“Oh my God,” she breathed, “I’ve never ... you’re so ...”
“I know,” he whispered in her ear, nibbling lightly on her lobe.
There was a knock on the door, but she only opened and closed her mouth, too weak to answer, which was fine by Ovan as he was in no position to receive guests. He was concentrating on her pleasure. Her smile grew broad with her lips flinching every now and then as he would hit new spots—possibly ones she never knew she had.
Just watching her ecstasy was exciting to him, and, accepting that she was satisfied, he thrust deep into her core, finally coming.
He pulled from her, then carefully removed the soggy condom and tossed it into the trash. He slid back into his pants and, without her noticing, eased the file inside his coat, which he threw over his arm while she lingered prostrate in front of her desk, hanging on to the edge of it. If anyone were to see her now, they would surely think she was drunk. “Pull yourself together, love. You’ve got work to do,” he said into her ear as he bent over. She nodded slowly with her eyes closed, licking her lips as if having just enjoyed something delicious.
He tiptoed out, making sure the coast was clear before relocking her door and making his way to his car. He was whipped, but he knew he still had plenty of work to do today. Reaching his car, he realized he’d not had a moment to wash his hands. Taking a sniff, he smiled at the memory.
His mind left the pleasant memory and came back to the smelly precinct. “Juanita. Why does that name sound so familiar?” He flipped through more pages in the file. He’d have to drop by and pay her a visit later, since his visit to Ms. Ams-Davis’s home was stymied by that crazy woman running into the back of his car that morning. That woman who hit his car ... She was crazy, true, but cute enough to eat, or at least lick on a bit. Ovan allowed a wicked smile to curve his lips, as was his unconscious mannerism when thinking about sex—which was all the time! He’d had breakfast with the DA, and thinking of the woman who hit his car had him ready for an afternoon snack.
Lawrence noticed his expression. “I have no idea,” he mumbled. He was showing continued annoyance at Ovan Dominguez’s presence at his desk again today. He’d made it clear yesterday that even though his partner, Jim Beem, was on vacation, his seat was not “empty.”
“No problem. I’ll stand—again,” Ovan had responded this morning, and even now he had been doing just that for at least an hour.
“Well, I need to get to her office and speak with her.”
“What about? Rashawn Ams?” Lawrence asked. Ovan was surprised that Lawrence had been curious enough to actually give glance through the file and remember any part of it.
“Yes. Your file, as I mentioned, was disappointingly limited. The DA’s file, needless to say, filled in many gaps. I knew there was a stronger connection between her and Allen Roman. Sure, she’s connected to Blain Tollome—which was not my ambition here. I’m on the trail of Allen Roman. Did you know he’s ill? Kidney problems. He’s not on dialysis—too easy to trace I suppose.”
“But he’d have to be treating himself somehow,” Lawrence added.
“My thoughts exactly. He is a doctor of sorts . . .”
“Mad scientist from what I’ve heard.”
“Ahhh, you’ve been listening.” Ovan smiled. Lawrence reluctantly returned the nicety, but shook his head as if to say “But that still doesn’t make us friends.”
“My partner has led me to believe that Mr. Roman is in need of a transplant. That leads me to think he’s looking for a donor on his own—willing or not—and a doctor to perform the surgery ... legally or not.”
“Exactly, why would a man like that want to wait in line like everybody else?”
Ovan looked sincerely at Lawrence. “I’m trying not to alarm Ms. Ams, although after reading the report I stole—I mean, borrowed from the DA’s office, I do believe that Roman isn’t far from her doorstep.”
Lawrence smirked at what seemed to be a wild, off-the-wall and far-stretched connection between Rashawn Ams and Allen Roman. “And why would that be? She have a kidney he might want?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. She’s got his son.”
Lawrence couldn’t help but reach for the file Ovan had—the “borrowed” one he’d refused to touch earlier, claiming that he wanted no part of such ill-gained information. “I thought of just bogarting over there earlier but changed my mind entirely—that’s definitely not the way to do this,” Ovan admitted.
“But what you’re really saying is that you still have no proof that this Roman cat is really alive, and didn’t want to get stuff started for no reason.”
