Dying in the Dark (16 page)

‘And you bought a car from Larry Walton, the guy you ended up interviewing?”

“Well, it was a coincidence,” I said, uncomfortably aware of the subtle criticism of my professionalism.

“Where did you interview him?”

“Well, as I mentioned, it was quite informal. It took place in a restaurant in Newark. Jay's.”

He all but rolled his eyes. “Jay's. I see. So what did you find out?”

“Were you aware that Celia Jones was involved with Drew Sampson's wife, Annette Sampson?”

“Yes.” His slow pronunciation of the word told me my information was anything but a revelation.

‘And so, I guess, they were both questioned by the police?”

“What else do you know about Celia Jones?” he asked, ignoring my question and reminding me that he, not I, was in charge of this discussion.

“Well, I know that Aaron Dawson was her last boyfriend. I also know that she was pregnant.”

“She told you that?”

“No. Like I said, I hadn't seen Celia in a number of years.” Was he trying to catch
me
in some kind of a lie?

“Then how do you know she was pregnant?”

‘Annette Sampson told me.”

“What else did Mrs. Sampson tell you?” His interest seemed to perk up.

“Well, that she was in love with Celia Jones, and that her husband was furious about the relationship. She also stated to me that she suspected that her husband had something to do with Celia's death. That he was capable of murder.” I studied Griffin's face for some sign of what was on his mind, but for all the expression he showed we could have been discussing a recipe for barbecue sauce.

“I think that both he as well as the boyfriend, who I have not been able to contact, may have had something to do with Ms. Jones's murder. I think that her son, Cecil Jones, knew or saw something he shouldn't have, some small thing that could identify the killer, and that was why he was murdered, too. I believe that the same person killed them both.”

‘And this is all from Annette Sampson, Celia Jones's ex-lover.”

“No, this is my theory.”

‘And could I ask, what led you to that conclusion? Woman's intuition?”

His tone wasn't nasty, but rather patient, as if he were responding to some dumb-ass theory tossed out by some dumb-ass rookie. I realized then that I was on the verge of making a fool of myself. For a hot minute, I considered apologizing for wasting his time, using the old standby excuse that I hadn't been sleeping well and was under considerable strain. Then I could rise with some degree of dignity, thank him for his valuable time, and quickly leave his office with my tail between my legs. But that felt cowardly, and truth is, I'd rather be a fool than a coward.

“No, Detective Griffin, it's not woman's intuition,” I said firmly, although I knew very well that most of it was. “I haven't been able to get in touch with Aaron Dawson. I was hoping that you'd be able
to tell me how to locate him. I also spoke to Drew Sampson, Annette Sampson's husband, and, frankly, I was shocked by the level of his anger and hatred toward Celia Jones. As we both know, violence against women often springs from jealousy, and I think his motive for killing Celia Jones was anger and jealousy about her relationship with his wife, which would be quite a blow to a macho guy like him. I'm also sure that on closer examination, his alibi won't hold up. He has also stated publicly that he will soon be leaving the country, and I suspect his will be a permanent move to a place from which he can't be extradited.”

“What about the wife? Annette Sampson? She would have more reason to kill Celia Jones than her husband since she left her husband for Celia Jones and then Jones left her.”

“I don't think she did it. She was angry, but she didn't strike me as a killer.”

‘And the husband did? I don't have to tell you, Ms. Hayle, that killers don't have horns, tails, and pitchforks. They look just like you and me.”

“I'm aware of that,” I said, feeling like the dumb rookie cop again.

“So then, this is what you
think
you know about the murder of Celia Jones: that she was pregnant. That she was shot in a jealous rage by either her boyfriend Aaron Dawson, who you haven't talked to, or by Drew Sampson, who you admit has an alibi, and that her son Cecil was murdered by the same person because he saw or knew something that would tie the murderer to his mother's death. Is that it?”

“Well, not exactly, I—”

He rose slowly and moved back behind his desk, stepping back into his role as authority and letting me know that my time with him was just about up. He picked up his phone, and asked for a copy of the case file on Celia Jones, which was promptly brought to him. He handed it to me.

