Murder My Past

by Delia C. Pitts

  “This?” I passed a hand over my shirt front. “No, I wear black most days.”

  Relieved to land on safer ground, Keith hurried to turn the conversation. He ditched tragedy with a jibe: “You sporting a neo-Batman complex there, Rook? What are you, the Dark Knight of Lenox Avenue?”

  I shook my head in mock sorrow. “No cape, no high-tech mansion, or English butler.” Then, I bumped the banter. “And too poor to expand my wardrobe. But when my ship comes in, Gerry, the only thing you’ll see me wearing is Hugo Boss and Armani. Maybe someday a fat cat will award me a Nobel Prize for detecting.” I let my lips slide apart for the grin.

  As we rounded a bend in the path, Keith increased our pace. “Yeah, sure, amigo, why not?”

  He’d raised this topic, so my question was fair game: “You and Sally Anastos? Something going on there?”

  Keith was back, the melancholy of past loss shed like a struck match. He grunted a wet laugh. “She’s a fireball, huh? Lots of anger and muscle in that juicy little trap, I’ll tell you.”

  I let my eyebrows jump: “Tasty for sure.” Locker room banter always worked. Always.

  Keith couldn’t stop the ugliness. “Don’t get me wrong. On a greatest hits list, Sally Anastos wouldn’t make my top ten. Not even top twenty. A colleague nailed the description perfectly: he said Sally has Miss America tits and a Kentucky Derby face!” Keith’s chuckle exploded into another snort. “But on a rainy night or a dull afternoon, the kid’s got one of the sweetest muffs on campus. Desperation makes ‘em juicy, right? Our Sally’s a pathetic plodder. Never a champion, but definitely a contender.”

  As the bragging expanded, he forgot himself again. “But Sally’s not in the same class with Anniesha. That gal’s a whole different order of magnitude. Never seen anything like Anniesha. She’s marvelous! First-rate! I’m talking kitchen faucet versus Niagara Falls!” He rolled his eyes, lips twisted in a grotesque leer.

  Done. Communion ended. Gravel gargle would clean this bastard’s filthy mouth. My next move was easy. Bickering squirrels on a branch overhead drew Keith’s glance. I stepped sideways, swiveling my boot in a brisk arc. It clipped his heel. He grunted, then sprawled on the gritty trail. Two knees, two palms, and one chin hit the dirt. The squirrels hushed.

  I stooped, clamped a hand on his elbow. I lifted him upright. “You okay, Gerry?”

  He spit and dribbled. The squirrels chittered. I pulled a soiled tissue from my back pocket. He used it to brush gravel from his blood-specked palm. He dragged the chalky mess around his face. Then he dabbed at his stained pants. After ninety seconds of work, Keith looked fine. Except for the sand scattered through his red goatee. And the grimy smudge on his brow. And the dirt smeared in the hollow of his cheek. And the rip at his knee. The squirrels in the gallery clattered in cheery chorus.

  I beamed the demure smile of a first semester co-ed. “That was quite a tumble, Gerry.”

  “Sure.” Keith looked at me screw-eyed as he pocketed the filthy tissue. “No damage.”

  We limped a few steps along the path. A vine-covered heap of gray stone blocked our way. The structure had narrow windows on the upper floors and the notched roof-line of a castle. A heavy wooden door crossed by black iron struts continued the medieval theme. A dry moat jumbled with pebbles and weeds separated the building from the sidewalk where we stood.

  Pointing at a low bridge which crossed the moat, Keith flung his arm wide, as if welcoming me to his own private fortress. “Here’s the faculty club. A modest thing, but mine own.” His voice blared like a trumpet. “Looks like the festivities are in full swing.”

  We peered through a large window which was divided into rectangles by black lead bars. I saw clutches of men in corduroy and tweed, bow-ties plentiful, vests stuffed to overflowing. The few women scraped their hair into low pony-tails and matched their somber sweaters to their slacks. Chandeliers cast yellow light on bald heads and waxy jowls. As we watched, everyone raised a glass to an unheard toast. White teeth flashed against the room’s dark paneling. Either everyone was having a grand time. Or faking it in high style.

