Violet blinked. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“You mean to tell me that you are sitting over there an entire wreck, because Monty is cheating—again? If you don’t get your ass up and wipe those tears away! You don’t fall apart because your husband is off doing what husbands do. We didn’t raise you to be weak!”
“I can’t believe you! Do you know what you’re saying?”
“Little girl, I have been where you are, and I’m still standing. You know why? Because your father might have been great, but I am greater. And the sooner you readjust this damn fairy-tale vision of yours and realize that the princess and the witch are different sides of the same bitch, the better off you’ll be.”
Elle huffed. “What does that even mean?”
“It means nobody is coming to save you, so get your ass up.”
“No, Mother. Not now. I don’t feel like getting up. I need time to think.”
“I don’t care if you don’t feel like it, you better get to pretending!”
“I’m tired of having to pretend and act as if everything is all right, when it isn’t.”
“There’s no other option. Or did you have plans to sit there for the rest of your life and die?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I can’t even think clearly.”
“Listen to me, because Mother knows best. It is time for you to stand up and take your rightful place. You earned this prominence. Respect. And admiration. Like air, you deserve it. He may be governor, but it was your ideas, your push, and your recognition of his talent that helped wheel him to power, and there’s no damn way I will watch you leave it all behind so some Jezebel-by-the-well can reap the benefits. You will not be the sacrifice.”
Silence.
Violet dusted her hands. “I’m going to summon the maid to clean this place up. Then I’m going to make arrangements for the boys to spend a few days with your father’s sister Pearl and her husband, Joe. They have a beautiful Texan ranch, just the escape the boys need to get away from this mess you and Monty have created. And when I come back in here, I expect to see you have collected yourself, showered, and fully dressed.”
Chapter 35
Lorenz
Lorenz tucked the evening edition of First Look Journal beneath his arm and walked into an intimate luncheonette in Low Bottoms, West Oakland. “Welcome to Miz Martha’s Kitchen,” said a tall and thin honey-colored woman, dressed in a baby-pink waitress uniform. “I’m Miz Martha.”
“Good afternoon, Miz Martha!” Lorenz eyed the 1950s décor, complete with a pink Formica lunch countertop, where four elderly men sat and carried on about politics and one sipped a steamy cup of joe. Beyond the counter were five red vinyl booths on either side of the room, and a humming jukebox in the far-right corner.
Miz Martha continued, “That last booth on the left is empty; take that one. Once you get settled, my grandson, Tarique, will come and take your order.”
“Thank you.” Lorenz took his seat, and a few minutes later, a young man about eighteen took his order of sweet tea and tuna on wheat.
Lorenz glanced out the picture window and watched the back tires of a silver Camry roll over the curb. The car jerked to a stop, and a white woman—wearing oversized sunglasses and a black linen scarf over her hair and tied under her narrow chin—rushed out of the driver’s seat and disappeared.
The luncheonette’s front door swung open.
“Afternoon,” Miz Martha shouted.
“Hello. Afternoon, I was looking for—” the white woman said as she untied her scarf and slid off her glasses. “Never mind. I see him.” She walked to where Lorenz sat, slung her oversized shoulder bag onto the bench across from him, and sat next to it. “Lorenz?” She extended a hand.
“The one and only.” He smiled, accepting her gesture.
“I’m Rebecca. Thank you for meeting me here.”
“Of course,” he said, as Tarique delivered his food and looked over to Rebecca.
“May I take your order?” Tarique asked.
“I’ll just have a cup of coffee.”
Tarique quickly returned with her coffee and walked away.
Her hands trembled as she lifted the cup to her lips. As she sipped and sized Lorenz up, he took a bite of his sandwich and gave her the space she needed to measure his vibe.
The woman set her cup on the table. “Whatever I share with you—you cannot use my real name or give any hint that it’s me. Please.”
He covered her trembling hands with his, then looked into her eyes. “I always protect my sources.”
“You’d better.” Her hands quivered beneath his. “I’m putting a lot on the line.”
“Trust me.”
“I want to.” She slid her hands from his and placed them in her lap.
“No worries,” Lorenz assured her.
