After that, I expected Job to dive into the trunk with the excitement of a treasure hunter. Instead, he approached it with the reverence of an acolyte. The first item he took out was a folded white cotton blouse. He held it in his hand for a moment, his face a mixture of joy and sorrow. Then he pressed his mother’s poor garment to his face, burying his nose in it, and inhaled deeply.
“It still smells like her,” he said with wonder, smiling through his tears. “Even with the mothballs and everything, it still smells like her.”
I thought about how after Hamp died, I gave away most of his things, but there were a couple of items I couldn’t part with. It wasn’t just his tool set, but one of his shirts, too. His favorite shirt. It still hung in our closet. Every now and then, I’d brushed my fingertips over the shoulders and down the sleeves. I’d hold the material to my face, inhaling him and remembering.
Finally, Job laid the shirt to one side and reached into the trunk again. And so it went. Every time he lifted out an item—a book, a belt, a necklace of fake pearls—he held it up with wonder. At one point, he exclaimed with pure pleasure.
“It’s her music! See, see!” He grabbed up several sheets of paper covered with musical notations and shook them at me. “I remember. We used to sing together and we were working on a song together. This is all of it!”
He was so happy. Then it was all too much. His face crumpled. He bent his head and sobbed. I wrapped my arms around him and rocked him. Ruth came to the door, a wooden mixing stick in one hand, eyebrows drawn together in a worried look.
“What’s the matter?”
“He found some of his mother’s music.”
She shook her head. “I knew I shouldn’t have let him go through that stuff with you.” She straightened. “Job, honey, come here. Let Miss Lanie get on with her work and you help me in the kitchen.”
“He’s no bother,” I patted him on the back. His sobs had slowed to sniffles, but he was still curled into a tight ball pressed against me.
“No, he’s had enough.” She came in and gently tapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, baby.”
With a last gulp, Job lifted his face and wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. He got to his feet, his eyes red. Clutching his mother’s songs, he looked down at me.
“Thank you, Miss Lanie.”
“Thank you,” I said, “for keeping me company.” And for believing that I can do this, when I’m not sure I believe it myself.
Ruth gave his shoulders a squeeze, then ushered him from the room. I could hear her talking softly to him as they walked down the short hall to the kitchen.
As Job had done earlier, I too now sat quite still and took stock. The suitcase was packed more tightly than I’d realized. Job and I had gotten through just under half of its contents. Which was good. It left plenty of room for hope.
The problem was I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. I could only hope that I’d recognized it when I saw it. In an ideal world, it would pop out at me—something that proved that Esther and Sexton Whitfield had been seeing each other. But men like him, men with a lot to lose and afraid of scandal, tended to be careful. My best chances lay in the fact that every once in a while, those very same men got too sure of themselves, especially if they weren’t worried about a wife finding out anything. Sometimes, they’d let a little something slip: a note, perhaps.
But another forty-five minutes of looking yielded nothing but disappointment. Whoever this cat was, he walked softly and kept to the shadows.
Chapter 15
They were predicting rain and warmer temperatures, but when I set out the next morning, it was as cold as a mother-in-law’s kiss. The wind howled at my back as I sloshed through wet snow ankle-deep, headed for the subway entrance at 137th Street and St. Nicholas Avenue. My teeth were chattering, my toes ached, and I was wondering whether it was really necessary to go downtown—at least, that day. Why not wait until tomorrow, when it was supposed to be warmer?
The train came fast. In way too short a time, it reached Columbus Circle and 59th Street, and I was back out in the cold. After another miserable five minutes by foot, I’d reached 250 West 57th Street, the massive building housing Whitfield's office. Resting on a white stone base, reddish-tan building was twenty-six stories high. It ran the length of the block between Eighth Avenue and Broadway. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and entered.
The elevator opened onto a long beige hallway. A sign pointed to the office of the Collector. To the left and right were military gray office doors, and the muffled din of typists hard at work.
Whitfield's office was depressingly institutional: pale gray-green walls, uneven overhead lighting and brown-carpeted floor. The waiting room furnishings were spare: just a low-slung coffee table and four austere wood chairs. To one side was a small desk, its expanse covered with forms and thick stacks of gray-green folders. To the rear stood the door to Whitfield's office, and guarding it was a young woman behind another desk. She was in her twenties, late twenties I’d say. She was quite pretty, but had a no-nonsense look—trim and proper. The sign on the desk said her name was Hilda Coleman and she was coolly polite when she told me that her boss was not in.
“When will he be back?”
She started to say, but reconsidered. Caution deepened in her eyes. “Who’s asking and why?”
“My name’s Lanie. Lanie Atkins Price. I write for the Chronicle.”
“I thought you looked familiar. You write that society column.”
From her tone and expression, it wasn’t clear whether she thought that was good or not. However, her intelligent eyes became curious.
“Are you here to write about Mr. Whitfield?”
“Maybe. Could be I’m considering a column on Harlem’s sexiest politicians.”
That got a raised eyebrow and a faint, cynical smile. Whitfield was short and fat.
“So this is one of those, ‘How wonderful he is,’ kind of pieces?”
“Maybe. I print what I find.”
