All Things Hidden

by Judy Candis

  Copyright © 2004 by Judy Candis

  Reading Group Guide © 2004 by Judy Candis

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Warner Books with Walk Worthy Press(TM)

  Warner Books

  Hachette Book Group USA

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroupUSA.com.

  First eBook Edition: September 2004

  ISBN: 978-0-446-50703-5

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Reading Group Guide

  JAEL WHISPERED A SILENT PRAYER. THERE COULD BE NO DOUBT TEETEE’S MURDER AND THE OTHERS WERE SERIAL KILLINGS.

  She was suddenly reminded of the fear that overwhelmed her at the first crime scene. Now it seemed to make sense. It had been a forewarning.

  She walked to the end of the block to find Brenda. Gently as possible, she whispered her friend’s name. Brenda fell into her outstretched arms.

  “I knew you’d be here. The police are asking a thousand questions about my brother, but I can’t seem to talk right now.”

  “I know,” Jael said, embracing her tightly.

  “I’ll call you later. We’ll get together with the Prayer Warriors and pray, okay?”

  “Sure, when you’re up to it. In the meantime, I’ll be wearing out the Lord with my own prayers and petitions for guidance.”

  At least that got a weak smile. “He’ll never let us down, Jael. We’ll understand all when He is ready to reveal the why’s.”

  Jael kissed Brenda on the cheek. “I plan to give Him all the help He needs.” To herself she added, The battle lines are drawn, Satan. It’s on!

  To My Mother

  Emma Lillian Henry

  November 2, 1922-July 27, 2001

  We miss your presence every day,

  but your spirit remains and gives us solace.

  Acknowledgments

  To my heavenly Father, may I acknowledge you in all my ways. You are first and last in every endeavor.

  To my daughters, Amelia (Mia) Howard and Tiffany Trenier Candis:

  Mia, there are no human words to express the blessing you have been to me since the day the Lord put you in my arms. Your wisdom and genius have been my lifeline. Thanks for happily reading every word I have ever written and staying up late into the nights to brainstorm with me to make my scenes come alive.

  Tiffy, you believed in me when I was ready to give up. You’ve encouraged me and been my best source of advertisement. Thanks for being so protective of my writing time and interceding to tell people, “Mom is working on her novel. If you want to chitchat, please call back when she’s not busy.” I love you, sweetheart.

  To my sister, Alicia Henry. Girl, what would I do without you? Your pride in each of my efforts in life has made me the woman God knew I could be. Your support is overwhelming.

  To my brothers, Virgil, Daryl and Keith. You guys never wavered in your faith that I could do it. You’re the best.

  To Denise Stinson. Thanks for holding on to the line and never letting me plunge over the edge of unrealized dreams. A special thanks for walking with me through those crazy moments when the adversary tried to knock me down. God certainly put you in the right place at the right time as a spiritual warrior in my journey of life.

  To Monica Harris, the best editor in the country. Girl, you make me look good. You’re tough, and you know what you’re doing, but does everyone know how really sweet you are too?

  To Colleen Tripp, for reading the first draft from cover to cover and having the nerve to say, “Wow, this is a really good book.” I love you, and thanks for all the great ideas and your perspective from the other side of the coin.

  To Officer Susan Bowers of the Tampa Police Department, for all your technical support and giving me all your phone numbers so I could call you at any time, anywhere, with any question.

  To Betty Bradford Byers and Vee W. Garcia, for taking time out of your busy writing schedules to reread my final edits. You’re my “golden girls.”

  To the members of the Nathari Writers Guild: Doris Johnson, Chris Wallace, Dr. Idelia Phillips, Bill Liggins, Frances Keenan and Judy Smith. Thanks for being there from the start.

  To the many friends who have encouraged and supported me along the way. I could not have done this without you: Felicia Wintons, Darlene Harris, Pastor Ricc Rollins, Lorenzo Robinson, LaQuanda Gamble, Mary Cochran, Anthony and Nell Kemp, Pastor Willie Dixon and family, Lieutenant Jason Mims, Kay Wells and Iris Holton and the entire Florida Sentinel family, and the gang at BAR-B-QUE KING.

  To my dear pastor, Superintendent Jesse Smalley; First Lady Sharon Smalley; and all my family at Emmanuel Cathedral Church of God in Christ.

  To the Nubian Queens of the National Organization of Sistuhs Incorporated. I can’t wait to have my own membership ankh.

  And last but most assuredly not least, to my father, Virgil J. Henry. YOU’RE THE KING!

  Therefore judge nothing before the time, until the Lord come, who both will bring to light the hidden things of darkness, and will make manifest the counsels of the hearts: and then shall every man have praise of God.

  —1 CORINTHIANS 4:5

  Chapter

  1

  God had not given her the spirit of fear. Jael knew this like she knew there were sixty-six books in the Bible. She knew this like she knew the exact hour and second that she accepted Christ as her Lord and Savior. More important, she knew this like she knew God’s Word was eternal and true. Yet the pounding of her heart was so rapid, so profound, it threatened to burst through her rib cage.

