This wasn’t a professional sports weekend; this was Freaknik for grown-ups. All these people weren’t staying at the hotel, but the earnest hotel staff conferring behind the check-in desk felt powerless to stop everyone who had turned their elegant lobby into a makeshift nightclub. But then the scent of reefer wafted in the air, and I knew the party in the lobby would be over soon. Any moment hotel security, backed up by Phoenix police, would sweep in and order anyone without a hotel key to leave.
“Excuse me,” I said as I twisted my body sideways to squeeze between masses of oiled and scented bodies. It was slowgoing. At about the halfway point, I tried to jump up to see over the heads of the people in front of me to make sure I was even headed in the right direction. A woman, wearing a short orange silk halter dress that looked like she fell into a paper shredder on the way to the hotel, snapped at me angrily when I accidently came down on her diamond-encrusted big toe stuffed in an open-toe crystal sandal.
“Watch it, bitch!” she said, popping her gum as she whipped around, slapping me in the face with a mass of Indian-hair extensions in a confection of curls that looked straight off the Miss America pageant.
I smiled and apologized to the young woman, hoping to diffuse a potential episode of When Sisters Attack, but her girls didn’t want to let it go.
“Nuh uh, girrrrrl. I know she didn’t just step on your fresh diamond pedi,” said one of her friends who was clad in a fuchsia copy of the shredded dress worn by the offended party.
“Is you crazy? You know how much I paid for this pedicure?” the woman with the helmet of hair said as she reached down to rub her foot dramatically. A chorus of “I know that’s right” rained down on my head.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, craning my neck to see if I could make a quick escape, but my path was blocked by the crowd of men talking loudly about all the women they intended to sleep with this weekend.
“I know you ain’t trying to just run off like you ain’t just step on my damn foot,” the woman started again, stepping closer to me. Did she really want to fight in the middle of the Ritz-Carlton? I couldn’t imagine being a grown woman and fighting over stepping on someone’s toe, but I also knew enough from growing up on the streets of the Chi that this young woman felt like I had disrespected her in front of her friends, and she wasn’t going to stand for that. I hadn’t fought anybody since I was sixteen and had to throw down with a girl from another block after she accused me of trying to talk to her boyfriend at a skating party. I was nice with my hands, thanks to my uncle Frank, and back in the day we could have gone back and forth barking at each other until one of us jumped, but those days were far behind . . . for me at least.
Suddenly MJ appeared by my side. He was not exactly giving me a fighting chance at 140 pounds, but it least there would be a witness to my side of the story when we were all inevitably arrested.
“Hi, Nia, everything OK?” MJ asked, lifting his stunner shades. “Hi, ladies. Love the dresses. Fierce!”
“Thanks, boo boo, but your friend here just fucked up my fifty-dollar pedicure, and I ain’t havin’ it,” the woman said.
“Oh, that’s Nia. She’s always so clumsy,” MJ said, putting his skinny arm around my shoulders as I gave him the side eye.
“What’s your name, honey?” MJ said to the woman who was still huffing and puffing as he reached into his nylon Prada cross-body bag and pulled out a white envelope.
“Remy Cherelle,” she said with her hand on her hip and a sculpted eyebrow raised.
“Well, Remy Cherelle, please, you and your gorgeous friends must accept our invitation to join us for the premiere party for Laila James’s new reality show, What Laila Wants, at the Inferno tonight.” He handed each of the four young women a ticket to the party.
“Eww, Serena, girl. We goin’ to Laila’s party!” squealed Remy Cherelle as she looked at her ticket and then high-fived her twin in the fuchsia dress.
“That’s hot, girl!” Serena said.
“Ballin’!” the girls screamed in unison. Jim Jones would be so proud.
“I told y’all we were going to be ballin’ this weekend,” said Remy, taking credit for getting her crew tickets to one of the hottest parties in town. “And you broke bitches ain’t even want to chip in gas money for the trip from Houston!”
