Dying in the Dark

Praise for Valerie Wilson Wesley
DYING
in the
DARK

“This is a well-written, fast-paced whodunit. The story is compelling without being too graphic or gory, and the plot twists are believable. Couple these elements with a good dose of intelligence, sensitivity and humor, and you have a thoroughly satisfying read.”

—
Black Issues Book Review

“[Dying in the Dark]
is a very enjoyable mystery that offers enough challenge to make it interesting but not enough to make it so confusing that the reader just gives up on trying to solve the case. The story is up-to-date and could have been taken off the front page of any newspaper. … Another winner for Ms. Wesley.”

—Murder and Mayhem Book club

“This gritty, well-plotted mystery is engrossing. Tamara's very human struggle for survival will appeal to those seeking a down-to-earth protagonist with depths yet to be revealed.”

—
Romantic Times

“Wesley makes good use of her Newark setting here, piquing interest with details of the city's rebirth. Depth is added to the mystery plot through the ongoing theme of Tamara's love and concern for her teenage son and the issues he faces as an African American male.”

—
Booklist

“Valerie Wilson Wesley provides a fabulous private investigative tale with a deep social and psychological underpinning.”

—Midwest Book Review

“Another gripping mystery … perfect … the right combination of deception and mystery [that] will keep you mesmerized until the killer is revealed.”

—Read in Color

The Tamara Hayle mysteries

“There's a richness of language in Wesley's writing, joined by a de lightful sense of humor. She makes the mean streets of Newark come alive.”

—
San Francisco Examiner

“A
major talent … Wesley's voice—laden with wit, style, and sparkle— is unique in mystery fiction.”

—
Toronto Globe and Mail

“A
wonderfully believable and independent sleuth who combines intellect and intuition, sexiness and self-control.”

—
The Denver Post

“An engaging heroine—smart, sexy, tough but tender.”

—
Houston Chronicle

ALSO BY VALERIE WILSON WESLEY

Playing My Mother's Blues
Always True to You in My Fashion
Ain't Nobody's Business If I Do

THE TAMAKA HAYLE MYSTERY SERIES

The Devil Riding

Easier to Kill

No Hiding Place

Where Evil Sleeps

Devil's Gonna Get Him

When Death Comes Stealing

BOOKS FOR CHILDREN

Willimena Rules!

How to Lose Your Class Pet

How to Fish for Trouble

How to Lose Your Cookie Money

How to (Almost) Ruin Your School Play

Freedom's Gift: A Juneteenth Story

FOR MY COUSINS

JANIS SPURLOCK-McLENDON

AND KARLA SPURLOCK-EVANS,

WHO HAVE ALWAYS BEEN

MY SISTERS

John Henry with his hammer
Makes a little spark
That little spark is love
Dying in the dark

—LANGSTON HUGHES

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

There are many family members and friends who have always supported me. My thanks to you all. I'd particularly like to thank my literary agent, Faith Hampton Childs for her wisdom and kindness, and my editor, Melody Guy for her fine editing skills. I'm also grateful to Regina Waynes Joseph, Esq., Mary Jane Fine, and Valarie Daniels for their thoughtful “first reads,” and to Booker Theodore Evans, M.D., for his good advice. As always, Richard, Nandi, and Thembi have my gratitude and abiding love.

CHAPTER ONE

D
on't
never
talk to haints,”
my grandma used to tell me. “Haints” are what the old folks call ghosts, and when she'd say it, my daddy would roll his eyes and shake his head. But I knew what she was talking about. “If one comes knocking at your door, you just turn your head, look in the other direction, and
never
listen to what it has to say.” My grandmother has been dead since I was a kid, but her words still rang true even though Celia Jones wasn't an ordinary “haint.” She wore green eye shadow, too much rouge, and enough Tabu cologne to make a preacher forget his calling, and the door she knocked on wasn't the kind you walked through. She started showing up in my dreams about a month after she'd been murdered. For three nights straight.

Celia was the closest thing I had to a sister after Pet, my real one, pulled up stakes and split. The two of us would run the streets like wild things: sneaking out, bumming cigarettes and joints, sharing everything from drawers to dudes. We talked smart to men we had no business knowing and hung out places we had no business going. But I had my brother Johnny, may his soul rest in peace, to cool
my heels and keep me out of trouble. He was always there when I needed him, even before he became a cop. After that, he'd warn any hardheaded Negro who looked my way to keep his eyes—and hands—off his baby sister.

Celia wasn't so lucky. Her mama was dead, her papa didn't give a damn, and her brothers and sisters were so glad to get out their daddy's house, they steered clear of anything or anybody who reminded them where they came from. Celia was on her own, kicking ass and taking names all by herself. I loved her like she was kin because she was strong, smart, and knew her way around.