“I’m always worried, more today than ever.” She looked out the window and lightly clasped her throat. A sudden coolness covered her face.
“What’s wrong?” Lorenz pressed.
She pointed across the street. “See that black van?”
Lorenz followed her gaze. “What about it?”
“It’s the third time I’ve seen it this morning. I think it’s following me.”
Lorenz hesitated. He pointed to two farther up the street. “Actually, it’s not a van, per se. It’s a Mercedes Sprinter. And there are two more up the street. Are you sure it’s the same one?”
She shrugged, lowered the blind, and turned back to him. “I don’t know. Everything has me jumpy. Carson complained of black vans following him too.”
“Carson?”
“Carson Young. He was . . . an old friend.”
“Carson Young?” Lorenz squinted. “I knew a Carson Young who disappeared two years ago.”
She lowered her head. “Carson told me you two spoke at least once a week. He also said you were the only reporter he trusted—that you chased the truth.”
“How did you know him again?”
She hesitated.
Lorenz waited.
She took a deep breath. “We were having an affair. I worked for the then-governor-elect, Carson worked for his wife. We crossed paths at a Christmas party and it went from there.”
Lorenz leaned forward with a hiss. “Where is he?”
Clouds filled her eyes. “I wish I knew. The last time I saw him was the night before he disappeared.”
“What happened that night?”
Rebecca picked up her coffee, but before taking a sip, she placed it back on its saucer. A tremor overtook her. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and steadied herself. “It was the night of the governor’s inauguration ball. We were in the middle of getting dressed for the event when the governor called, upset, and demanded Carson meet with him right away.”
“What was the governor upset about?”
“I don’t know. But Carson never returned home.”
Lorenz paused, drifted into thought, then sank into Rebecca’s gaze. “What do you think happened to him?”
“I don’t know—but I have my suspicions.”
“Which are?”
“I think he’s dead and the governor’s behind it.”
Lorenz leaned back in his seat and studied her. “Why didn’t you go to the police?”
Rebecca snapped, “And say what? The governor killed my married lover—with no proof? You can’t be serious.” She folded her arms across her chest.
Lorenz scanned her face. “You’re coming to me—with no proof?”
She rolled her eyes. “Fields is involved in all kind of shady shit. That I know for a fact. That relationship he has with ICC is not at all as it seems, and it is everything you wrote about in this morning’s edition. Those contracts are fixed. Pay to play is every day. And to think I’ve never sold him out, and then he fires me? Me?”—she pointed to herself—“of all people.”
“You were fired?”
“This morning. The article you wrote drove him mad. His preciou
s ICC files went missing, and he accused Sheldon Gonzales and me of having something to do with it.”
“Missing?”
“Yeah. No one can locate the originals. Bullshit.”
“What kind of files were they?”
“Typical shit: memos, contracts, copies of emails. Things like that. I think Sheldon sold his ass out. Am I right?”
Lorenz bluffed with a smile. “I always protect my sources.”
“Right.” She smiled back. “I know it was him. Sheldon is a bitch with an ax to grind. He’s jealous because he’s not the secretary of state, not that the current one, Dominic, is any better. Actually, he’s worse. If anybody knows what happened to those files, it would be him.”
Lorenz smiled tightly. So far, all of this sounded like some disgruntled fired employee bullshit. “What does any of this have to do with Carson’s disappearance?”
“There’s one more thing.” Rebecca reached into her bag. “The other day I was going through some things Carson left at my house, and I found this in an envelope addressed to you.” She pulled out a manila envelope and handed it to Lorenz.
“What’s this?” He reached into the envelope and pulled out what looked like a dime.
“It’s an external hard drive. Carson had it specially made.”
“Why?” Lorenz looked at it strangely.
“He was a tech junkie.”
He frowned. “What’s on it?”
“I don’t know. I’m hoping like hell you can figure it out and tell me—and if it has anything to do with the governor, tell the voting public, of course.” Rebecca picked up her lukewarm coffee and sipped.
“I’ll have to drop this off to my tech guy so he can transfer it to something my computer can read. Once that’s completed, I’ll call you. We can meet back here tomorrow and discuss it.” He looked at his watch. “What time works for you?”