“Oh, I know he’s alive. Remember, I’m the one who tried to apprehend him yesterday evening, but nooo, your over-eager beavers stopped me.”
Lawrence rolled his eyes.
“He’s taunting me, you know ... begging for me to enter his game,” Ovan said, pointing his finger at Lawrence, who now had his head buried in the file.
“The game?”
“Yes, international cat and mouse. He’s leaving trails, everywhere he goes, like breadcrumbs the size of dead bodies ... dead doctors, two so far: one in Jamaica, one in London, both dying of heart attacks after dealing with him. There’s plenty of proof that he’s up to something maniacal beyond just murder.
“Right, right ... maybe,” Lawrence mumbled, not really listening.
“I’m just waiting to hear back concerning Craven Michaels’s autopsy, but if what I suspect is true and there’s a connection between how these surgeons died and what Roman is up to ... Sure, they all had heart attacks, I get that, but I’m saying if those heart attacks were ...”
“Were not natural ...”
“Exactly! That’s my thought. Then I just need to know what they did to cheese him off. I know what you’re thinking, that I can’t prove to you that Allen Roman is even alive—but he is. I chased him, nearly had him my clutches.”
Lawrence again sighed and swooned at Ovan’s dramatic speech.
“Fine, disbeliever, you’re just going to have to trust me. Oh, I know what you’re thinking: ‘Well, Ovan, how is he killing people who are having heart attacks, aren’t the heart attacks killing them?’ “Do the math.” Ovan went on.
“Take Craven, for example. I really don’t think a healthy woman of thirty-five is gonna just drop dead that way. And trust me, she was pretty healthy, if you know what I’m saying.” Ovan snickered wickedly without saying what would probably either come out wrong or be taken wrong. He didn’t know Lawrence well enough to let him in on everything that rolled around in his mind that was even slightly off police work. He’d even avoided fully disclosing how he got the file from the office of the DA.
But apparently Lawrence had caught on, slapping his head in disgust. “You and my partner! What’s with the view you two have of women? Just because a woman has a nice body or fat ass, that doesn’t mean healthy in the biological sense. It doesn’t mean anything—”
Ovan held up his hand to stop Lawrence’s diatribe before it got too far. “Trust me, it was more than a fat ass that told me that about Craven,” he said, allowing his sexually charged chauvinistic attitude to come through now. “I know healthy when I ...” Suddenly his mind clicked and his finger snapped. “Juanita! Yes. The fat-assed woman who ran into the back of my car this morning! Yes ...”
“Excuse me?” Lawrence said, trying to follow his thought pattern. Jim often jumped around too when following a hunch.
“She hit me.”
“With her car?”
“I was snooping about in the Ams’s ’hood,’ ” he said, “trying to decide on my approach, when all of a sudden—bloody hell! Half naked belly dancer rammed me from behind. Feisty little gypsy. Damned sexy as hell, too.” Ovan reached into his pocket, hoping her card would appear. No such luck. “Damn, that’s right. I gave her my card so that she could call my partner with the charges to her car. Maravel is so much better at paperwork than I am,” he rambled.
“You took the
blame?”
“Wouldn’t you? Beautiful, half naked woman with the promise of a great shag in her eyes,” Ovan swooned slightly, leaning on the table as if starting to daydream and needing the support.
“Hell no! My rates would go through the roof. Crazy foo’.”
“Yes, I’m a big fool because now I don’t know where to find her. Damn it all straight to hell! And I bet this Juanita,” he said, holding up the file, “is the same woman from this morning. Ex-wife of Chance Davis—I bet she is. Juanita Duncan is the ex-wife of Chance Davis. This woman was on her way to her ex’s home, a home that was in the same hood as Rashawn Ams. Yes, it’s got to be the same woman. And her name was Juanita as well—how many of those could there be. Of course. This has really been my lucky day!”
Lawrence shook his head at the eccentric little man. Ovan knew Lawrence saw when him. It was clear Lawrence was still undecided about whether he liked Ovan. “Let me get her address for you. I’m done talking to you right now anyway—I need a break from you. Besides, none of this has to do with Allen Roman being alive,” Lawrence huffed, shaking his head in disgust while taking the file over to the clerk to get an address for Juanita Duncan.