  From the moment her foot touched the bottom step of the vacant, notorious crack house, waves of unexplainable panic washed over her. Why she suddenly felt so nervous made no sense, especially since she’d been on calls at this very address a number of times. She had not experienced this kind of gut-quaking since the time she had first laid eyes on Phyllis Wilcox, early in her Christian walk. She’d realized later that the “quaking” was actually her first real experience with one of the gifts of the spirit: the “spirit of discernment,” a small nudging in the innermost being of one’s soul.

  In that case, it had been the alarm of envy and vile hatred to come. But that was not what was going on here. There was no suggestion of a personal attack on her or on those she loved. Just another Code 223, a reported shooting, something Jael had handled many times before.

>   Or was it?

  She shook her head with denial. Satan, you have no power over me. I rebuke the spirit of fear in the name of Jesus.

  The grip of anxiety lessened but did not completely release its hold. Tiny knots of nausea tugged at her midsection, causing her a moment of confusion.

  Lord, I need you. I need your supernatural strength and control right now.

  Jael’s pulse, racing seconds ago with Olympic furor, slowly began to quell. Still, she had to dig her nails into her unnaturally sweaty palms to keep a firm grip around her .38, a silver .38 special, standard issue. She prayed that no one—especially the officer now pressed in a similar pose against the outer doorway across from her—noticed her trembling gun. Her anxiety was clearly out of the norm, but she couldn’t allow herself to focus on it now. She was the commanding officer, and needed to act like it.

  Above, the starless sky was black, ominous, layered in sinister premonition. Around her, red and blue rotating squad lights swept the darkness with flashes of waning colors, illuminating the desolate neighborhood and the unlit porch where she stood pressed against the wall. Through the doorway, hazy yellow light spilled outward from somewhere deep within the house.

  She glanced back at the other officers crouched around their blue and white cruisers a few feet away, waiting for her nod to advance. At the same second, her mind diverted, attaching itself to the feel of the peeling paint of the frame house scraping against her jacket; to the tickle of sweat on her brow even as the cool night air brushed across her flesh. Even to the odd thought that her stockings would be a lost cause no matter what happened tonight, since she’d paid her dues—years in a drab officer’s uniform—to wear a skirt on duty.

  These rampant thoughts seemed to minimize the shawl of doom, but instantly, Ramon, her nine-year-old son, flashed inside her mind. In moments such as this, Jael often wondered, if something were ever to happen to her, if she could count on her ex-husband to continue to raise Ramon in the knowledge of God. Would he see that their son went to church on a regular basis, said his prayers each night and read his Bible daily? She quickly answered her own question. Naw, no way was her ex suddenly going to admit there was a greater power than himself.

  A police walkie-talkie crackled, forcing her to refocus on her immediate surroundings. She had entered dangerous ground like this a hundred times, yet there was always a certain measure of fear for any active-duty officer; on any given day, your life was on the line.

  The 911 call of fired gunshots from this known crack house could mean anything. Any one of them could end up toast if there was a fool or whacked-out madman waving a weapon somewhere inside. Yet, as commanding officer of this operation, she knew her men were waiting intently for her signal. The Lord is my protector, she prayed silently.

  Rearing back her shoulders, Jael sucked in a deep breath, as if she were about to plunge into a sea of icy water. It was time.

  Jael lifted her right index finger, counted ten seconds, then jerked her head in a silent “Now!” As she propelled her body into the doorway, every fiber of her being was alert to the possibility of imminent danger. With her stomach muscles tightening, she braced herself for anything.

  A fat white candle on a tin jar top flickered weakly from the room beyond. Intermittent light from the street only scratched the darkness through the broken and boarded windows. Expelled puffs of air from fellow officers vibrated around her as she dropped just within the door into a crouching position and swung her gun back and forth before her. Other than the heavy breathing of her men, she heard nothing.

  Stealthily, the team moved in behind her, spreading themselves in strategic positions to cover one another. Her nerves prickled like live wires as she moved forward.

  The team quietly spread out toward different areas of the house. Two officers stayed with her as she passed through the foyer and into the main room, her gun poised to fire. Her second in command was right behind her, his high-beam flashlight giving her an even circle of light to scope out what lay ahead.

  “There!” he hissed, almost in her ear.

  Jael followed the direction of his light and saw a slumped form on the floor of the archway leading to a back room. Cautiously, in case the assumed victim was playing possum, she trained her gun on the body and moved slowly toward it.

  Within a few feet, any doubt the victim was dead fled like scattering pigeons. The glare of the flashlight glinted off his eyes as they stared lifelessly at the peeling ceiling above. His fear was over.

  Before stooping beside the body, Jael took another look around to ensure no one was using the corpse as a decoy. Finding nothing, she pocketed her weapon, then kneeled beside the man and pressed her fingers against his throat. He was still warm. This bit of knowledge flooded her with caution.