“Six, no later than six thirty, tomorrow morning. You won’t find me after that.”
He arched a brow. “Going somewhere?”
“Yes.” She lifted the blind and looked out the window. The Sprinter was gone. “I’m getting the fuck out of Dodge.” She stood up and dropped five dollars on the table. “I’ll hear from you soon?”
“I’ll be in touch,” Lorenz said, and then watched her walk out the door, hop into her car, and jet into traffic.
Chapter 36
Elle
DAY THREE. AND I HAVE NOT HEARD FROM, NOR SEEN YOU. NO REPLIES TO MY TEXT MESSAGES. NO RETURN CALLS. YET YOU FIND TIME TO CHANGE THE LOCKS ON THE MOTHERFUCKIN SPOT I GAVE YOU, GO TO THE POLICE, WHOM I OWN, AND ATTEMPT TO TAKE OUT A RESTRAINING ORDER AGAINST ME. WHAT IN THE ABSOLUTE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? LET US NOT FORGET THAT WHEN I MET YOU, YOU WEREN’T SHIT BUT A TRICK WITH A MOP, AND YOU COULDN’T HALF DO THAT. AND GUESS WHAT? JUST BECAUSE YOU HAVE YOUR LITTLE TEACHING DEGREE NOW, THAT I PAID FOR, YOU STILL AIN’T SHIT, BECAUSE EVERYTHING YOU HAVE IS MINE.
MY HOUSE.
MY CAR.
MY MONEY IN THE BANK.
MY PUSSY.
SO DON’T GET BESIDE YOURSELF. YOU’RE THE SAME LITTLE GIRL CHASING HER JUNKIE ASS MOTHER ON HER WAY TO JAIL.
STOP FUCKING WITH ME. BECAUSE I WILL CATCH YOU.
NOW, THIS EVENING, BY 7, MEET ME AT MY SPOT IN THE HILLS. WE NEED TO TALK.
“The motherfucker sent that an hour ago.” Elle’s brows lifted in surprise, and her heart thumped in her chest, the same as it had done the first time the message popped up on her iPad. Just when she’d questioned if she’d overreacted by not going to the news conference. Monty was her husband, and no matter the hurt and anguish, she still loved him.
Then.
In stepped this delivery, and she was catapulted into getting up, showered, and dressed—black pencil skirt, red Chanel blouse, Python heels, and iPad in tow—barging in to her attorney, Lydia Sinclair’s, downtown Sacramento office, with one thing in mind: divorce.
Now here Elle and Lydia both sat and stared at Elle’s iPad, as if they waited for Siri to speak and give a full explanation as to what exactly was going on.
Elle jabbed her index finger into the screen and smeared it across the text. “Restraining order? She went to the police? Why? What the fuck did his dumb ass do now?”
“Good question.”
“I betchu he was drunk. I swear to God, he’s turning into his father, who I hated.”
Elle shook her head in disbelief. “All this time, all this goddamn time, I thought I knew whom I was married to. But apparently this no-good bastard is out here leading a double life with his dick and is now tangled up in a whole other level of bullshit that I can’t even begin to understand,” Elle hissed. “And he gave that low-grade whore the swanky little El Dorado townhome she lives in. My PI says he even put the shit in her name! Stellar neighborhood. Outstanding views. Pool. Tennis court. Golf course. Motherfuckin’ duck pond—”
“You’ve been there?”
“Yep. Thanks to my private investigator. He got me her address, and I rode by there every day for a week. Don’t ask me why.” Elle shrugged.
“I can imagine why. Now tell me, what happened when the week was up?”
“I considered all that I had to lose and opted to pretend she didn’t exist. Not this time, though. The jig is up.” Elle paused. “The PI also found another address.”
“Do tell.”
“Apparently Monty calls it his hideaway—a stylish little place tucked neatly in the lush hills. You know what this means, right?”
“Tell me.”
“He’s also hiding money from me. Which he used to upgrade the pedigree of this low-life virus, Brooklyn. Taking her from the dumps to be cleaned up—with our money.”
