“At three a.m.”
“I told you, the child was having a fit. Wanted her mother.”
A tank of a woman charged through the front door, “Oh my God. Baby, are you all right?” She pushed past the police officer there and clomped across the room, sending those close to look for cover. The red-striped flannel robe she wore and pink furry slippers, size thirteen at least, made her look like a giant candy cane with feet.
“Wade, what the hell is happenin’ here?” She moved in and lifted the girl from the sofa by her arm. Without giving him a chance to answer, she continued. “C’mon, baby. You’re coming with me.”
An officer stepped sideways and blocked the way. “Ma’am, you can’t take her—”
The woman’s head snapped around like the devil possessed her, ready to spit out nasty words followed by green fluids. She never stopped stepping.
I expect she would have trampled the officer, but Laughton interceded. “It’s all right, Jackson. Let her go,” he said.
Jackson sidestepped out of the woman’s way before Laughton’s words settled.
Laughton nodded his head in my direction. “Body’s upstairs.”
The house was spotless. White was the color: white furniture, white walls, white drapes, white wall-to-wall carpet, white picture frames. The only real color came in the mass of throw pillows that adorned the couch and a wash of plants positioned around the room.
I went upstairs and headed to the right of the landing, into a bedroom where an officer I knew, Mark Hutchinson, was photographing the scene. Body funk permeated the air. I wrinkled my nose.
“Hey, M&M,” Hutchinson said.
“That’s Muriel to you.” I hated when my colleagues took the liberty to call me that. Sometimes I wanted to nail Laughton with a front kick to the groin for starting the nickname.
He shook his head. “Ain’t me or the victim. She smells like a violet.” He tilted his head back, sniffed, and smiled.
Hutchinson waved his hand in another direction. “I’m about done here.”
I stopped at the threshold of the bathroom and perused the scene. Marcy Taylor lay on the bathroom floor. A small hole in her temple still oozed blood. Her right arm was extended over her head, and she had a .22 pistol in that hand. Her fingernails and toenails looked freshly painted. When I bent over her body, the sulfur-like smell of hair relaxer backed me up a bit. Her hair was bone-straight. The white silk gown she wore flowed around her body as though staged. Her cocoa brown complexion looked ashen with a pasty, white film.
“Shame,” Laughton said to my back. “She was a beautiful woman.” I jerked around to see him standing in the doorway.
“Check this out,” I said, pointing to the lay of the nightgown over the floor.
“I already did the scene. We’ll talk later,” he said.
“Damn it, Laughton. Come here and check this out.” But when I turned my head, he was gone.
I finished checking out the scene and went outside for some fresh air. Laughton was on the front lawn talking to an officer. He beelined for his car when he saw me.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I muttered, jogging to catch up with him. Louder. “Laughton, what the hell—”
He dropped anchor. Caught off guard, I plowed into him. He waited until I peeled myself off him and regained my footing, then said, “Nothing. Wade says they separated a few months ago and were trying to get it together, so he came over for some making up. He used his key to enter and found her dead on the bathroom floor.”
“No, he said he was bringing the little girl home because she was homesick.”
“Yeah, well, then you heard it all.”
He about-faced.
I grabbed his arm and attempted to spin him around. “You act like you know this one or something,” I practically screeched at him.
“I do.”
I cringed and softened my tone five octaves at least when I managed to speak again. “How?”
“I was married to her . . . a long time ago.”
He might as well have backhanded me upside the head. “You never—”
“I have an errand to run. I’ll see you back at the lab.”
I stared after him long after he got in his car and sped off.
The sun was rising by the time the scene was secured: body and evidence bagged, husband and daughter gone back home. It spewed warm tropical hues over the city. By the time I reached the station, the hues had turned cold metallic gray. I pulled into a parking spot and answered the persistent ring of my cell phone. It was Nareece.
“Hey, sis. My babies got you up this early?” I said, feigning a light mood. My babies were Nareece’s eight-year-old twin daughters.
Nareece groaned. “No. Everyone’s still sleeping.”
“You should be, too.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Oh, so you figured you’d wake me up at this ungodly hour in the morning. Sure, why not? We’re talkin’ sisterly love here, right?” I said. We chuckled. “I’ve been up since three anyway, working a case.” I waited for her to say something, but she stayed silent. “Reece?” More silence. “C’mon, Reecey, we’ve been through this so many times. Please don’t tell me you’re trippin’ again.”
“A bell goes off in my head every time this date rolls around. I believe I’ll die with it going off,” Nareece confessed.
“Therapy isn’t helping?”
“You mean the shrink? She ain’t worth the paper she prints her bills on. I get more from talking to you every day. It’s all you, Muriel. What would I do without you?”
“I’d say we’ve helped each other through, Reecey.”
Silence filled the space again. Meanwhile, Laughton pulled his Audi Quattro in next to my Bertha and got out. I knocked on the window to get his attention. He glanced in my direction and moved on with his gangster swagger as though he didn’t see me.
“I have to go to work, Reece. I just pulled into the parking lot after being at a scene.”
