Wrong Chance

by E. L. Myrieckes

  “We’re having fried corn, homemade cornbread, collard greens, sweet potatoes, and barbecued chicken,” Africa said. “And for dessert, I made Philadelphia cream cheese pie from scratch.”

  Hakeem hesitated at the threshold. Africa understood that he was checking out how well prepared the table was. “We can’t impose like this. We’ll come back.”

  Africa pulled out a chair beside Madear, who was dressed in a simple spring dress with her gray hair braided neatly to the back in two French braids. “No, you insisted on being here. So we’re gonna eat and talk.”

  Rasheed nudged his brother. “Shaad, that’s the one with the mouth right there.”

  Rashaad said, “Big man, you owe my brother ten dollars and your girlfriend got some kisses to pass out.”

  “Shut up, boy, and mind your manners.” Madear glared at her grandson.

  Africa said, “And I told y’all about being fresh with women. Come on over here and have a seat, Detective Eubanks.”

  Madear smiled her toothless smile and exaggerated batting her lashes as Hakeem settled in the chair. “We met somewhere before?”

  Aspen said, “If you don’t mind, I’ll sit with these two handsome young men.”

  “That comes with a warning label,” Africa said. “Do so at your own risk because I ain’t liable for any negligence.” She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with an ice-cold pitcher of red Kool-Aid.

  “Are you a real police?” Rashaad said. “ ’Cause you don’t dress like a cop.”

  “That’s because I’m a detective and I don’t have to wear the uniforms you’re familiar with.” She pinched his cheek.

  Rasheed said, “So you have a gun?”

  Aspen nodded.

  “Can I hold it?”

  “No, you can’t see it or touch it,” Africa said. “So stop thinking about it.”

  “Aw, Ma, you’re no fun.” Rashaad caught an attitude. “We just wanted to see it.”

  “Forget about it. Now shut up and bow your head so Madear can say grace.”

  • • •

  “Naw,” Madear said, easing her hand onto Hakeem’s thigh. “I’ll like it better if this fine man leads us in prayer tonight.”

  Everyone bowed their heads while Hakeem dodged Madear’s roaming hand. “Dear Lord…” With those two words a deep sense of nostalgia instantly overcame him. He longed for the happy days of yesterday that he once shared with his family. He craved sentimental family settings like those that presented themselves around the dinner table with his loved ones. Now the personal association of the Taylor gathering with a tragic past that imprisoned him highlighted his need to let go and move on. Hakeem just didn’t know how. “Thank you for blessing Aspen and I with an invitation into the Taylor home this evening for this delicious-looking meal. Please continue to bring the Taylors together with your blessings because there is nothing more important than family. Amen.”

  “Amen.” Madear squeezed his groin. “Yes, Lord, amen for such a big blessing.”

  Hakeem jerked. His thighs hit the underside of the table, causing the silverware to rattle.

  Africa said, “Is everything okay, Detective?” She eyed him as she passed the food around.

  “Yes, it will be.” He gave Madear a warning look as he eased her hand back where it belonged.

  Madear said, “Africa, who are these strange people?”

  EIGHTY-ONE

  After the twins devoured dessert, Africa said, “Y’all make yourselves invisible so us grown folks can talk.”

  One twin left with his lip poked out; the other left the dining room as if he had better things to do anyway. Aspen’s heart fluttered as the boys filed out the room. She dreamed night and day about being someone’s mother, being called Mom. And she couldn’t wait. She couldn’t wait to potty-train them and plan birthday parties at Chuck E. Cheese’s, help them with homework and go to parent-teacher conferences, make her children proud of her on career day, cheer louder than any other parent during school plays and sports events, watch their world light up each Christmas morning. All the while instilling in them her moral vision of the world and giving them the confidence and proper self-tools to create their own moral vision. She thought about what Hakeem had said while saying grace and agreed that family means everything—nothing’s more important than family. She just needed to start hers.

  Madear sat back and regarded Aspen and Hakeem as if seeing them for the first time. “You’re here to take me away to that scary nursing home. I don’t wanna go, Africa. Please don’t make me go.”