“You’ll see, ol’ boy,” Ovan mumbled, watching the obviously lonely man make his way over to the clerk. Lawrence wasn’t bad looking nor in bad shape. He was big, true, but he actually was pretty buff—and Ovan was not like most men who can’t tell the difference between a muscle and blubber. Ovan couldn’t stand those guys who called their fat “buff.” Ovan took extraordinary care of his body, and it disturbed him to no end to see other men just letting themselves go and then wondering why they turned women off.
It wouldn’t be his concern, except for the fact that they were always asking him, “Gee, man, howdja shag that one?”
Ovan decided then that he would have to take Lawrence out for a few drinks before all this was over, loosen him up a bit. But first he was going to take another look around Craven’s place, stop in on the good Dr. Duncan, and then see what he ended up with. Maybe he’d have another run-in with Allen Roman along the way. Maybe he’d get in a clear shot this time—kill the bastard. If anyone knew his personal involvement in the case he would have been taken off a long time ago. It was amazing how having a handy computer geek for a partner could enhance the changing of one’s identity. No one would ever be able to trace his real name.
Chapter 16
The day was a long one for Chance. Too long. It had given him too many opportunities to think about his life. He tried not to do that often. It wasn’t as if anything was wrong with his life, but not too much was right, either. Maybe he was just bored. He’d been hanging out with his sister-in-law and her husband a little bit lately, getting their advice on this whole Reggie situation. He felt guilty, as if rushing Reggie out of the house. That wasn’t it. It was just that Rashawn needed to let him go. Let him grow up. Chance knew he had no ulterior motives for wanting Reggie to go to school out of state. But with Reggie around, Rashawn was having a harder and harder time letting go of the past. It was almost as if now that Reggie was growing up the wounds were reopening. “Maybe because he looks like that guy so much,” Rita, Rashawn’s sister, said, offering Chance a possible solution. “I know if I were raped and my child started looking like the rapist it would be hard for me. We’ve all pretended that Reggie only looks like us, but you know he doesn’t. He barely looks like Rashawn and she’s his mother, so he sure as heck doesn’t look like the rest of us.”
“But it’s just time to let go. Maybe it’s not even all that deep, maybe it’s just that she needs to let go. I’m going to want Nita to do the same thing with Junior in just a couple of years. These boys have got to grow up,” Chance had said to Rita.
“Hell, yeah. If they don’t go, them Negros will eat you outta house and home,” Rita’s husband chimed in. They had two sets of teenage twin sons and one daughter. “Hell, I wish my kids were smarter so the younger ones could have skipped some grades, and all of them could have just up and gone to some college outta state together. Yeah, I wish they were geniuses like ... who’s the kid on that show ... Dooky Howser.”
“Doogy, baby, Doogy,” Rita corrected, rubbing her head in disgust at his comment. She then turned to Chance. “Crazy man, you know he don’t want all his kids outta state ’cause then he’d have to deal with me every day. Anyway ... Chance, you’ve been a great father. You deserve an award ... seriously. And you’re right; Reggie should be allowed to go away to school. But you have to see Rashawn’s point, too.”
“I don’t though. She doesn’t treat Rainey the way she treats Reggie, or Junior. I know, I know, Junior isn’t her son, but sometimes I think she doesn’t care about anybody but Reggie.”
“Well, you know that’s not true,” Rita interjected quickly.
“And they fight all the time, she and Reggie. And ... and she’s been having nightmares again,” Chance finally confessed. “About Roman.”
“He’s dead!” Terrell again jumped in.
“We know this, T.” Rita smacked her lips and rolled her eyes. Chance smiled. Rita and Terrell argued all the time and fought with their kids constantly. But love was thick in their house. They were what Chance always considered to be a real family. Rashawn called them “a mess.”
“Then why is she dreaming about a dead man—that’s what I wanna know,” Terrell asked, heading back into his office. He was an attorney who worked out of their home.