“Okay.”
“Reece, you’ve got a great husband, two beautiful daughters, and a gorgeous home, baby. Concentrate on all that and quit lookin’ behind you.”
Nareece and John had ten years of marriage. John is Vietnamese. The twins were striking, inheritors of almond-shaped eyes, “good” curly black hair, and amber skin. Rose and Helen, named after our mother and grandmother. John balked at their names because they did not reflect his heritage. But he was mush where Nareece was concerned.
“You’re right. I’m good except for two days out of the year, today and on Travis’s birthday. And you’re probably tired of hearing me.”
“I’ll listen as long as you need me to. It’s you and me, Reecey. Always has been, always will be. I’ll call you back later today. I promise.”
I clicked off and stayed put for a few minutes, bogged down by the realization of Reece’s growing obsession with my son, way more than in past years, which conjured up ugly scenes for me. I prayed for a quick passing, though a hint of guilt pierced my gut. Did I pray for her sake, my sake, or Travis’s? What scared me anyway?
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THE STRIVERS’ ROW SPY
Suspenseful and evocative, Jason Overstreet’s debut novel glitters with the vibrant dreams and dangerous promise of the Harlem Renaissance as one man crosses the lines between the law, loyalty, and deadly lies . . .
Available wherever books are sold.
Enjoy the following excerpt from The Strivers’ Row Spy . . .
1
Middlebury College, Vermont
Spring, 1919
It was graduation day, and the strange man standing at the top of the cobblestone stairwell gave me an uneasy feeling. It was like he was waiting on me. With each step I climbed, the feeling turned into a gnawing in my stomach, gripped me a bit more, pulling at my good mood.
I glanced at my watch, then down at my shiny, black patent leather shoes. First time I’d worn them. Hadn’t ever felt anything so snug on my feet, so li
ght. Momma had saved up for Lord knows how long and had given them to me as a graduation gift.
Again I looked up at him. He was a tall, thin man, dressed in the finest black suit I’d ever laid eyes on, too young, it appeared to me, to have such silver hair, an inch of which was left uncovered by his charcoal fedora. Even from a distance he looked like a heavy smoker, with skin the texture and color of tough, sun-baked leather. I had never seen any man exhibit such confidence—one who stood like he was in charge of the world.
I finally reached the top step and realized just how imposing he was, standing about six-five, a good three inches taller than I. His pensive eyes locked in on me and he extended a hand.
“Sidney Temple?” he asked, with a whispery-dry voice.
“Yes.”
“James Gladforth of the Bureau of Investigation.”
We shook hands as I tried to digest what I’d just heard. What kind of trouble was I in? Was there anything I might have done in the past to warrant my being investigated? I thought of Jimmy King, Vida Cole, Junior Smith—all childhood friends who, God knows, had broken their share of laws. But I had never been involved in any of it. The resolute certainty of my clean ways gave me calm as I adjusted my tassel and responded.
“Good to meet you, sir.”
“Congratulations on your big day,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“You all are fortunate the ceremony is this morning. Looks to be gettin’ hotter by the minute.” He looked up, squinting and surveying the clear sky.
I just stood there nodding my head in agreement.
He took off his hat, pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “You can relax,” he said. “You’re not in any trouble.” He put the handkerchief back in his pocket and replaced his hat. He stared at me, studying my face, perhaps trying to decide if my appearance matched that of the person he’d imagined.
He took out a tin from his jacket, opened it, and removed a cigarette. Patting his suit, searching for something, he finally removed a box of matches from his left pants pocket. He struck one of the sticks, lit the cigarette, and smoked quietly for a few seconds.
Proud parents and possibly siblings walked past en route to the ceremony. One young man, dressed in his pristine Army uniform, sat in a wheelchair pushed by a woman in a navy blue dress. He had very pale skin, red hair, and was missing his right leg. Mr. Gladforth looked directly at them as they approached.
“Ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat, “will you allow me a moment?”
“Certainly,” she said, coming to a stop. She had her grayish-blond hair in a bun, and her eyes were some of the saddest I’d ever seen.
“Where did you fight, young man?” asked Gladforth.
“Saw my last action in Champagne, France, sir. Part of the Fifteenth Field Artillery Regiment. Been back stateside for about two months, sir.”
“Your country will forever be indebted to you, son. That was a hell of a war effort by you men. On behalf of the United States government and President Wilson, I want to thank you for your service.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Ma’am,” said Gladforth, tipping his hat again as the woman gave him a slight smile.
She resumed pushing the young man along, and Gladforth began smoking again—refocusing his attention on me.
“I don’t want to take away too much of your time, Sidney,” he went on, turning and exhaling the smoke away from us. “I just wanted to introduce myself and tell you personally that the Bureau has been going over the college records of soon-to-be graduates throughout the country.
“You should be pleased to know that you’re one of a handful of men that our new head of the General Intelligence Division, J. Edgar Hoover, would like to interview for a possible entry-level position. Your portfolio is outstanding.”
“Thank you,” I said, somewhat taken aback.