  “No one’s sending you away, Madear.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  Getting down to the nitty-gritty, Hakeem said, “I hate to keep sticking my finger on a sore spot in your marriage to Mr. Taylor, but I have to—”

  “I’m a big girl, Detective. Say what you have to say.” Africa gave him steady eyes and waited for him to continue.

  “Was Mr. Taylor having an extramarital affair with anyone besides Terri Dunlap?”

  “They do bad things to old people like me in nursing homes.” Madear stared straight ahead, although Aspen didn’t have a clue at what.

  Africa said, “Madear, I’m really sorry I threatened to send you away. I never meant it.” To Hakeem she said, “I’m sure there were others. Yancee was a pussy hound. He’s been caught cheating so many times, but Terri was the only current one that I got wind of.” Her gaze went from Hakeem to Aspen. “Why?”

  “An eyewitness saw Yancee with a stunning woman, who doesn’t fit Terri’s description, thirty minutes before his estimated time of death.” Aspen took out her cell phone and pulled up an image on its screen. “Whomever this woman is Yancee was seen with, we believe she was the last person to see him alive.” She passed Africa the phone. “This is a picture of the note we found in Yancee’s car. Does anything about it make sense to you?”

  “It’s my husband’s handwriting. He wrote reminders to himself about everything.” Africa then proceeded to read the note aloud. “C.F. wood chips, four-thirty, Thursday.”

  Madear said, “Told that boy the wood chips was gonna get him in a world of trouble one day. Never thought he’d mess with that girl.”

  EIGHTY-TWO

  Hakeem felt like a bastard for what he was about to do, but if it kept Madear talking coherently, then so be it. He eased his hand onto her thigh and stroked it. “What girl?”

  She blushed and bat her lashes at him. “His friend, Chance Fox’s wife. Cashmaire Fox. C.F.”

  Africa stiffened at Madear’s words. Africa’s eyes went small and black. “I’ll kill that bitch. Right under my damn nose.”

  Madear rubbed Hakeem’s hand as he stroked her leg. “Yancee, Chance, and Leon used to do all kinds of stuff they didn’t think I knew about at the wood chips.”

  Aspen considered Madear.

  Hakeem said, “I don’t understand what you mean by wood chips.”

  “It’s just a little playground on two seventy-six and Brush Avenue in Euclid that they nicknamed the Wood Chips.”

  “Mrs. Taylor,” Aspen said. “What makes you say Cashmaire when it was Chance who used to hang out with Yancee at the wood chips?”

  “ ’Cause Chance would have come here to meet Yancee. But Cash and Yancee would have to sneak to see each other. You said my baby was there with a pretty girl. C.F. wood chips, four-thirty, Thursday.”

  Africa scooted her chair away from the table. “I have a picture you should see.” She left the room and returned less than a minute later with a photo album. She cleared a spot on the table for it and flipped it open. “They all went to college together.”

  Hakeem went to Aspen and Africa’s side of the table as Madear malfunctioned again. “Somebody go find my son and tell him I need to talk to him right now,” Madear said.

  Everyone ignored her.

  Africa pointed to a picture taken outside of Jacobs Field. Each of the people in the photo wore some sort of Cleveland State University clothing. “This is Cashmaire
and Chance.”

  Aspen nodded. “She’s gorgeous.”

  “Matches our description of the woman Yancee was last seen with.”

  “Behind them,” Africa said, “is Yancee’s asshole friend Leon Page and that’s Jazz Smith right there. She’s a famous author now.”

  Hakeem turned pale. His breath left him. A vision of an innocent victim stretched out on an autopsy table with his young eyes frozen open popped in Hakeem’s head. His knees went wobbly; he gripped the table to stay upright.

  “Are you all right?” Aspen said, pulling out a chair for him.

  He gasped for air. “I’m…I’ll be all right.”

  Africa probably didn’t know how to take whatever just happened to him. It was evident in her voice. “Can I get you something?”

  “Just take him to my room,” Madear said. “I’ll make him better.”

  “I’m fine, really. Continue.” He avoided Aspen’s concerned eyes.