  “It’s been a long day, Gerry.” I touched an index finger to the cuts on my cheek.

  I let my shoulders sag. As if I was overwhelmed by exhaustion. Or grief. Or poverty. Or whatever hideous traumas he imagined were the burdens of my sorry ghetto life. “I’ll take a rain check on the reception and head home.”

  “You sure? You’re welcome to join us.” He looked from me to the window and back again. Lines deepened around his mouth. He wanted to score points against James Nakamura and Galaxy Pindar. I was to be the gaudy bat for his assault.

  But I wasn’t playing the game. “Thanks for the invitation. Maybe another time.”

  We shook hands at the foot of the little bridge. I squeezed to grind the gravel into his palm.

  Keith gasped then grimaced. Then he shook his shoulders like a boxer shedding an annoying opponent. As he crossed the moat, he wiped fingers on his pants. Smudges grew to black streaks under his oily touch. He pushed the heavy door of the faculty club and disappeared into the glare.

  Darkness tinged with gold and pink collapsed in soft folds around me as I turned toward the edge of campus. A few paces beyond the faculty club, a uniformed cop stepped into line behind me. As long as I was at Alexander University – and Black – I’d never be alone. He escorted me with silent resolve until I slipped through the iron gates and beyond the campus walls. Gliding past the ivy, I saluted my dutiful companion. He tipped his chin, but didn’t wave good-bye. Within a few minutes of reaching the avenue, I flagged a taxi for the short ride home.

  Darting through the bustle of uptown traffic, Gerry Keith’s callous words crowded my mind. He’d scraped my nerves raw, as if he’d dragged a fingernail over the scratches on my cheek. The man was a shrine to unlimited self-regard. The murder of my ex-wife was all about him. But he’d given me what I wanted, new leads. He’d pointed me toward the two women who could uncover how and why Annie had been killed. Her colleague Pearl Byrne and Sally Anastos, the elfin disciple, held the keys to solving my case.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Two

  The evening of my campus skirmish, Brina turned first aid into a game, soothing my nerves along with my scratches.

  Brina squinted into the mirror in my bathroom. “Iodine or ointment?” In her right hand, she held the dark little bottle caked on the rim with its dreadful liquid. In her left, she squeezed a tube of antiseptic. We leaned forward to examine again the three scarlet stripes blazed across my left cheek.

  We were both dressed in cotton – a blue striped shirt over black boxers for me, a red t-shirt for her. This top didn’t quite cover her lilac panties, a good arrangement. Smiles danced across her mouth as she stood beside me. Under her analytic gaze, I shifted from side to side, bare toes curling against the cool tiles. Herb the cat rubbed my ankles, purring like a lawn mower.

  Brina traced a finger over the point of my collar. “You know, this blue shirt does something wonderful for your eyes. Where’d you get it again?”

  She’d given it to me, of course. I said thank you with a kiss to the hairline above her right ear. And the nape of her neck. And her earlobe, right on the spot where whiffs of her amber scent lingered.

  Brina joined Herb in purring. Then she unloaded another round of teasing. “This Reva-freak got you pretty good!”

  “Well, I don’t know…” I squeezed my eyes to block the reflection of my battle scars, but laughter bobbled my Adam’s apple.

  She insisted on showing off her expertise as she ran a finger over my flayed cheek. “That’s natural nails right there. Acrylics don’t leave marks like that!”

  No dispute there, so I sighed and pointed at the iodine with an elaborate flourish.

  She unscrewed the bottle, dipped a cotton swab into its clotted depths. “Going old school, hunh?” Balancing on tip-toes,
she dabbed at the scratches until they were painted completely. I winced with more drama than the minor sting merited.

  “Tell me again: how big was this Reva woman and how exactly did she take you down like this?” She kept her voice soft and sing-songy, to make sure I knew she was teasing.

  I raised eyebrows and quirked my mouth. “Five-two, maybe three. One fifteen tops. But she didn’t ‘take me down.’ I handled her all right. She was scrappy, true. And that switchblade was the real deal. But after Dean Pindar clocked her with a sculpture, I had no problem wrestling Reva to the ground.”

