by Camryn King
“What about it?”
“I really did love it. So much so that I went online and tried to find where I could buy one for myself. Turns out it’s not very common. Where’d you get it?”
“I didn’t buy it. It was a gift.”
“Do you mind telling me from who?”
“That’s really none of your business. Look, you’ll have to find somebody else to help you with your art search. I gotta go—”
“It’s also about who shot Danny.”
Mallory couldn’t see that she’d gotten Karen’s attention. But she could feel it. “Who shot him?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Karen, I’ll be honest. You were right that people hate me. I’ve decided to leave town. I need to find answers to the questions posed in the article I wrote. I believe some of them are wrapped up in that gold artwork in your room.”
“Gold? That thing isn’t gold.”
Mallory allowed her to believe that for now.
“What does that jigsaw puzzle have to do with me and who shot Danny?”
“Because the person I wrote about in the article, the one who was murdered, was a friend of mine. My best friend. Recently, her mother gave me a bag of some of her things. In the bag was a puzzle piece, one that looks like a perfect fit for the missing spot in the one you have hanging in your bedroom. I believe if placed inside it would be a perfect fit and complete the puzzle. That’s why the sculpture drew me into the room. That’s why I was so taken aback, Karen, and so intrigued. I believe that whoever gave you that artwork somehow knew my friend.”
“Look, Danny didn’t kill nobody.”
“I don’t think he did.”
“Somebody gave Danny that thing. He didn’t have anywhere to hang it so he gave it to me.”
Ah. Progress.
“Here’s the thing, Karen. That piece is most definitely gold.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Worth at least a hundred thousand dollars, maybe more.”
“What the hell?”
“Don’t take my word for it. Get it appraised. Not in some neighborhood pawn shop. By a reputable art collector or dealer in gold. Then ask yourself who would give away a piece that valuable, and why? As a birthday present? A thank-you gift? I don’t think so.”
Karen didn’t say anything. Fine. That meant Mallory had her attention.
“Do you know where Danny is?”
“No.”
She said it way too fast. “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me. But I believe you know. And I believe that whoever shot Danny is somehow connected to whoever killed my friend. The common thread is the artwork, so finding out where it came from would put me one step closer to who killed my friend and who tried to kill your husband.”
“Don’t you worry about that. The streets have their own brand of justice.”
“I know. And their own code, which most often doesn’t involve law enforcement. I understand why. Heck, sometimes I even agree. Too many have trusted the justice system and gotten shafted. But my friend, Leigh Jackson, she wasn’t out there hustling. There’s no way I can get justice for her murder out on the streets. The system, as biased and corrupt and broken as it is, is my only option. The only card I can play.”
“Look, I gotta go.”
“Okay. I hear you. Thank you for taking the time to listen. And please remember what I said. You have something very valuable in your house. Hopefully me, you, and the person who bought it are the only ones who know its value. Don’t take it to just anyone to have it appraised. And think about taking it down off your wall. Putting it somewhere for safekeeping. At least for now.”
“Okay.”
“One more thing. Did my number come up on your phone when I called?”
“Yes.”
“Could you do me a favor and save it, but not under my name. Save it under Goldie. That way you’ll remember. And after you’ve thought about all I’ve said, and found out what I’ve told you about the art is true, think about giving Danny my number. It is really important that I talk with him, maybe a matter of life or death. Bye for now.”
Between D.C. and Chicago, the next stop on the journey to Omaha, Mallory had plenty of time to think—about the conversation with Karen, Leigh, Christian, her life. She gave her Mom an update and finally nodded off for some much-needed sleep. She took her meals in her room and enjoyed some downtime. When she looked in the mirror she saw a chick named Pamela.
An hour into the second leg of her journey, Mallory felt more like herself than she had in days. Less paranoid, too. And in need of a shower. She locked her carry-on, grabbed her toiletries, a couple towels and her purse, and headed down the hall. When she got back in the room, her phone vibrated. Mallory thought she would have heard the phone ring, even in the shower. Was the ringer not on?
