Who played these games over and over? Now Jasmine knew for sure that Rachel had never gotten out of the sixth grade because clearly, she was still living her life like she was in middle school.
But her games were working, and as Jasmine jumped into the elevator, she blocked out thoughts of murder and focused on how she was going to find the right apartment.
In the lobby, she rushed to the concierge. “Excuse me. I’m here to see Pastor Earl Griffith,” she spoke quickly, imagining that the interview had already begun. “Can you tell me his apartment, please?”
The concierge said, “I can’t give you that information, but I can call up for you.”
She tapped her fingers on the edge of the marble counter. “Go ahead,” she said, wanting to tell the man to just give her the apartment number. But there was no time for fighting—too much time was passing.
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