“You right, girl. You right,” another of Remy’s crew said with a nod. She had decided to break ranks on the fashion front and wear white leather jeans that looked like they had been painted on her curvaceous body, a black leather halter top, and a black rhinestone-studded cowboy hat.
“I hope y’all got some more fabulous dresses, because this party is going to be off the chain, Ms. Remy,” MJ said, smiling as he tucked the envelope with the rest of his comp tickets back in his bag. He’s always very adept at diffusing tense situations.
“You know we do, boo. What’s your name?” Remy asked MJ, her new bestie.
“I’m MJ, and this is Nia Bullock, the editor in chief of DivaDish,” MJ replied as he picked up my arm to extend it to Remy.
“Nice to meet you,” Remy said, shaking both of our hands.
“Nice to meet you, too, Remy,” I managed to squeeze out. “I look forward to seeing you guys tonight.”
“We wouldn’t miss it,” Serena chimed in excitedly. “Laila is a pimp for real. She got that Marcus King on lock, and I can’t wait to watch her show.” Before I can say anything else to put my foot back in my mouth, MJ tells the 2 Live Crew extras “toodles” before leading me through the crowd to the bar.
“Thanks, MJ,” I yelled over the crowd. “You know I didn’t want to have to show that chick how we get down in Chicago.”
“Yeah, right,” MJ snorted. “That’s all I need, to have to be bailing your crazy behind out of a Phoenix jail during All-Star weekend. DeAnna would looove that!”
“No doubt.”
We finally made our way to the entrance of the Club Bar. The thin blond hostess asked to see my room key, explaining that they were trying to keep the bar space free for hotel guests and their parties. Good, at least it would be quiet in there.
As I dug around in my Gucci tote for the key, the hostess asked, “How many people are in your party, Ms. Bullock?”
“Two,” I responded, holding up the key.
“OK, just a moment, please. I’ll go get a table set up for you.”
“Thank you,” I replied. I put the key back in my handbag and heard a man’s voice call my name.
“Nia! Hey, Nia, over here.”
I looked to see where the voice was coming from, and that’s when I saw Eric squeezing through the crowd and making his way over to MJ and me.
“Eric?” I said as he reached down to hug me. “What are you doing here?”
MJ slipped his shades down on his nose and looked over the tops of the frames at my ex-boyfriend.
“Well, one of my boys works for Nike, and he had an extra ticket to the game, so he invited me to come down. Plus, I knew you were going to be here, and I got that information you were looking for.” Eric patted the breast pocket of the tan linen sports coat he was wearing over a chambray shirt that was tucked into dark blue jeans. I hadn’t seen him since the day he moved out. I had even blocked him on Facebook so that I wouldn’t have to see his updates and photos on the feeds of mutual friends. He looked like he had lost a few pounds. His face was clean-shaven, hair freshly cut.
“You look good, Nia,” Eric said, swallowing hard.
“Uh, thanks. It was nice of you to bring it over to me in person, but you could have just called,” I said, shifting in my Valentino suede heels. Suddenly I was glad I had changed after leaving Vanessa’s room into a black-and-white off-the-shoulder Derek Lam blouse and skinny black jeans.
The hostess then returned, and MJ said we’d now need a table for three, clearly getting the vibe that Eric wasn’t leaving anytime soon.
&nbs
p; “No problem,” the hostess said brightly as she turned and headed back into the Club Bar to now secure seating for three.
“You cut your hair. I like it,” Eric said as he reached out to touch my hair.
“Thanks,” I said. He and MJ shook hands cordially, although I knew Eric was still on MJ’s shit list.
Before MJ could inject himself into the awkwardness of this moment, I heard another man’s voice calling my name.
“Nia! Hey, there you are,” Terrence said as he made his way through the hotel crowd. Wearing dark black jeans, a crisp white shirt, and a steel gray sports coat with dark navy-blue threads that matched the pocket square, he also looked really good.