She tapped the screen awake. There were two messages. The first was a text that she’d missed. From Karen.
Here’s D’s #. He said call. About that other stuff, thanks.
Mallory’s heart felt light as she dialed the number. He didn’t answer, but that was okay. She left a message, and thirty minutes later, he returned her call. It was a short conversation that called for a change in plans. A flurry of text messages later, the last leg of Mallory’s trip had been switched from Omaha to St. Louis. In a twist that she totally didn’t see coming, and a coincidence she liked to view as a wink from Leigh, Mallory wasn’t going to stay with her mother. She was headed to the city that would allow her to bond with her dad.
The second was a voicemail from Detective Anthony Wang. Mallory listened to the short message and redialed the number.
“Detective, it’s Mallory.”
“Hey there, Knight. I see you’ve been busy.”
“You could say that. In a bit of hot water.”
“I’d say boiling.”
“No doubt. But it’s worth it.”
“Why?”
“Because I believe Leigh Jackson was murdered.”
“Convince me.”
Mallory was on the phone for an hour. By the time the call ended, the detective was an ally and Mallory felt she was one step closer to getting justice for her friend.
27
After speaking with her father, Melvin, on the way to St. Louis, Mallory canceled the rental car reservation and instead took a taxi from the St. Louis Lambert Airport to where her father, his wife, Trudy, and Mallory’s half brother lived in an area known as Tower Grove East. Thinking over the past few days of her father’s mortality had drastically changed her perspective and, quite frankly, made her feel bad for not being a more involved daughter over the years. Growing up, her mother had constantly reassured Mallory that they didn’t need her father, that they were much better on their own and, following her mother’s second marriage, better off with her stepdad. It suddenly bothered Mallory that for all intents and purposes she didn’t know her half brother from her dad’s second marriage. He was a young man around eleven or twelve years old, one who might have benefitted from being one of Christian’s kids . . . before she believed he was a murderer.
Twenty minutes later, and the car stopped in front of a square brick building that looked to have been turned into duplexes. Rechecking the address, she noted that her father’s house was the one on the right. She paid the driver, grabbed her luggage, and went to the door.
Seconds after ringing the doorbell she heard heavy footsteps running down the stairs. The door opened, and instead of looking down on the head of a young boy, she stood eye to eye with a young man who must have looked more like his mother, because nowhere in him did she see her dad.
“Are you my sister, Mallory?”
She nodded. “That’s me. You must be Tyson.”
He stood back to let her enter. “You’re tall.”
“I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
He nodded. “You’re pretty, too. Come on up.”
“Tyson! Grab her bag.”
His expression showe
d slight embarrassment as he wordlessly took her carry-on. They continued up the steps to the main living area on the second floor. There, in a recliner by the window, sat Melvin Hill, the father she hadn’t seen in almost ten years, three years longer than she’d guessed during the conversation with her mom, Jan. He seemed smaller than she remembered, a bald head replacing the locs he’d sported when last they met.
An unexpected lump arose in her throat as she walked over. “Hey, Dad.” She leaned over and hugged him.
“Hi, Mallory.” He stared for what seemed an eternity when really only seconds passed.
“How are you?”
“Not bad for an old man. Have a seat. Ty, take her bag and put it in the spare room.”
“Oh, no. That’s okay. I booked a room not too far from here. Downtown. Technically this is a business trip, so . . .” She shrugged, as there was no reason to put at the end of that sentence.
“I understand. Are you hungry?”
“Not really.” It was then Mallory noted the smells in the air and heard the sound of stirrings in what she assumed was the kitchen. “I could eat a little.”
A short time later Melvin’s wife, Trudy, entered the living room. “It’s good to see you, Mallory,” she said warmly and gave her a hug. “Your dad talks about you all the time. Said you were a jazz buff, even when you were little.”