“I know it’s quite a bit to try to decide on at the moment, but this is a unique opportunity to say the least.”
“Indeed it is, sir.”
He handed me a card. “Listen, here’s my information. We’d like to set up an interview with you as soon as possible, hopefully within the month.”
He began smoking again as I read the card.
“Think about the interview, and when you make your mind up, telephone the number there. We’ll have a train ticket to Washington available for you within hours of your decision. Based on the sensitivity of the assignment you may potentially be asked to fulfill, you can tell no one about this interview.
“And, if you were to be hired, your status in any capacity would have to remain confidential. That includes your wife, family, and any friends or acquaintances. If you are uncomfortable with this request, please decline the interview because the conditions are nonnegotiable. Are you clear about what I’m telling you?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“It’s imperative that you understand these terms,” he stressed, throwing what was left of his cigarette on the ground and stepping on it, the sole of his dress shoe gritting against the concrete.
“I understand.”
“Then I look forward to your decision.”
“I’ll be in touch very soon, Mr. Gladforth. And thank you again, sir.”
We shook hands and he walked away. Wondering what I’d just agreed to, I headed on to the graduation ceremony.
I picked up my pace along the cobblestone walkway, thinking about all the literature and history I’d pored over for the past six years, seldom reading any of it without wishing I were there in some place long ago, doing something important and history-shaping. I may have been an engineer by training, but at heart, at very private heart, I was a political man.
I wondered, specifically, what the BOI wanted with a colored agent all of a sudden. I was certainly aware that during its short life, it had never hired one. Could I possibly be the first? I thought it intriguing but far-fetched.
“Don’t be late, Sidney,” said Mrs. Carlton, one of my mathematics professors, interrupting my reverie as she walked by. “You’ve been waiting a long time for this.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I smiled at her and began to walk a bit faster. I reminded myself that Gladforth hadn’t actually mentioned my becoming an agent. He’d only spoken of an interview and a possible low-level position.
“It’s just you and me, Sidney,” said Clifford Mayfield, running up and putting his hand on my shoulder, his grin bigger than ever.
“Yep,” I said, “just you and me,” referring to the fact that Clifford and I would be the only coloreds graduating that day.
“The way I see it,” he said, “this is just the beginning. Tomorrow I’m off to Boston for an interview with Thurman Insurance.”
Clifford continued talking about his plans for the future as we walked, but my mind was still on the Bureau. Working as an engineer was my goal, but maybe it could wait. Perhaps this Bureau position was a calling. Maybe if I could land a good government job and rise up through the ranks, I could bring about the social change I’d always dreamed of. I needed a few days to think it through.
Moments later I was sitting among my fellow classmates, each lost in his own thoughts inspired by President Tannenbaum. He stood at the podium in his fancy blue and gold academic gown, the hot sun beaming down on his white rim of hair and bald, sunburned top of his head.
“You are all now equipped to take full advantage of the many opportunities the world has to offer,” he asserted. “You have chosen to push beyond the four-year diploma and will soon be able to boast of possessing the coveted master’s degree.. . .”
Momma had told me from the time I was five, “You’re going to college someday, Sugar.” But throughout my early teens I’d noticed that no one around me was doing so. Still, I studied hard and got a scholarship to Middlebury College. My high school English teacher, Mrs. Bright, had gone to school here.
“It seems,” Tannenbaum continued, “like only yesterday that I was si
tting there where all of you sit today, and I can tell you from my own experiences in the greater world that a Middlebury education is second to none. . . .”
I’d left Milwaukee, the Bronzeville section, in the fall of 1913 and headed here to Vermont. I had taken a major in mechanical engineering with the goal of obtaining a bachelor’s and then a master’s degree in civil engineering. I would be qualified both to assemble engines and construct buildings. Reading physics became all consuming, and I’d spent most of my time in the library, often slipping in some pleasure reading. Having access to a plethora of rich literature was new to me.
“I want you to hear me loud and clear,” President Tannenbaum went on. “This is your time to shine.”
As I looked across the crowd of graduate students and up into the stands, I saw Momma in her purple dress, brimming with joy. She was so proud, and rightfully so, having raised me all on her own. For eighteen years it had been just the two of us, Momma having happily spent those years scrubbing other families’ homes, cooking for and raising their children. But now that I had turned twenty-five, I would see to it that she wouldn’t have to do that anymore.
It was time for my row to stand. As we progressed slowly toward the stage, I became more and more painfully aware of my wife’s absence. I’d first laid eyes on Loretta in the library four years earlier when she’d arrived at Middlebury, making her the third female colored student here.
I’d approached her while she was studying, introducing myself and awkwardly asking her if she’d like to study together sometime. She’d just given me an odd look before I’d quickly changed my question, asking instead if she’d like to have an ice cream with me sometime in the cafeteria. She said yes and it was easy between us from that day on.
“Sidney Temple!” called out President Tannenbaum, the audience politely clapping for me as they had for the others. I walked onto the stage, took my diploma from his hand, and paused briefly for the customary photograph. I looked at Momma as she wiped the tears from her eyes.
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