“When’s the last time you checked your accounts?”
Elle shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s been a while. I mean . . . Monty handles all the finances.”
“You need to check those accounts, and if the reports in the media are true and Monty’s into the shady dealings they are accusing him of, and if, or more likely when, he comes under investigation, the Feds will attach as much of that money as possible to you. They will freeze your assets to force his cooperation, and yours. And if he has had any dealings with your foundation, they will come after that as well. You have two boys to take care of. You need to live. Hence the reason why you need to find out what’s in those accounts and get as much as you can out, and quickly.”
“Shit.” Elle reached into her purse for a cigarette.
“There’s no smoking in here—”
“I know. But I just need a quick puff.” Before Lydia could protest any further, Elle lit her cigarette, inhaled, exhaled, then removed her pocket-sized cigarette snuffer from her purse and mashed the tip of her cigarette into it. “There.” She sighed, relieved. “Lydia, I just don’t believe this . . . Is this really happening?”
“It is.”
“My God.”
“Tell me this, Elle. How long have you been receiving copies of his text messages?”
“Six months.”
“How many do you think you have?”
“Hundreds.”
“Are they all like this?”
“No. This is a recent shift.”
“What changed?”
“The other night, the whore came to a fund-raiser I had for my foundation and left with someone else.”
“Really?”
“Really. And not just anyone else, but the reporter who’s been busting Monty’s balls in the media lately.” Elle hopped out of her seat and paced. “What has my life come to, Lydia?” Elle faced her. “I wanna sue her ass.”
“Who?”
“The whore-bitch. She needs to be humiliated and made to fork over some cash for the goddamn inconvenience she has caused me.”
“We can arrange that. Especially since you have proof. Tell me, though, is this Monty’s first affair?”
Elle stormed over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. She gazed out at the city skyline. “No. He’s a man of position and
power. Affairs are second nature. But this one is different.”
“How?”
“He loves her.” She swallowed the agony of her words. “I can’t believe it.” Elle’s voice dropped to a painful whisper. “Why her? Why love? Why not a one-night affair and then come home? I gave everything I could give, and what I didn’t have, I pretended I did. Still, that wasn’t enough.” Elle paced. “That’s the difference. The other affairs were about a freaky fuck, and my position was never questioned. But this one . . .” She shook her head, then turned to face Lydia. “Do you believe that bastard had the audacity to come to me this morning and say, ‘Baby, can we talk?’ Baby, can we talk? Mmmph!”
“Did you?”
“Hell no! All those times he sat in my face and texted that bitch that he’d rather be with her. All those times he left me in the bed to go and call her. The night he brought her to my event, he’d said all he had to say.”
“Elle, I know you’re upset, but I’ve known you and Montgomery a long time. Perhaps talking isn’t such a bad idea. It will help you sort things through. After all, this is a marriage. You have two beautiful boys together. Maybe therapy will help. You said it’s never been like this before, perhaps you’re misreading it.”
“Who the hell have you been speaking to, my mother? What’s next? You’re going to read scripture? If I wanted all the reasons to stay in a fucked-up situation, I’d call Violet and Elijah. I know for a fact they have a sermon for that. I want a divorce, and here’s why: My husband is a piece of shit.” She walked over and tapped her iPad.
“Well, that settles that.”
“Exactly.” Elle clapped her hands together.
“When would you like to file for the divorce?”
“Today.”
“Have you prepared yourself for when this hits the press?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well, I’d suggest you do that.”
Chapter 37
Lorenz
“Yo, open up!” Lorenz stood on the porch of a small ranch-style home and rattled the wrought-iron screen door. “Samaad! Samaad Malcolm Graham!”
An unexpected wind blew into Lorenz’s face as a younger, taller version of himself snatched the door open and stepped onto the porch. Samaad looked both ways, then stepped back into his doorway. “The fuck kind of move was that, bruh?” He tilted his head to the side for emphasis. “Not only are you banging on my door like five-oh, you’re calling me by my government name like you got a warrant. I’m done with that life. A simple knock and wait for me to answer would have sufficed. I don’t need all this celebration. You know I don’t get up ’til nine.”
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