“Aww, shit, now,” MJ whispered under his breath. “This is getting good.” The hostess returned to the stand, ready to lead us to the table for three, when MJ leaned over and told her we’d now need a table for four. She nodded and headed back into the bar to find another table.
“Hi, Terrence,” I said as he bent down to kiss me on the cheek.
“What’s up, MJ, right?” Terrence said as he gave MJ some dap. “Nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Oh, likewise. I’ve heard a lot about you, too.”
I could tell from the sound of MJ’s voice that he was enjoying this just a little too much.
“What are you doing here, Terrence?” Didn’t I just say the exact same thing to Eric?
“I’ve been calling you, but you didn’t pick up, so I came over to your hotel to see if I could catch you. I just received some more information on Carlo’s activities while he was in Phoenix.”
“Oh, I see,” I said. I hadn’t noticed any missed calls on my phone.
I looked back at Eric who was looking at me quizzically. Clearly an introduction was in order. But how was I supposed to introduce my ex to my ex? I had to bite the bullet.
“Uh, Terrence, this is my uh, friend Eric from LA. He’s tracked down that information we were looking for on the ISP address. And, Eric, this is Terrence, my friend from New York who works in the DA’s office. His fiancée is modeling in the National Basketball Wives Association fashion show tomorrow afternoon, so that’s why he’s here.” I knew this was an awkward way to introduce them to each other, but I honestly had no idea what to say.
As Terrence and Eric shook hands, I could see each sizing up the other. I had told Eric about my relationship with Terrence when we started living together during one of those new-couple conversations where you count down your most significant relationships. As for Terrence, he had a mind like a steel trap, so I knew he remembered that I said I had been dating someone seriously in LA named Eric before I took the job at DivaDish. I hadn’t told him why we broke up. Too embarrassing.
“Nice to meet you, man,” Terrence said.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Eric said.
Fortunately, the hostess returned, and she seemed happy to see that my party hadn’t yet expanded again. She led us through the dark mahogany bar to a circular dark wood table in a corner of the room and left us with cocktail menus. Terrence was seated on my left and Eric on my right. I could see MJ trying to keep it together as he took a seat across from me. Suddenly the room felt very warm.
An awkward silence settled around the table as we all studied the cocktail menu as if our lives depended on it.
“Well, Nia, I think we should have their signature drink, the Purple Diva,” MJ said, breaking the silence. “But this Chanel No. 6 could be fun, too.”
“Mmm, Purple Diva sounds fun,” I said, dying to drink anything at this point. “What’s in it?”
“Vodka, blueberries, lemon, and basil,” MJ said, reading the ingredients.
“Perfect,” I said as the waiter reappeared to take our orders. I asked for two Purple Divas for MJ and myself.
“I’ll have a scotch, neat,” Terrence said, handing the waiter his menu.
“And I’ll have a beer. Do you have Blue Moon?” Eric asked when it was his turn to order.
“Absolutely, sir.”
Not wanting the strained silence to return to the table and eager to shut down this meeting as quickly as possible, I dove in. “So, Eric, you said you got the information on the real ISP address for the computer that’s been sending Vanessa and Marcus the threatening e-mails and text messages.”
The waiter returned with our drinks, and I tried to not swallow my entire cocktail in one gulp.
“Uh, yeah,” Eric said as he pulled a piece of paper out of the breast pocket of his jacket. “The person sending these messages clearly had no intention of ever being found. They were good.”
“But not as good as you and your friends, right?” I asked.
“Of course not,” Eric said. “No one’s better than me.”
Why did I have the feeling he wasn’t just talking about computing?
“So what did you guys find out?” Terrence asked, taking a sip of his scotch.
“Well, the address the e-mails were coming from and the phone numbers used for the text messages were fake.”
“But we knew that already. My guys down at Quantico dug that up weeks ago,” Terrence said dismissively.
“Yes, but that’s where mere mortals stop and where I take over. Where your guys ended is exactly where the person sending those messages wanted you to end. Most government agencies, and certainly local government agencies, don’t have the technology, or frankly the talent, to be able to go deeper and break through these networks.”