“She sure was. I used to bet my friends on the knowledge she retained, facts stored in that computer of a brain she had. Would ask her a question. She’d rattle off the answer in no seconds flat. You still got it like that, baby girl?”
“Not those facts. Wow, I’d forgotten about those early days. Your friends used to come over and practice in the garage.”
“Yep. We’d practice all day and play all night. I had a singular focus back then. It was all about the music. Didn’t leave much time for family. I’m sorry about that.”
“Singular focus, huh. So that’s where I got it. No worries, Dad. You did what you could at the time. Hey, do you have a copy of the recording you did, Up the Hill or something like that?”
Tyson entered the room. “Daddy, you made a CD?”
“I made an album, son. Top of the Hill. Distributed it on vinyl and cassettes.”
Tyson scrunched up his face. “Vinyl? Cassette? What’s that?”
The music was the bonding agent. Over a down-home meal of smothered steak and gravy, green beans and rice, the family talked about jazz and Mallory’s early years. Memories she’d long forgotten. They listened to Melvin’s album and Tyson’s rap. Mallory learned that in the time since she’d seen them, Trudy had become a registered nurse. It was her skills and excellent insurance that afforded her father a middle-class lifestyle. Trudy was warm yet no-nonsense, and she loved Melvin to pieces. Mallory had no doubt about that. In the taxi ride over, her mind had been mostly on Danny. After seeing her father, she knew that could wait. Time enough to get on the investigative grind tomorrow. Tonight, she was Mallory Anne, Melvin’s daughter. The one who knew more than a thing or two about jazz.
* * *
Two days later, Mallory wheeled a nondescript white Ford Taurus she’d bought yesterday for seventeen hundred cash into a nightclub parking lot in East St. Louis, as Danny had instructed. It was a Friday night, and the lot was crowded. She found a space near the club’s back entrance, put the car in park, and kept the motor running. She wasn’t one to stereotype or label all urban areas dangerous, but this spot looked like one familiar with screeching tires and fast getaways. Taking a breath, she scanned the local stations for one with jazz and landed on 90.7, KWMU. She immediately recognized Freddie Hubbard’s trumpet as even through cheap speakers the notes oozed out and coated her nerves. She pushed back the seat, stretched her legs, and took several deep breaths in an attempt to further relax as she waited for a black Nissan driven by an average-looking brother wearing a Rams ball cap, as Danny had described himself. She killed the engine to further blend in. An idling car in a parking lot could draw unwanted attention.
A black car pulled in. Mallory tried to be inconspicuous as she checked out the make and the occupants. It was a Honda filled with girls who looked dressed for the club. Another black car showed up ten minutes later. A dude. Mallory straightened and peered through the darkness. She couldn’t tell the make of the car, but the guy who got out was not wearing a ball cap. Several more minutes went by. Mallory’s mind began to race. If her facts were right, Danny and Christian were connected, maybe even partners in crime. She’d taken Danny at his word, but what if this was a setup? What if there was a price on her head and Danny needed money? What if Danny hadn’t agreed to meet in order to help her but to shut her up for good?
Mallory didn’t know, but she wasn’t going to wait to find out. She fired up the engine, put the car in drive and—
Knock, knock, knock.
Hard knuckles on the passenger window. To Mallory’s paranoid ears they sounded like gunshots. She almost passed out. Her head jerked around to find a man dressed in black and wearing a Rams ball cap peering into the car. He tapped again, more lightly this time, offered a brief smile and said, “You gonna let me in?”
Mallory pushed the button to unlock the door. Danny slid in and openly checked her out. Mallory sized him up, too, a sweeping look from head to toe. If pulled from the car and handed over to a sketch artist, Mallory could have described him to a tee.
“What happened to you arriving in a black sedan? You scared the hell out of me just now.”
“It’s always better to have the element of surprise on your side. I don’t know you. Karen just met you. How do I know you are who you say you are?”