“Oh, really?”
“Really.”
Her gaze switched to a point behind me and I turned to see a young man enter. He was tall, light-skinned and in his late thirties, dressed in a charcoal gray cashmere coat and homburg hat. The coat hung open to reveal a crisp white shirt and black vested suit. He had a military bearing.
“Miss Coleman …” He paused. His gaze skimmed over me with a fast touch, measuring and dismissing me, all in one glance. His irises were very pale, very light, and coldly professional.
Whoever he was, he had a chilling effect on Hilda Coleman. She tensed perceptibly.
“Good morning, Mr. Echo,” she said.
“Morning.”
He shouldered out of his coat and hung it up on the heavy wood rack next to the door. Then he went to the desk and sat down. It was hard to believe that his long limbs fit comfortably behind that desk. I watched as he made himself small to accommodate it. His knees must’ve touched the underside of the desk. He took in the piles of folders on his desk and a look of determination crossed his face.
“Looks like I’m going to have a very busy day.”
“Yes, Mr. Echo,” she said, carefully neutral. “Would you like me to get your coffee now, sir?”
I felt an eyebrow rise. Sir?
“Thank you, Miss Coleman. You know how I like it.” He glanced up after saying this and gave her an odd fleeting smile. Then he took down a folder from the stack and flipped it open.
She gave him a look of utter loathing, then turned back to me. Her voice took on a note of bright falsity.
“The ladies room is down the hall, miss. You take a right and then a left and you’ll be right there. Oh, but why don’t I just show you?” Her eyes asked me to play along.
“Thank you so much,” I said.
She grabbed a key out of her desk, led me out of the office and down the corridor. We didn’t speak until we were inside the bathroom with the door closed behind us.
“Now what
—” I started.
She shushed me and checked each of the bathroom stalls. They were empty. Even so, she kept her voice low. “So why are you really sniffing around Mr. Whitfield?”
“I told you—“
“That sexy politician business? Please. I’ve got a feeling you’re aiming for the jugular.”
“Okay,” I said slowly.
Pumping people for information is a tough game. It’s like playing poker. You’ve got to know when to bluff, when to draw and when to spread them. There are no hard and fast rules, except one: You’ve got to look for the tell, the indication of what the other guy’s thinking. Hilda Coleman’s question was a tell. That little scene in her office said she was less than sympathetic to her boss’s assistant. Now, her question said she was probably less than sympathetic toward her boss, too. I decided to take a risk and play it straight.
“You ever heard of a woman named Esther Todd?”
Her eyes narrowed as she tried to recall. “What about her?”
I told her the story.
The light of shock hit her eyes and understanding sank in like pearls penetrating two wells of black oil. “You telling me he had something to do with it?”
“I’m saying no such thing, just asking around.”
Her dark eyes searched mine. Esther’s story had affected her. It meant something to her. Something real.
She touched my forearm with fingertips turned cold. “Are you really on the up and up? ‘Cause if I’m caught spilling to you, I could lose my job.”
“Understood.”
“You’ll keep my name out of this?”
“No problem.”
“All right. I’m not a trusting person, but I’m going to trust you. But if you double-cross me and say I talked, I’ll deny every word.”
“Deal.”
She glanced at her wristwatch. “You know Jimmy Dee’s, up near Columbia?”
I did. It was a bit of a distance, but that’s probably why she chose it. She wouldn’t run into anyone who knew her.
“At noon?”
* * *
Jimmy Dee’s was a little place on the corner of 114th and Amsterdam. It was popular with the domestic help that worked in the fine apartment buildings on Morningside Heights. The place smelled of coffee and grease. A glass-top counter stood to the left and cracked dark brown leather booths lined the wall to the right.
Coleman joined me in a corner booth. I ordered coffee and a bowl of vegetable soup. She took tea and a thick sandwich of pastrami on rye. She was the neatest eater I’d ever seen, and the fastest. She cut her sandwich into perfect squares. They looked like thick petit fours. She speared a piece with a fork and popped it into her mouth.
“Mr. Whitfield is grade-A sleaze. You ever met him?”
I nodded. “He’s very charming. Very distinguished.”
“He’s charming, all right—ugly as sin, but charming as they come. And he knows it. Knows it and uses it.”
“He use it on you?”
She stopped eating. “No.” She sounded bitter. “Sometimes, I’m cold. Sometimes, I’m hungry. And I always got bills to pay. So I can’t say I haven’t been tempted, but I don’t like his ways.”
“What ways?”
She started to answer, but hesitated. She wanted to talk, but for all her bravado, she was scared. She put down her fork and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
“I think it was.”
She studied me. “Do you have any idea who he is—really is? People don’t mess with Sexton Whitfield and survive. He won’t kill you outright, but he’ll make your life so miserable you’d wish he had. And don’t think that working for a newspaper will protect you. Sexton’s got a long reach. There’s always somebody, somewhere who owes him a favor.”
“Well, the paper has a couple of friends, too.”
“Friends who’ll take on the Internal Revenue? Remember, he’s the taxman. He can mess you up in ways you can’t imagine—you and your paper..”
She was right. Nevertheless, I said, “No one’s unbeatable.”
