Riddles

by Rhonda Crowder

  I came out of my reverie to hear the attendant still fussing about the girls.

  “You’d think they’d stop after what happened to Malibu,” she said just as Pussy entered.

  “Riddles, why you tell Buttercup what I told you?” Pussy lit into me soon as she crossed through the door.

  “You didn’t say it was a secret,” I said. “What if he’s the killer?”

  “Then she told me you were trying to fight her.”

  “So?”

  She walked into the stall to finish her rant. “So, now I might have to whoop her ass myself,” she yelled from behind the closed door. “I ain’t trying to be in the middle of no bullshit.”

  I shook my head, tipped the bathroom valet a dollar, and left her talking.

  Chapter Eight

  I saw Malibu’s dead body when I closed my eyes.

  I dreamt of her when I slept.

  And at sunrise, I perched on the side of my bed thinking… By the grace of God, there goes I.

  Every morning the sun filtered through the thin, cream-colored sheers on my window, and bathed the room in a warm, golden glow. But the brightness did nothing for my mood.

  The morning after returning to worked appeared no different. Going back to the club, trying to get my life to normal wasn’t working. I remained fixated on Malibu’s murder.

  I exhaled sharply, reached for the landline, and dialed 411. I pushed the button to be connected at an additional charge.

  “Atlanta Police Department. How may I help you?” a female’s voice answered after two rings.

  “May I speak to the detective handling the Kenyatta Morgan case, the girl murdered in Joker’s last Friday night?”

  “Hold please.” There was a long pause. “Detective Fullwood is the lead.” She came back on the line. “I’ll connect you.” The extension rang about four times before the raspy voice spoke, telling me to leave a message. I did, then hung up.

  Well, that didn’t help. I had hoped they had found something so I wouldn’t have to worry so much. I even called the Atlanta Journal Constitution to see if they knew more but someone in editorial told me they only knew what they reported and did not plan on assigning a reporter to further investigate. They had more important stories to cover.

  I fell back on my bed and stared at the ceiling.

  It really seemed as if no one cared. Malibu’s mama cremated her, seemingly with no remorse, and everyone at the club acted like it didn’t matter or she brought it on herself. More than that, though, I had a sinking feeling the police would drag their feet, if they did anything at all. Not that they’d even have time to do it, the news had just reported that the city’s murder rate was up by twenty percent.

  This one’s going to be a cold case for sure. Unless...

  With that, I sprung up to a sitting position and a smile crept across my face. I looked at the picture of my mom that I kept on my bedside table and nodded my head. I had just gotten the silliest notion – a true harebrained idea – but it made perfect sense to me. I decided to solve the murder myself.

  I brushed my teeth then nearly jogged to my desk. I needed to find something to write on. I watched enough police shows, I reasoned, as I scrambled around in the drawer for a pen. I know what to do and how to put the pieces together.

  I figured my degree in Anthropology would guide me through. I grabbed some paper, stared at it and bit my lip. My studies taught me to think critically as well as understand people and their motivations.

  I could really do this.

  I figured I had the time and resources. I promised to stick with it until I solve it.

  No one ever found out who killed my mother. I decided that wasn’t going to happen with Malibu.

  I made it my goal. My mission.

  I hovered the pen over my legal pad.

  Empty garter. I scribbled slowly across the first line on the legal pad. Possible motive – robbery. Next line: Cocaine on the table. My writing picked up speed - hidden money in locker. A brand new Lexus. Broken neck. Two inch rusty nails. First trimester fetus . . .

  My brain stopped. How do I tie all these clues together to come up with the murderer? I tapped the pen on the desk.

  Okay, I thought. I ripped the sheet from the pad and turned it over.

  “Suspects.”

  Who would want Malibu dead?

  Her mother? I nodded my head and wrote her name on the list. She didn’t even care enough about Malibu to give her a proper burial.

  The father of her unborn child? I wrote “Baby Daddy” and paused. Who was that baby’s daddy? Her live-in boyfriend? The man who gave her the car? I know for a fact they were two different people. Or was it one of the men who visited her at the club? Like Mr. Literary Agent.