  We laughed at the improbable images cast by this thumbnail account of the latest case. First aid treatment complete, Brina led me by the hand to bed where we settled under the blue coverlet.

  I leaned against the headboard and heaved a giant sigh. “And tell me about your afternoon basking in the special glow of Mr. 2-Ryght the hip-hop artiste extraordinaire. Was he everything you’d hoped he’d be?”

  Brina screwed up her nose. “Naw, he wasn’t all that. Short and kinda overdressed and underfed.” She held her left hand about twelve inches above the coverlet.

  “Scrawny? But flashy? Why am I not surprised? Lots of phony gold chains too, I bet.”

  “No, sir! Those chains were the real deal. I got close enough to check it out.”

  “That close, hunh? Did he smell good too?”

  Brina landed a light punch against my shoulder. “You can joke, but that boy smelled like fame and money, lots of it. Like a green grassy meadow full of cash.”

  “He could bottle it and make even more. But how is 2-Ryght supposed to maintain his street rep if he smells like a leprechaun and looks like one too?”

  Brina’s giggling fit toppled her onto me, a development I encouraged with well-placed kisses. I’d hoped her story of hip-hop royalty’s walk among the peasants was over, but she had more to say.

  “The crowd was big and excited. Lots of jumping and shoving to get a look at the main attraction. You know that shoe store, how narrow it is. So, of course, they couldn’t cram everybody into the place. Smoke told Daddy and me to stay outside and handle the crowd. While he went inside to keep close to the cameras and to the kid.”

  “And why am I not surprised. Smoke is the kind of joker who’d send a woman and an old man to do his job while he coasted on the glamour end of the show.” The frown that snuck onto Brina’s face wasn’t pretty, so I backpedaled fast. “I mean… well… not that you and Norment aren’t perfectly able to handle any crowd control…”

  She’d heard a slight against her skills. I veered to an adjacent topic at whiplash speed. “Did you get any swag out of this gig? Or was the honor of serving His Majesty 2-Ryght payment enough?”

  “Daddy got a pair of yellow-and-red high tops, signed by 2-Ryght himself. And mine are over there.” She gestured toward the snow-glare white shoes toppled next to the refrigerator. “When you get to the office tomorrow, you’ll see what’s inside the box Smoke left on your desk. He picked them himself after I told him your size.”

  “Can’t wait.” This was in fact the end of the story. Or at least the last I could stomach listening to. “This day can’t end soon enough. If I never hear of Reva or 2-Ryght again in my life, it’ll be way too soon.”

  Brina agreed. She rotated in my arms so the red nightshirt lifted over her hips. Her kisses covered my eyes, my nose, and my damaged cheek, finally sliding down to my lips where they worked their healing magic for a good long time.

  That night I was ready at last. I told Brina about Annie. I talked about our kiss, about the hope I’d found and lost the day she died. Brina asked questions, I stumbled through answers. She nudged and wept and laughed and chided. Brina’s patience enfolded me, her steady refusal to pity or coddle me was the comfort I needed.

  Rustling of sheets awakened me near dawn. Brina tip-toed to the kitchen for a glass of water. Four sips, then she slipped next to me, pulling the sheets over her head. Snuffling dragged me from sleep’s edge. I scooted toward the foot of the bed until my face was level with hers. Under the tent, I dropped a kiss against her damp temple. Pink sunlight filtering through the white cotton bathed her bare skin, casting a warm glow over the tears on her cheek.

  “What’s wrong, Brina?”

  “Nothing.”

  “This nothing feels wet.” I stroked a finger against her cheek. I kissed her eyes. “Tastes salty too.”

  “I’m just thinking too much. That’s all.”

  “About Dreamie?”

  She paused a beat. “About Anniesha.”

  Breath rushed from me. I rolled onto my back and raised a knee, lifting the sheet from our bodies. “What about her?” I figured Brina was jealous, still. But the depth of her anxiety surprised me. I’d thought she would absorb information about Annie, slot it into her data bank about me, and not dwell on the past. I had lots to process about Brina, even after all this time together.

  Her soft profile stilled; her chin lowered to her throat. “Was she your first?”

  “My first?”