“You just have to be patient with my sister. This turning fifty has not been good to her,” Rita told him—as if he would understand what that meant.
Rethinking that visit with Rita and her husband, Chance looked out the window now. He watched as Rainey walked toward the house. She was laughing with her friends—one boy, one girl. The boy suddenly tugged at her hair, and the girlfriend reached around Rainey and slugged him. Rainey was laughing. They all were. Just the thought of that boy hurting his daughter for real ... the thought of anybody hurting her, the way Allen Roman had hurt Rashawn, tightened Chance’s belly. No, fifteen years would not be near long enough for him to get over it. “Nobody is ever going to hurt my kids,” he said under his breath.
“Hey, what’s cookin’?” Reggie asked, lifting the lid off of Chance’s pot. He turned back toward the kitchen. Rainey walked in.
“Soup. My specialty,” Chance answered.
“Oh yeah, I’m down,” Reggie slurped greedily. “I gather Mom is still pissed and this is make up food?”
“Smells good in here,” Rainey said as soon as she cleared the door.
“Your mother is leaving tomorrow, so I wanted her to have a good going away dinner. And, no, this isn’t a make up meal.”
“Mmhmm ...” Reggie winked. “Scared she won’t come back, eh?”
“Oh, she’ll come back. She can’t survive without me,” Rainey teased.
Looking around now as if he’d missed something, Reggie asked, “Where’s Junior? He wasn’t at school today.”
“He’s home, I guess,” Chance answered, stirring his pot.
Rainey looked at her father and then at her stepbrother. “God, you guys are horrible. You don’t even know if he’s home sick. I’m sure he wants to say good-bye to Mom too. Call him.”
“You are so cornball and stupid,” Reggie barked.
“No, she’s not, and it’s a good idea,” Chance spoke up.
“I have a better one ... giving me back my BlackBerry. Now, that is a good idea,” Reggie grumbled, heading back to his room.
Chance reached for the wall phone and started dialing Juanita’s number. “Shoulda had it at the table.”
Chapter 17
Juanita pulled into the driveway with Junior. It was obvious that Rashawn wasn’t home. Junior jumped out of the car quickly. She always had mixed feelings about how excited he was to be at this house. But then again, their day at home together had been far from fun-filled. After the fender bender, Juanita detoured to the car dealership to get estimates. She got a fl
at on the way and had to call AAA. Of course, her membership was suspended due to her being behind in the payments. It wasn’t as if she could change the tire in her costume, so she and Junior caught the city bus home. Robbing Peter to pay Paul, so to speak, she floated money from one account to another to pay her AAA insurance premium, then arranged for them to tow the car, which they did to the tune of a one-hundred-dollar deductable—ugh. Breaking down and using money from her “stash,” she paid the tow guys, who then fixed the flat that, by now, she could have changed herself. By then, Junior was way too late for school, so he spent the day playing video games and she spent the day cussing and fussing at wasting so much time and money on a stupid flat that, again, was Ovan Dominguez’s fault!
Junior turned the knob and walked in. Rashawn wasn’t home, so Juanita took advantage of the opportunity to make herself at home by following him inside. The house was quiet except for the sounds of the TV coming from the den. The lingering smell of popcorn was in the air, as well as the wonderful aroma of Chance’s favorite recipe, homemade minestrone soup.
“Hey!” Chance said, coming from the den and dusting the salt from his hands. Juanita frowned, thinking about his blood pressure. “I was just ...” he began, sounding guilty.
“I know what you were doing. Eatin’ something you have no business eating. Ya watchdog ain’t even outta town yet and here you are already messin’ up.”
Chance’s smile faded quickly. “Don’t call my wife that.”
Juanita immediately regretted her words. “I’m sorry ... really. That came out wrong. What’ cha cooking?” she asked, changing the subject.
“His specialty,” Rainey answered, coming from her room. Junior had quickly disappeared into the den and had taken over Chance’s seat and his bowl of buttery, salty popcorn. Chance noticed and sighed slightly—looking disappointed about losing his decadent treat more than anything. “You staying for dinner?” Rainey asked her. “It’s Mom’s going away dinner.”
Blood Relations Page 7