  A trick? That would be a long list right there. I’d never narrow that down.

  Anyway, I would need DNA to positively identify the baby’s father. I drew a line through Baby Daddy and wrote: Live-in boyfriend, Lexus Guy, Literary Guy. I read over my list and then remembered what Pussy had told me – Malibu had been with a man with dreadlocks right before she died. I added Dreadlock Guy to my list.

  Now what? I took a breath and reread both of my lists. Oh yeah – motive. And opportunity.

  The first thing that popped into my head for motive was a love triangle. Did her live-in boyfriend get mad enough to kill her because another guy bought her a brand new Lexus? One thing for sure, Boyfriend didn’t seem to mind driving it knowing he didn’t buy it. I had seen him plenty of times dropping Malibu off at work. But maybe finding out she was pregnant by Lexus Guy was too much to take.

  Hmmm . . .

  I shook my head. Everyone at the club knew Malibu’s boyfriend. They would’ve remembered seeing him come in if he did it. Unless . . . Maybe he paid someone to do it.

  Now there’s a thought. A hit man? Dreadlock Guy? An assassin?

  I clicked my teeth. That idea was really far-fetched. Boyfriend didn’t have no money, unless one of his boys did it. Why though? The twenty-five thousand dollars?

  I flipped my sheet over and circled “hidden money.” Greed had always been a motive for murder.

  But they didn’t get the money. It was still in Malibu’s locker.

  Ugh!

  I switched gears. Mr. Literary Agent – Marc. I remembered his name from the business card. He seemed nervous after I told him about the murder. Or was it more like surprised? If he was the murderer, he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn she was dead. Nor would he have come in looking for her.

  This was going to be harder than I thought.

  I reread both my lists and thought how I could connect the dots. But no matter how long I stared at the paper, and read the suspects and scant clues I had out loud, I couldn’t link anything together. I just didn’t have enough information.

  I slumped back in my chair. My head felt like it weighed a ton. How was I going to figure out who killed Malibu?

  Then the word ‘family’ popped into my mind.

  That was it, I thought. Family.

  Those detectives on TV always started with the immediate family. I remembered the police visiting my grandmother after my mother’s murder. I starting thinking about the things I knew about her family. Things that Malibu had shared with me.

  I knew she came from New York City. She always talked about her mother – never mentioning she had cancer though. I doubted if that was true. She also always told me about her younger siblings, but rarely mentioned her boyfriend.

  What’s his name? Oh yeah, Peanut. That’s it.

  I crossed “Live-in Boyfriend,” off my list and wrote in his name. I was sure that wasn’t his legal name, but it made me feel better about my vague list.

  Okay. So I needed to talk someone in her family. The first name on my suspects’ list was her mother. I decided to start with her. I remembered her cry for help. There’s my way in, I thought and reached for the phone to dial her number.

  “Hi, this is Riddles, again,” I said when sh
e answered. “Malibu’s friend from Joker’s. I know you’re having a tough time, and I just want to help. I can give you some money-”

  “You can?” she interrupted before I could even finish my spiel.

  “Yep. When you want me to bring it to you?”

  “What you say?” Her voice much softer than the last time I spoke with her. “You serious?”

  “Yes. I want to do it for Malibu.”

  “Uhmm. Okay.” I could almost hear the smile in her voice. “How ‘bout tomorrow afternoon? I’m ‘bout to pick up my kids and I got some other running around to do.”

  “That’ll work,” I said. “See you then.”

  Oh, yeah. This might not be as hard as I thought.

  Chapter Nine

  I stopped at the entrance gate of Malibu mother’s apartment complex to call her then drove the grounds to her building. I tapped on the door with the brass knocker. She yelled for me to enter. When I did, I saw Malibu’s mom sitting in a recliner with a little girl on the floor between her legs, getting her hair braided. The woman looked more like Malibu’s older sister than her mother. I remembered Malibu telling me they were only thirteen years apart.