I opened it with a feeling of dread. It contained all the paperwork, reports, and newspaper articles about my old friend's death. I read the death certificate and autopsy report and examined the grisly photographs from the crime scene. Even after all these years, seeing Celia's face again, as dead as it was, brought tears to my eyes. I tried to swallow them down. The last thing on earth I wanted was for this man to see me cry, but the tears came anyway. I closed the folder and handed it back to Griffin without looking at him. He opened his drawer and pulled out some tissues, which were soft and scented like lotion, and then spoke to me in a gentle, paternal voice.

‘As you can see, Celia Jones was
not
pregnant, the autopsy report states that clearly. She was murdered at approximately eight
A.M.
with a .22 caliber handgun. Her boyfriend Aaron Dawson, whom we spoke to at length, left her at six
A.M.
to visit his mother. As you may recall, it was New Year's Day, and he wanted to take his mother to an early service at her church. His alibi for where he was at the time of Ms. Jones's death is not only his mother, and mothers are known to cover for their sons, but the minister of his mother's church and half the congregation.

“Whoever killed Celia Jones waited patiently for him to leave. The person who killed her was a friend or acquaintance because there was no sign of a break-in or a struggle. Neighbors thought the
gunshots were firecrackers that someone had set off late to celebrate the holiday, so they didn't report anything. She lived in the kind of neighborhood where they don't report that kind of thing.

“We think the murderer must have been a jealous lover. We're still not sure who, but we're investigating all those with a motive. You're right about the Sampsons, but our focus is on the wife, not the husband. We're just not prepared to move in that direction yet, but we will be shortly. Her husband has a strong alibi. As you probably know, it's Larry Walton. We're not so sure about the wife. Brent Liston, our first suspect, also has an alibi. He was with some woman named Beanie, aka Bernadette Reese.”

We sat there silently for a moment or two. “Would you like a glass of water?”

“No, I'm fine,” I said, although I was anything but.

“If you don't mind, I'd like to offer you a piece of advice, one good cop to another.”

I nodded meekly, a repentant child glad to still be considered one of the fold.

“First, stay the hell away from Brent Liston. He's violent, dangerous, and quick to anger. Second, don't make any public accusations about Drew Sampson. He's a very powerful man with friends in high places. He's also a vindictive, nasty son of a bitch; I know that from personal experience. He wouldn't hesitate to prevail upon his friends to pull your license, and I'd hate to see that happen. Understand?”

I nodded that I did.

‘And something else.” His voice softened and I could see the kind eyes of the cop who had helped me through that difficult day so many years ago. “You're too involved in this case, Tamara. You know as well
as I do that it's never wise for an officer to investigate the murder of someone he or she knew personally because you get too caught up in your emotions and you can't see things clearly.

“If I'm not mistaken, her son was about the same age as Hakim, your son's half brother. That has probably raked up feelings of grief and vulnerability that you thought you'd buried, and it's affecting your judgment. As I said before, we're almost a hundred percent sure who killed the boy and, sooner or later, we're going to find out who killed his mother. Give yourself a break. Go home. Rest. Take care of your kid and thank God he's alive. Let us do our job. That's what you pay us for.”

With that he took out his reading glasses and picked up a paper from the pile on his desk, gently indicating that it was time for me to go.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

G
irl, I heard about what happened
to you over at that Businessman's Club last Wednesday,” Wyvetta Green said with a sassy wink as I strolled into Jan's Beauty Biscuit on Friday morning. It was a cold, rainy day and I was looking forward to the comfort of the Biscuit. “I guess those stuck-up fools found out they better not mess with Ms. Tamara Hayle, licensed private investigator. She knows how to turn out a party!”

I cringed as I settled into one of the cerise chairs in the Biscuit's cozy waiting area. Many had been the time this rose-colored room, filled as it was with the smell of herbal shampoo, coconut hair conditioner, and nail polish remover, had been a welcome respite from life's daily woes, but not today. A woman a bit older than me, in jeans and a gray T-shirt with the words “Memorial Hospital” in red lettering, sat next to me. Lucky for me, she was so engrossed in the latest issue of
Essence
magazine she didn't hear Wyvetta's comment.