  Africa pointed to the picture. “And these two clowns making stupid faces are my husband and their other college friend…uh, what’s his name? Anderson. Yeah, that’s it. Anderson Smith. If I remember correctly, he’s related to Jazz.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “How close are you to this group of people?” Aspen said, on point with Hakeem.

  “I’m not. Those were Yancee’s college friends. I mean I met them all but Anderson. Me and Yancee didn’t get serious until after he left college.” She closed the photo album. “The only friendship he maintained from this group was with Chance and Cashmaire—can’t believe that bitch was sneaking around and meeting my husband. My kids call them aunt and uncle.”

  Aspen said, “So you’re close to—” She opened the photo album back and looked at the woman. “You and Cash are close?” Then: “Something about her looks familiar, like I’ve seen her somewhere before.”

  “Naturally,” Africa said. “Yancee and Chance are best friends. Me and Cash talk on the phone a lot ’cause they live in Denver. Cash and Jazz are also close friends. But, yeah, we’re cool, or so I thought. I helped Chance pick out a car for her last year for their tenth wedding anniversary.”

  Hakeem said nothing.

  “What kind of car?” Aspen said.

  “A red Infiniti.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “Africa,” Aspen said. “I’ll explain it to you later, but right now I’m ordering round-the-clock police protection for you and your family.”

  EIGHTY-THREE

  Night covered the city and darkened everything good beneath it. Aspen watched Hakeem pace the length of the Hummer parked in the Taylors’ driveway.

  “This is where I get off the train at,” Hakeem said. “I won’t do this.”

  “I know what this is shaping up to look like, and I know how you must feel about—”

  “No, you don’t. So stop pretending like you do. I don’t need your sympathy or anyone’s pity for my misfortune. You don’t get that, do you?”

  “Calm down, Hakeem. Let’s just look into it. Even though it looks one way, right now we’re assuming until we confirm the information as fact.”

  “Assuming? Assuming my ass. No matter what, this leads our investigation to probe into Jazz Smith’s life of all the people in this city.” He paced. “We have two—two!—dead people in one photo. Both murdered by the Hieroglyphic Hacker. One of those people was last seen alive with a woman who fits Cashmaire Fox’s description to a tee. Bet you that Scratch is gonna ID Cash. How strange is it that she and her husband just so happenly fell off the face of the earth?” He paused to look at her. “Or maybe she’s hiding, Aspen, because she’s the killer and the authorities in Denver haven’t found Chance’s body yet. And if I’m right, if I’m right, she’s killing the people in this photo for some revenge reason.” He looked at the picture in his hand. “Or whoever the killer is, he’s murdering these people for revenge. They did something to him or her. And that means two things: we’ll find the Hieroglyphic Hacker through this group of people, and Leon and Jazz Smith are possibly on the killer’s list, which is blessing enough for me to turn my back.”

  Aspen pulled out a cigarette and lit up. “You through venting?”

  Hakeem took her lighter. “Let’s see you light another one.”

  “You know what your problem is? You gave up. For the last seven months I sat and watched you—by force, not choice—sink into depression and insomnia while you claim everything is okay. It’s not! What happened was terrible. But that grudge and the hate you’re carrying in your heart is turning you into an ugly, despicable man that I don’t like. And if you don’t get it together, that hate is gonna cost somebody their life if your theory is correct.” She drew on the Newport. “The fact that God threw Jazz Smith in this twisted mix is to give you the perfect opportunity to be the best person you and I know you are capable of being. It isn’t validation for you to justify abandoning your life, your friends, and your morals to become a complete asshole.”

  EIGHTY-FOUR

  After Hakeem learned from the chief’s wife that he was working late, Hakeem stormed into Dwight Eisenhower’s office unannounced. Hakeem knew the shit was about to hit the fan, but that concerned him not. A face-to-face confrontation was what he craved. Sergeant Morris, tired and stressed out, and Chief Eisenhower glared at Hakeem as if he were a rabid dog foaming at the mouth.

  “Goddammit, Eubanks,” Chief Eisenhower said, nostrils flaring like an angry bull, “where’s your goddamn manners?” He jabbed a finger in Hakeem’s direction. “Knock next goddamn time.” He sipped his glass of brandy.