  “He’s been down only a few minutes,” she softly warned the nearby officer. “Alert the team to be extra careful. His assailant may still be on the premises.”

  The officer behind her whispered the command into his walkie-talkie. Jael rose, retrieved her firearm, carefully stepped over the body and moved into the other room. From the flashlight of the officer with her, she could make out a tattered mattress lying not far from a window covered with cardboard. Trash and filth were everywhere, typical of transient dwellings and drug houses. The scent of stale cigarettes, urine and even dead rodents permeated the area.

  Moving to the open closet to her left, Jael peered inside. Nothing. She checked both windows as possible escape routes. Again nothing. Then she nodded at her officer and they returned to the main room of the building.

  Two other officers entered from the back rooms, shaking their heads to indicate they had also found nothing.

  Now it was time for a closer inspection of the dead man. He was a young brother, possibly in his early twenties, dressed in jeans and a silk shirt open at the collar. Thick gold chains draped his charcoal-colored throat. She sighed. It always seemed to be the young black guys involved in these kinds of crimes. As the only black woman in her division, she found the disappointment rough sometimes.

  Jael pocketed her revolver in the shoulder holster just beneath her suit jacket and kneeled again by his side. Her fear was ebbing, but not her caution. One didn’t become a lead homicide detective through foolish bravery, but with intelligent caution.

  “Think it was a rival dealer, Detective?” one of her men asked. Though the question was directed at her, she didn’t get to answer first.

  “Who else could it be?” Jael recognized the voice as belonging to Detective Ernest Billups. “These guys fight all the time over a drop of that poison. This one just didn’t come out the winner.”

  In response to his statement, Jael flashed him a warning scowl. As usual he missed it, or pretended to. Though she resented these kinds of prejudgment remarks, she’d been in law enforcement long enough to understand how certain things were often accepted as patterns.

  “Search for any clues that might give us a better idea about what happened here,” she ordered. It wasn’t a good idea to reprimand Billups in front of his fellow officers, but she was darn tired of his prejudiced answers for anything dealing with black men.

  “Why bother,” he argued. “We know what the hell went on here.”

  Obviously he had missed her earlier scowl. “Watch your language, Billups,” she said between gritted teeth, still stooped beside the victim. “And since you seem to have the up on this situation, why don’t you tell us what we don’t know.”

  Billups had a way of getting on her last nerve. It took as much control to keep from barking back at him as it did to stay sane on a seven-day stakeout. For now, she had to keep her mind focused on the job.

  “Another drug deal gone bad,” he answered, waving his gun toward the victim. “That’s all it is.”

  The other officers took this as a cue of some kind and scurried toward the front door.

  “Can’t we get some better light in here?” she growled. There would be time for a down-dressing for Billups
later.

  “No juice,” someone said. Again, typical of drug hangouts.

  “Bring in the floodlights and tell everyone to be careful where they step.” She raised her voice slightly. She could see by the departing looks on some of the officers’ faces, it was obvious they thought this was an open-and-shut case. The men might get sloppy if they assumed this was a simple drug theft. As lead detective, she’d learned to never assume.

  Rising from her crouched position, she sent up a silent prayer for the victim’s family, as was her custom for the last ten years of police service. She had witnessed more than any normal person should of death and violence, but never once regretted the profession she had chosen. In many ways it had been her destiny since that infamous day, October 17, nineteen years ago. A day forever etched in her brain. A frown crept to her face. Jael quickly banished the uncomfortable thought from her mind.

  Instead, she admitted it was certainly days like this, while working with an irritating imbecile like Billups, that she thought twice about her career choice.

  Now, after close inspection of the remains, she determined the victim had died from at least three gunshot wounds to the chest. His torn flesh lay open in three places like small anthills saturated with blood. The autopsy would tell her later which bullet penetrated what and the ultimate cause of death.

  As she backed away from the body, the heel of her boot connected with the victim’s outstretched right arm where it lay on the tattered linoleum. Watching her step, Jael eased around, took a penlight from the inside pocket of her jacket and aimed it at the floor. Two thick plastic bags of rock cocaine lay beside the body, and near his open hand, a large stash of bills. She stood there for a second absorbing the scene, grateful she had discovered this before the other officers. It was not unheard of for an officer to pocket money at a scene such as this one. She decided to stay put until the forensics team arrived and all the money was accounted for.

  More important, she wondered why the money was even there. This was not a drug deal gone bad. If it were that simple, this much money, along with a commodity of street drugs she estimated to be well over $4,000, would not have been left behind. Of course, there was the possibility that they had arrived on the scene before the assailant could grab the money, but the body had sprawled backward from the impact of the bullets. It was as if he’d been shot by surprise, while the money and drugs were still gripped in his hands, almost as if in offering. Was he about to pass them over when he was shot? Was he boasting and the shot came after? But why leave it all behind? It couldn’t have taken long for the assailant to grab the goods and rush for the back door.