  “Please, have a seat,” she said pointing to a couch that had seen better days.

  I had never been inside of their apartment and to my surprise, it didn’t come close to my expectations. Malibu always wore the latest designer clothes, carried expensive bags, and even though she didn’t buy it, she drove a new car with pricy wheels on it.

  I sat on the edge of the couch and shifted around to find a comfortable spot. I opened my mouth to speak but a male voice interrupted me.

  “Was that the insurance people on the phone?” the deep voice called out from somewhere in the apartment. “They was s’pose to call, right?”

  Next thing I knew, Malibu’s boyfriend, Peanut, entered the living room wearing nothing but some sagging True Religion jeans. No underwear, socks, or shoes.

  Seeing me seemed to startle him. And seeing him half-naked certainly shocked me.

  He still here?

  “Peanut, honey,” Malibu’s mother said hesitantly while looking like a deer caugh in headlights.

  Hey Honey?

  “Uhmm. Peanut,” she continued. “This is Ke-Ke’s friend. From work. She stopped by to see how the kids and me were doing.” She looked at me. “What’s your name again?”

  “Riddles,” I said. Peanut and I locked eyes. I sat still, trying to act oblivious to the exchanges between them. Malibu’s mother glanced at me as he sat in a chair at the small, round dining room table across from us.

  She tapped the little girl with the comb. “Go in there with yo brother.” The child got up and left the room.

  “Ms. Morgan . . .” I spoke once I heard the bedroom door close. “I don’t mean to intrude or anything. I just wanted to bring you the money.”

  “Money?” Peanut popped up straight in his seat.

  “She . . . uhm. She just wanted to, uhm, pay her respects.” Malibu’s mother stumbled over her words. She glanced at Peanut. “C’mon. My baby was murdered. She just helping me out.”

  He leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and stared at me.

  “I’m going to be honest, Malibu’s murder got me fucked.” My eyes darted over to Ms. Morgan, and then back to Peanut where they lingered a moment. “Do you have any idea who could’ve done this to her? It’s a really scary thought, you know.”

  “Yo’ guess is as good as mine,” she responded.

  “I’m thinking it has to be random. Your daughter was a sweetheart, but everyone believes someone really had it in for her.”

  Malibu’s mom furrowed her brow. “My baby didn’t do nothing to noone.”

  “I didn’t think so,” I shifted my keys from one hand to the other. “Did she know a guy with dreads? Someone said-”

  “Yo, wuz up, son? You a strippa or detective?” Peanut got up, walked over, and stood behind Malibu’s mom.

  “I’m concerned.” I doubled back. I wanted my questioned answered and didn’t anticipate his presence. I viewed the moment as my only chance and without a backup plan, I had to seize it. “Just wanna know ain’t no psychos or something coming up in there killing strippers.”

  “You heard what her momma said. Wasn’t nobody after Malibu,” Peanut said. “And even if she was, you just can’t be coming up in here questioning people and shit.”

  “Look, Riddles,” Malibu’s mother interjected. “You and I both know people gone say what they want, but Ke-Ke ain’t have no bad blood with nobody. She didn’t owe anyone, if that’s what you wanna know.” She looked back at Peanut. “I always told her. She was too nice.”

  You want her to be more like you, I thought.

  She paused and stared into my face like she could read my mind. “I don’t know who did that shit,” she said. “Besides, knowing ain’t gone bring her back.”

  “You know, I didn’t mean anything.” I tried to make my voice more pleasant. “Like I say, I’m just shook by all of this, Ms. Morgan. Plus, I loved your daughter. I will miss her.”

  “That’s okay. We all will. And you can just call me Angie.”

  I reached into my handbag, and removed a white envelope. I stood and handed it to her.

  “This is for you.”

  She looked into my face and froze. “You a little older but you favor Ke-Ke.”

  “People at work always said the same thing,” I replied. “Maybe that’s why we bonded so well.” I smiled at her and cut my eyes at Peanut. “Okay. I hope that helps.” I pointed to the envelope. “This guy actually came in Jokers to give it to Malibu. I figured you should have it.”