“Well, Ms. Tamara Hayle, just what you got to say for yourself?” Wyvetta was determined not to let it go. I threw her a nasty look, tempted to get her off the subject by mentioning her hair. She had
streaked it an odd color of maroon that picked up the shade of her fingernail polish but contrasted starkly with her turquoise eye shadow. Some days, Wyvetta's “look” was successful; this morning wasn't one of them.

“Please
don't say anything about my hair. They must have put the wrong color in the bottle,” Wyvetta muttered, noticing where my gaze had settled.

“If you don't mention Wednesday, I won't mention your hair,” I said, and got a nod of agreement from Wyvetta as she applied conditioner to her client's head. Wyvetta and I are good friends, but we know not to cross each other. Our truce, however, came too late.

“The Businessman's Club? My husband is a member of that club. So what happened on Wednesday?” asked her plump client, shooting a critical sidelong glance at Wyvetta. The woman wore bright red lipstick and a green sweater that fit her ample bosom snugly. Her mink coat was casually tossed across the chair next to her and was weighed down by an overstuffed red Coach bag. Wyvetta threw me a helpless look that said things were out of her control, and I slumped farther down into my chair. Wednesday had been bad enough; Thursday was the last straw.

I'd slunk out of the police station after my meeting with Griffin like a beaten-down hound, too dejected to return to my office. I'd gone home, opened a quart of Cherry Garcia, and watched soaps I hadn't seen in years. Griffin was right, I'd decided. I was taking this whole thing too much to heart. Celia Jones was dead, Cecil Jones was dead, and I should, as the good detective advised me, let the police do their job.

Celia hadn't appeared in my dreams since I'd taken on her case,
which was a good sign. And if she showed up again, I was going to tell the girl to
please
haunt somebody else. I'd done all I could for her and her child and now it was time for me to look after my own life. Griffin had assured me the cops were certain they knew who killed her son, although he hadn't exactly shared how “fate” had taken a hand in it. Apparently, he and his detectives knew more about both these cases than I did. My “information” about Celia's pregnancy had been embarrassingly false; you sure can't argue with a medical report. I had no idea why Annette Sampson had told me Celia was pregnant or if Celia had lied to her.

Annette Sampson was the one string left dangling in my involvement with this case that needed to be tied. I'd tried to call her early that morning to cancel our appointment, but she hadn't been home. I'd decided that if I couldn't reach her by three, I'd drop by her house and explain things in person, and that would be that. Her call on Wednesday night still had me worried, so I also wanted to make sure she was okay. And I wanted to ask her why she had lied to me about the pregnancy. Once I spoke to her, I could take the rest of the day off in good faith and prepare myself for my meeting on Monday with my new client.

It still troubled me that the police suspected Annette Sampson had something to do with Celia's death. I was sure they had it wrong, and that the deaths of Celia and her son were connected. But I didn't have any proof except my “woman's intuition,” as Griffin put it, and in the world of male cops that didn't count for squat. I knew, though, I had to seriously heed his warning about Drew Sampson. Although Griffin didn't admit it to me, I knew he was a good detective, and he had probably grilled Sampson hard about Celia's death. I'd bet that
Sampson's “friends in high places” had come down on him and his boss. Griffin was a decorated cop, and if Sampson could put pressure like that on him, no telling what he would do to me. Besides that, Larry Walton was his alibi. There was no disputing that, and for all I really knew, they could be telling the truth.

Sometimes you simply have to let things go. The sad truth is the bad guys and girls often do get away with it, particularly if they have money and power, and there's not a damn thing you can do. I couldn't afford to ignore the warning Griffin had given me about Drew Sampson. With Jamal headed to college in a few years and this new assignment on the horizon, the last thing I needed was for my license to be suspended.

In celebration of my newly found freedom and the money that would be coming my way, I'd called Wyvetta Green late last night, and begged her to fit me in for a quick fix-me-up. She called back early this morning and said she had a cancellation, and if I could be at her shop before ten she'd do what she could for me. So Jan's Beauty Biscuit was my first stop this gloomy morning, and all I wanted to do was feel Wyvetta's able hands on my neglected scalp. But I was beginning to wish I'd put beauty on hold for another day.