  “Girl. Woman. You know… When did you…? Uh… You know…” Her usual boldness had fled.

  “Lose my virginity?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Junior year of high school. Garnette Pace. Waitress who worked with my mother.”

  “She your age?”

  “Eight years older. She was between boyfriends.”

  “Oh, I see.” Little frown lines between her brows meant she didn’t.

  I whispered, the comfort aimed at her and my sixteen-year-old self: “It wasn’t so bad. She needed something, I needed something. It all worked out.”

  “Did your mother know?”

  “Mom would have killed me – and Garnette – if she found out. So no, she didn’t know.” I breathed a small sigh, ruffling her eyelashes. “We practiced ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’ real early in our family.”

  “And Anniesha?” Her stumble over the name caused my throat to tighten. “How did you meet her?”

  I sipped a gulp of warm air to ease my answer. “I met her the summer before junior year. My cousin Lolita owned a beauty shop. Every summer, Lolita hosted a family barbecue and that August she invited a new client, Annie’s mother. Annie came too. A few weeks later, I got paired with Annie as my lab partner for first semester biology. She got an A; I got a B minus.”

  Brina chuckled. “And you started dating your study buddy then?”

  “No, we never dated in school. Didn’t get together until almost ten years later.”

  This time the sighs were Brina’s. Cool pink air rippled against the sheet, eddying across my chest. To shake the goosebumps, I kissed her again. I was done with talking.

  But she wasn’t. “You’ve got to find them.” Strong fingers dug into my biceps.

  “Who?” I caught her meaning, but I wanted her to say the words.

  “The people who killed Dreamie. And the ones who murdered Annie. You’ve got to find them. For all of us.”

  “I will.”

  Through with brooding. Until the next time.

  An hour later, my sheets wrapped around her bronze shoulders, her hair a gorgeous mess, Brina watched me prod the toaster and pour the coffee.

  When she spoke, her voice was raspy and wistful. “I missed you, Rook.”

  “I missed me too.” One cup full, I paused, the carafe dribbling coffee into the second.

  “It’s not over yet, you know.” She was practical, realistic, and plain-spoken. Patching me up again, like always. Last night the healing was with iodine and tender kisses. This morning she used soft phrases to fix me. Just when I wanted to be romantic, she pulled from that brink. Did the Annie story reinforce her old doubts about me? Or did she distrust herself?

  I wasn’t going to probe. Not now. We’d moved along the path a bit. I’d take it for now. “I know. Not
for a while. But I’m getting there.”

  As I lowered the coffee pot, Herb the cat jumped from the windowsill onto the chest-of-drawers beside the bed.

  “You still hate Herb?” Her lips curved when I handed a cup to her. The smile dressed the worry in a coat of playful tease.

  She glanced toward the cat’s high perch. He was polishing his ears as he followed our conversation.

  I decided I didn’t want Herb to die after all. I took a sip, then announced, “Not anymore.”

  “He’s glad. I’m glad too. We both missed you.”

  The cat hurled a yellow stare from the top of the dresser. His whiskers bristled in chummy satisfaction as he licked his tail. Herb had known I couldn’t stay lost forever.

  After we showered together, Brina headed to her own apartment for a change of clothes. Over the months, she’d imported a few items into the bottom drawer of my dresser: jeans, a red pullover, two embroidered blouses, a black bra, and some panties. But if she wanted to wear anything more formal, she had to return to her own place. Maybe the time was near to change those arrangements.

  Soon after she left, a sharp rap at the door caught me off guard. With a damp blue towel still wrapped around my middle, I bolted to open the door. Had Brina returned to work on unfinished business?

  No such luck.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Three

  “You always greet your guests like this, Rook?” Smiles wreathed Archie Lin’s round flat face as he surveyed my half-naked state. “Or you just glad to see me?”

  He was decked in his detective best, a dingy brown suit with a faint khaki stripe. The eye-sore tie had swirls of tan, yellow, and army green which battled the moss-colored shirt. I was underdressed, but still better outfitted than Archie Lin.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I pitched my words toward the ceiling. “Don’t you have anything better to do than drop in unannounced on innocent citizens at ungodly hours of the morning? What kind of monster are you?”