Mallory made a move toward her purse. Danny’s reaction was a hand disappearing into his jacket.
“Whoa, wait a minute. I was just reaching for my cell phone.”
“Do yourself a favor and never make a move again like that anywhere around these parts, you hear me? Folks are liable to shoot first and ask questions later.”
“Got it. So listen up. I’m going for my phone,” she said with an exaggerated enunciation that made Danny smile. “After this past week, I can’t believe you don’t know about me, but it’s easy enough to prove. I’m all over the web.”
“I know. Karen told me.”
“Then what are you talking about, not knowing who I am?”
“I’m not into computers. And I don’t watch the news.”
“Then you’ve probably never heard of Christian Graham.”
“Come on, now,” Danny responded. His offense was evident in the side-eye given. “I’m a New Yorker. Everybody anywhere knows Don’t-Give-a-Damn Graham.”
Mallory typed her name into a search engine, tapped on images and held the phone up next to her face.” Is it a match?”
“All right, then.”
“Cool. What else did she tell you?”
“She told me a bunch of shit that didn’t make sense.” His eyes narrowed as he gave her the side-eye. “That I don’t believe.”
“What I told her about the artwork is true. Did she take it to have it appraised?”
“I told her that until I get back don’t take that muthafucka out the house. That shit’s under clothes and floorboards and all other whatnot. Hell, even roaches would have a hard time finding that shit. Still don’t know if I believe you, though.”
“I have proof to back up everything I’m saying.” Mallory looked around. “But I don’t feel comfortable sharing it in this parking lot. In fact, I don’t feel comfortable in this parking lot at all.”
“I feel you. East St. Louis ain’t for everybody. But it gets a bad rap.”
“Are you from here?”
“Spent enough time to know my way around. Tell you what. I’ll go get my car, my black sedan, and pull around. You can follow me to a spot where you can feel safer and we can talk.”
The safer spot ended up being a neighborhood pool hall where everybody in there looked like they were packing heat. But they all seemed to know Danny, whi
ch provided some comfort. Mallory was given slow smiles and long stares. Another time and place and she might have been offended. Tonight it made her feel as though she belonged.
They found a rickety table near the back.
“You want something to drink?”
“No,” Mallory said, waving her hand. “Nothing for me.”
“All right, then. I’ll be back.”
Danny going to get a drink was a ten-minute situation, laughing and chatting with the same men they’d just passed. A comment or two about her, given the stares. Mallory knew it wouldn’t do any good to try and hurry along the evening. She repositioned her purse, which sat on the table, deftly turning on the recorder hidden under the strap. Given the information he might have to share, Danny was a whale of a fish she was catching. She intended to take her time, put her foot on the rail, and slowly reel him in.
He returned with two drinks in plastic cups. “I know you said you didn’t want nothing, but you might get thirsty. Gin and ginger ale. They don’t serve no girly drinks up in here.”
“Thanks.”
She pulled the drink toward her, placed her lips to the rim, and pretended a sip. Her throat almost closed up at just the thought of drinking something from a cup that a near stranger had brought her, poured by another somebody she didn’t know in a part of town where everyone carried a gun. Um, thank you but no.
Danny took a hearty swig from a cup filled to the brim with what looked like straight brown liquor.
“All right then, Mallory. What’s this about?”
“Straight up, no bullshit?” Danny nodded. “It’s about you, or your family, and a friend of mine who was murdered.”
“That’s not what Karen told me.”
“I know. I lied to her. I felt it best to first share what I have with you.”
For the next several minutes Mallory laid out her story, from the friendship with Leigh to walking in on her crime scene as an investigative journalist. From the police officer’s rush to judgment in declaring it a suicide to the angel of a detective, Anthony Wang, who had the foresight to preserve evidence that would have otherwise been thrown away. And finally, to the gold jigsaw puzzle, the missing piece of which had turned up in her dead best friend’s belongings. “Do you know who gave Karen that artwork?”