“You know what he did to Edward H. Hamilton?”
I nodded.
“And you still want to hear what I’ve got to say?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“All right, then.” She licked her dry lips and took a sip of water. “He’s got a hand problem.”
My gut tightened. “Does that mean what I think it means?”
“I’ve seen some of his handiwork, seen it on a friend of mine.”
I was dying to get out my notepad, but I had a feeling she would clam up if I did. “Tell me more.”
As long as she’d been at the office, she said, she’d heard of his affairs and seen his ego at work.
“You’d think he’d be more careful,” I said. “Scandal’s no good for a man in his position.”
“He’s not worried. The women are too scared to say anything. One of the bookkeepers, a girl named Mabel, she did try to break it off with him, but she said he wouldn’t let her.”
I set my spoon aside and gave her my full attention. “What happened?”
“She didn’t come to work one day. I was a little worried. She was one of them to-the-minute types, you know? Never came late. Never missed a day. Well, an hour goes by, and then two, and I get a phone call. It’s the lady who runs the rooming house where Mabel’s living. There’s been trouble. Mabel gave her the number. So I run over to see what’s what. Mabel’s in bed. All busted up. Broken nose, broken wrist. I had to take her to the hospital.”
“She say who did it?”
“Not at first. But later, she said it was Whitfield. He picked her up after work. She said she didn’t want to go with him, but he made her. Took her home. Went upstairs with her. And got to work.”
“She talked to the cops?”
Coleman shook her head. “Too scared.”
I shoved my soup aside. My appetite was gone. “You know of anybody else?”
“Nope. There’s probably others. I just don’t know about them.”
“Where’s Mabel now?”
“She got a little place over on Lenox. She’s lost her job. Whitfield made sure of that. I don’t know what she’s doing now.”
“You don’t talk to her anymore?”
“More like, she don’t talk to me. I think … well, maybe she’s embarrassed that I know how far it went.”
“You think she’d talk to me?”
“Don’t know, but I think you should try. Here.” She reached under the table and slipped me a folded square of paper. She hadn’t written a thing while we were sitting there eating. So she’d brought the paper with her. She’d come prepared to give it to me.
“Tell her I sent you. And say…” She paused. “Tell her I miss her.”
I paid the check. Just as we were about to leave, she stopped me.
“There’s one last thing I’d better warn you about.”
“Yes?”
“You remember that guy who walked in today?”
“Mr. Echo?”
“That’s all the name he goes by. He’s more than just an accountant. He says he’s Mr. Whitfield's assistant for special projects. I can’t say what that means, but I do know that he’s very loyal. And I got a feeling he does things for Mr. Whitfield, hurtful things that Mr. Whitfield doesn’t have the nerve to do himself.”
She gazed at me to see how I digested that bit of news.
I digested it, all right. Within seconds, I was wondering if Whitfield had gotten Echo to take care of Esther.
Chapter 16
Dinner was a simple plate of buttered toast and scrambled eggs. Breakfast food, I know. But I love eating breakfast foods at night and dinner foods in the morning. Many’s the time I’ve eaten hamburgers for breakfast. It used to drive Hamp crazy. When we first got married, I tried to ‘eat normally,’ as Hamp put it. But I couldn’t keep it up. Habits ingrained since college, now some ten years hence, just didn’t fade tha
t easily. After a while Hamp gave up and accepted me the way I was. That he could do that was one of the many good things about him, the real good things.
As often happened when I sat in the kitchen, my gaze went to the wall cabinet. It was a big family kitchen, just the kind Hamp and I wanted and hoped we’d need for all the children we planned to have. The house was only about thirty years old and basically in excellent condition. But for some reason, the kitchen had only one cabinet. It was wide and deep, but tilted. The nails holding it at the top had worked loose or maybe they were never well drilled to begin with. As a result, the top of the cabinet leaned forward. I could put dishes and glasses to the very back of the shelves, but I couldn’t take a chance on putting in much and certainly nothing expensive, including the fine china Hamp’s mother left us.
Hamp had promised to fix the cabinet and to put up more. I know he would’ve done it, if he hadn’t died. It wasn’t a promise he broke, but one he couldn’t keep. His leather tool kit still lay open on the countertop under the cabinet, just the way he left it. I’d never put it away. Someday, I was going to fix that cabinet myself.
Someday.
Chapter 17
The Lenox Avenue address Hilda Coleman had given me turned out to be a rundown boarding house on an otherwise nice block. Despair permeated the building. Resignation crept through its gloomy hallways and defeat roamed its dirty stairwell.
Mabel Dean Henry’s room was a wonderful contrast. She’d hung inexpensive bright curtains at the windows. She’d started her own little garden in flowerpots. Small plants, with thin delicate leaves, were inching their way out of the soil.
Mabel herself was small-built, in her late twenties, with prematurely gray hair. She was unemployed and deaf in one ear, from a beating she said Whitfield gave her. In short sentences, she told me about their brief, brutal affair.
“It’s not like I went in not knowing nothing. The other girls warned me about him. But I didn’t care. He was too important to say no to. I just wanted to have some fun, you know?”
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