  “Thanks, hear?”

  “No problem,” I said. I closed the door behind me.

  I got in the car and pulled my seatbelt over my shoulder.

  An insurance policy? Did she really need money from me? Angie seemed nice, like a caring mother, but she didn’t waste any time cremating her daughter. To get rid of DNA evidence? Maybe. And the whole set up between her and Malibu’s boyfriend is definitely suspect.

  Maybe he did find out she was pregnant and didn’t think it was his. Maybe he forced Angie to help him or keep quiet about it so they could be together. My mind rambled.

  I’ll have to figure out a way to keep my eyes on them two.

  Chapter Ten

  I needed to keep the momentum going so I decided to stop by Rollin Dee’s, a local car and truck accessories shop. The store catered to high profile athletes, rappers, and drug dealers.

  I needed to talk to the owner, the guy who gave Malibu that Lexus. I wanted to feel him out. Malibu had mentioned him in passing to me, never telling me his name just that he owned the store. Anyone, including me, would reason they were screwing.

  I started up the car and pulled out of Angie’s complex onto Roswell Road and headed toward Buckhead. About fifteen minutes later, I pulled my truck up into the lot, and parked in front of his store.

  I stepped out of my truck, walked through the door, and straight up to the counter. A clean-cut, twenty-something guy asked if he could help me.

  “I need some wheels for my truck.” I leaned over the counter, exposing my cleavage and licking my lips. I really wanted to know if he was the owner.

  “What you got in mind?” Counter Guy asked while staring at my breasts.

  “I don’t really know,” I said coyly. “What you got?” My lips curled into a smile.

  “I got whatever you need, Shawty.”

  “Really?” I giggled.

  “Yep.”

  “Is this your store?” I asked looking around. “Seeing you got whatever I need.”

  He laughed. “Sort of. It’s my dude’s. Dee. But, you know I run it.”

  Dee. I made a mental note.

  He pulled out a catalog and placed it on the counter. “Take a look. Tell me what you like.”

  I flipped through the pages, trying to think of how I could find out more about Dee.

&nbs
p; “That’s a Cayenne S, right?” Counter Dude said pointing out the large picture window to my Porsche truck. “Basalt Black Metallic?”

  “Yep. That’s it.”

  “Oh yeah?” He nodded his head and smiled. “He looked at me. “What’s your name?”

  “Riddles.”

  He laughed. “What kind of name is that?”

  “My stage name.”

  “Oh yeah?” He grinned. “Where you work at, Shawty? I’ll come show you some love.”

  I giggled some more. “Joker’s,” I replied.

  “For real? You know this chick work there, go by Malibu.”

  Oh, my goodness. That was too easy.

  “I knew Malibu. They found her dead in the VIP.” I keyed in on his reaction.

  “When!” he said. “Damn, she was just down here.” He covered his mouth. His eyes widened.

  “Last Friday night.”

  “What happened?” He looked concerned.

  “Broken neck. Rusty nails in her armpits.”

  “What? Rusty nails? What the?” he stood there shaking his head, disbelief showed on his face. “Hold on, man, I wonder do Dee know ‘bout what happened? I gotta call my nigga.” He picked up his cell. Just as he put the phone to his ear, the door opened.

  “Bruh!” Counter Dude said as he dropped the phone. “I was just ‘bout to hit you. Yo.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be there. Just give me a chance to check on the store.”

  I heard a deep sultry baritone voice. I turned around to see this handsome, brown skinned guy walking in, talking on a bluetooth. He held up his finger telling Counter Dude to wait a minute.

  Damn, he fine, I thought.

  The guy behind the counter ignored the finger and kept talking. “Man, Ke-Ke-”

  Cute Guy shot him a dirty look before he could finish his sentence. “Hold up, man,” he said.

  “Don’t you see I’m on the phone.” He turned away from us, finished up with his call, and then walked behind the counter. “What you trying to tell me that’s so important?” he asked.

  “Man, Dee, don’t come at me like that,” Counter Guy said.