  “I want off the Hieroglyphic Hacker case.” Hakeem aimed his loaded gaze on his superiors like a throwaway semiautomatic. “Reassign me.”

  “You’ve lost your goddamn mind, Eubanks.”

  “Good to know we finally see eye to eye about something.”

  Concern plagued Sergeant Morris’ face, and it was apparent in his voice. “Why do you want off the case?”

  “Jazz Smith, that’s why.” He tossed the picture in front of them. “I have reason to believe she’s on the unsub’s revenge list. Aspen will fill you in. I want out.”

  The room fell silent as the men absorbed Hakeem’s revelation and pain.

  “First of all, this isn’t goddamn Burger King. You can’t have it your goddamn way. I’m running a goddamn police department here.” Eisenhower polished off his brandy. “If you have evidence or even a goddamn suspicion that Ms. Smith is in danger, it’s your job to remove the threat of danger, Eubanks. The mayor hand-selected you because you’re good at what you do. Now get over your hang-ups and get the hell out of my goddamn office and don’t come back until you find your fancy manners.”

  “I don’t care about this job if its value is measured against Jazz Smith. Far as I’m concerned, she should have been first on the Hacker’s list, then maybe my—”

  “Watch yourself, Eubanks, before you go too far,” Sergeant Morris said. “I have empathy for how I imagine you must feel about these developments, but you’re on the border line of insubordination and that won’t be tolerated.”

  “Suspend me then, you little cowardly son of a bitch.” Hakeem hated himself for saying that, but he’d lived with much worse clinging to his soul, which made it too easy to shrug off Sergeant Morris’ hurt feelings and scuffed ego.

  Eisenhower jumped to his feet and rounded the desk. “Nice goddamn try, Eubanks.” He stood between Hakeem and Sergeant Morris. “We’re not suspending you either. You’re stuck with this until you and Skye close the book on this case. Now for the last goddamn time, get out my office and go do your job.” Chief Eisenhower opened the door. “Do I make myself goddamn clear?”

  Hakeem shoved his shield and gun in Eisenhower’s chest. “I quit. Find someone else to help the famous author. Is that clear enough for you?” He turned to leave and Aspen was leaning against the door frame, shaking her head with disappointment.

  EIGHTY-FIVE

  Lakeshore Boulevard curved an
d twisted toward Lake Erie. Hakeem turned the Hummer onto Spring Bank Lane and nudged it into his driveway. He’d sworn months ago that he would go to his grave hating Jazz Smith and her stupid books. Just the fact that she was a big-shot author pissed him off and deepened his ill will toward her. She didn’t deserve invites to late-night talk shows, books adapted to movies and translated to many foreign languages, or her inflated personage that transcended national boundaries. Not after what she’d done.

  Hakeem tried to avoid the panoramic scene in his rearview mirror. Impossible. It called to him like a living thing with a nasty attitude. Its ominous presence lingered and lurked in the recesses of his mind when the rest of Cleveland was sound asleep. Now his eyes sucked in the painful details: tall and skinny, metal and gray, crippled and ugly. He turned away from the rearview, eased out of the driver’s seat, and went inside the house without a backward glance.

  Keebler rushed him at the door, throwing her huge paws on his shoulders.

  “Thought you were at—”

  “Didn’t want to babysit her in my big house alone anymore,” Drew said, coming into the kitchen. “I got bored.” She wore a see-through lingerie number and wasn’t the least bit ashamed about her exposed flesh.

  “When I gave you access to my spare key, I wasn’t expecting to come home and find you running around my house half naked.”

  “You told me you wouldn’t be here, so I just made myself comfortable. But now that you’re here, do you like what you see?” She modeled her risqué outfit.

  “Is that a pimple on your booty?” Hakeem laughed to keep from breaking down in tears. Lust was in his voice, but he tried to joke it away.

  Drew fought to hide her smile. “Boy, you wish. Not a blemish, Mr. Comedy Central.” She closed the distance between them, keeping her eyes nailed to him.