Over the years, I hadn't thought too much about her until I saw the headline in the
Star-Ledger:
“Woman Shot, Killer Unknown.” It was the kind of story that caught my attention, since I make my living finding out who has done what to whom, and when I saw her name, I lost my breath. Celia had been shot full of holes on New Year's Day in her ground-floor apartment in a dilapidated building off South Orange Avenue. I knew the place, and it made me sad to know she'd ended up there. She was identified as a waitress in a bar on Bergen, the kind of low-life dive you think twice about walking past in broad daylight. There were no suspects, the newspaper said, and no leads. And there were no follow-up stories. I looked every day.

I can't say I shed any tears when I read it. We had known each other a long time ago and not parted as friends. We fought over a man, the dumbest thing in the world two women can fight over, so she'd gone her way and I'd gone mine. The last time I saw her, she was climbing into the driver's seat of a midnight blue Lincoln. She had a Virginia Slims cigarette dangling out her mouth and a men's
T-shirt covering her high pregnant belly. I called her name, and when she turned in my direction, I saw a bruise the size of a silver dollar on the left side of her mouth. She looked straight through me. When we were kids, she used to say she'd kill any man who laid a hand on her, so I couldn't believe what was on her face. I called her again and ran toward the car, and she pulled away from the curb so fast I had to jump out the way to keep from being hit.

“The hell with you, too, Celia Jones!” I screamed into the dust she left and that was that. In that instant I decided I didn't want any part of any trouble she'd gotten herself into. My brother was dead, and I'd just married DeWayne Curtis, my son's father. I was still young enough to think “true love” solved everything, and that that was what I had with DeWayne. I sure didn't want somebody's sorrow shadowing the happiness I'd found. So I let her and her pregnant self go wherever the hell she was going.

Maybe we still had unfinished “girlfriend” business. Maybe I should have searched for her, gone back to some of our spots, found a way to help her. Maybe that was why she came back to haunt me. But, then again, it could have been those ribs I'd bought at Costco's and wolfed down like a fool two nights in a row. Pork will do that to you, if you've sworn it off like I had. Or maybe it was just seeing her name like I had in the paper and wondering who had taken her life so cruelly. It's hard to say what brought Celia back, but I was pretty sure why she'd come.

The dream always started the same. I didn't see her at first. All I saw were hands, calloused and ugly, squeezing deep into the hollow of her slender, brown throat. Her fingernails, with the bright red polish
she always wore, were digging into the hands, trying hard to pull them from around her neck. Then I saw the locket I gave her when we graduated from high school. We bought lockets for each other the same day at Bamberger's, the big department store that used to take up half of Market Street but that moved to the suburban malls in the early eighties. The one Celia gave me had a sapphire in the middle, cut glass no doubt. God knows what became of it. The one I gave her had a “ruby” because it was red, her favorite color. We'd both inscribed them with “From your best friend” on the top. In my dream, her locket was pulled tight around her neck, slashing her skin as her body arched. I could feel her choking, fighting for breath, for her life. That was when she looked at me, her green-shadowed eyes bright with fear, her shiny red mouth wide open. I could smell the Tabu.

“Help me!” she said.

I'd wake up then in a sweat, glad to be out of that place and in the safety of my own bedroom.

The first night I dreamed it, I jumped out of bed and ran to my son's room to check on him. The second night, I went downstairs and made myself a pot of Sleepytime tea, then drifted off to sleep on the couch. The third night, I downed two shots of bourbon and wondered why the hell the girl was picking on me. Dreams are nothing but dreams, I reminded myself.

Or so they say.

Then they stopped, and after a night or two, I didn't think about her anymore. After two weeks, I'd forgotten about the dreams altogether. I had other things on my mind, and on the top of my list was buying myself a new car. My dependable blue Jetta, aka the Blue Demon, may she rest in peace, had met a tragic end in a parking lot
in Atlantic City, so I was taking cabs and public transportation until I could find a good deal on another one.

So when the kid knocked on my door that Monday morning, I was sitting at my desk, sipping coffee, and going through the used-car ads in the
Star-Ledger.
He came in before I could open it, slumping down in the chair in front of my desk like he had an appointment. It only took a minute to recognize him; his cheekbones and pretty slanted eyes were straight out of his mama.

“You Tamara Hayle?” He had a growl of a voice, too grown for such a skinny kid.

“You're Celia's boy, aren't you?” He nodded and the shy little grin his mama used to pull when she needed to charm somebody spread out on his chapped lips. He was older than my son Jamal, but not by much. I knew he must be that baby she'd been carrying when I last saw her. He was dressed like a gangsta: loose, sloppy pants, bulky sweater, polished Timberland boots, a rolled-back stocking pulled over his soft wavy hair. Celia's hair. A square-cut diamond ring in a platinum setting glittered on his right hand, which was far too big for his delicate fingers.