“So how deep did you go?” Terrence shot back.
Was this really happening?
I took another large swallow of the cool purple liquid.
“Oh, I went all the way, brother. Trust me,” Eric said with a hint of cocky bravado in his voice I’d never heard before. MJ kicked me under the table, clearly enjoying their exchange.
“So look. Here’s what they did. They used software that basically makes it impossible for their computer’s IP address to be tracked and then connected it to a VPN, virtual private network, where they basically rented a remote computer to route all of their Internet traffic through Sweden.”
“Wow, that’s quite elaborate,” I said, signaling the waiter for another cocktail. “Like you said, this person clearly didn’t want to be found.”
“Yes, but I did find them.” Eric took a swallow of his beer, drawing out the suspense. He smoothed out the paper on the table and read the name and address of the person who had been sending Vanessa and Marcus death threats.
“Well, that can’t be possible?” I said as the waiter set down my second Purple Diva in front of me on the table.
“Why do you say that?” asked Eric.
“Because she’s dead,” Terrence said, setting his empty glass down on the table.
“Kalinda Walters was killed, shot in the head,” I said, fishing out one of the blueberries from my drink and popping it into my mouth. “So unless God has Wi-Fi . . . ?”
“I’m one hundred percent certain that this is the originating IP address, so if you’re serious about catching the person stalking your friend, then if I were you, I’d pay this location a visit,” Eric said confidently as he pushed the piece of paper across the table to me.
MJ headed up to his room to go over the final details for tonight’s party while Terrence, Eric, and I walked out into the blazing-hot Phoenix afternoon. The front of the hotel looked like the showroom of a luxury-car dealership where several Mercedes, Lamborghinis, BMW roadsters, Porsches, and Maybachs were lined up. Valets desperately tried to manage the flow of cars while keeping a smile on their faces.
“It looks like the address is about twenty minutes away,” Terrence said, fiddling with the GPS on his iPhone. “We can take my car.”
As Terrence walked over to the crowded valet stand, Eric pulled me over into the shade under a large canopy.
“
Thank you for tracking down this information,” I said. “I know it was a lot of work, and I know you didn’t have to do that for me.”
“No, it was my pleasure,” Eric said, still holding on to my arm. “You know I’d do anything for you, Nia.”
“I know,” I said, looking down at the limestone ground.
“So, do you think I can see you again before you head back to New York?”
“Um . . . I don’t know, Eric. I mean my schedule is pretty crazy this weekend with the party and everything.”
“I know you’re busy, but I’d really like to have a chance to talk to you.” I looked up into his dark brown eyes as he smiled down at me. “Come on, Nia. Meet me for a drink.”
“We just had a drink,” I said playfully as I saw Terrence begin to make his way back over to us. “OK, look, I’ll call you later, and we’ll work something out.”
“Thanks, Nia,” he said as he leaned down to kiss me on the cheek. “I look forward to it.”
“All set,” Terrence said as he cleared his throat and motioned to the black Lexus waiting at the curb.
“Thanks again, Eric,” I said. “I’ll call you later.”
“Yeah, thanks, Eric,” Terrence said, extending his hand. “We really appreciate all your, uh, work.”
“No problem,” Eric said, staring Terrence dead in the eye and shaking his hand. “Glad I could help.”
Why did I feel like they were still sizing each other up?
“Be careful, Nia,” Eric called after me as the valet helped me slide into the front seat of the waiting car.
“Don’t worry, Eric,” Terrence tossed over his shoulder as he walked around to the driver’s side of the car. “She’s with me.”
Terrence steered the Lexus smoothly along the Phoenix streets while I adjusted the air-conditioning vents to direct the cool air onto my legs. It had to be a hundred degrees outside, and having drinks with both my exes wasn’t helping.
Games Divas Play (A Diva Mystery Novel) Page 21