Games Divas Play (A Diva Mystery Novel) (14 page)

As I stared at the roof of the garage, my eyes wide with fear and tears streaming out of the sides of my eyes, I felt his ragged hot breath along my neck. I closed my eyes tightly as he began to squeeze. I knew I was about to die in t
he garage.

Suddenly there was a voice shouting in the distance. There were footsteps running. And then just as abruptly as the man was on top of me, he jumped off and was gone. I rolled over onto my side, clutching my ribs, coughing and choking, and then there was blessed
darkness.

CHAPTER
9

Nia

T
he cab driver slammed on the brakes at the corner of Park Avenue and Seventy-Fifth Street. In reflex mode, my arm swung out to push MJ back into his seat as his lightweight behind started to hurtle face-first toward the plastic partition that separated us from o
ur driver.

“OK, Jesus, take the wheel for real,” MJ said as he reached for his sunglasses, which had fallen into his lap. “Girl, you saved my life; well, maybe not my life but certainly my gorge
ous face.”

Muttering under my breath, I picked up my black Bottega Veneta tote that had tumbled onto the littered floor of the taxi and resisted the urge to tell our driver, Reakwon, whose name I read off the grainy black-and-white photo next to his New York City taxi license, that the brakes in his dirty-ass cab would likely work just as well if the brother lightly pushed down on them as he approached the destination instead of waiting until the last minute and trying to kill us both. My jaw tight, I swiped my American Express corporate card through the credit card reader, skipped the tip, and MJ and I jumped out of the mustard dea
th mobile.

Deuces
, Reakwon.

I tossed the heavy tote with braided shoulder straps onto my shoulder and pulled up the black cashmere cowl-neck scarf that was underneath my black Burberry trench coat around my neck and ears against the chilly
fall air.

MJ and I began to make our way through the throngs of Upper East Side nannies pushing ultraprivileged toddlers in thousand-dollar strollers, heavily made-up socialites heading off to disease-du-jour benefit lunches at the Waldorf, and businessmen talking loudly into cell phones. I scanned the gold placards on the walls of the brownstones, looking desperately for the one that matched the address on the crumpled paper in my hands that I had written down twenty minutes ago when I got a call from a man named Alex. He wouldn’t tell me anything over the phone beyond that he worked for Marcus and Vanessa, and that she needed to see me right away. Alarmed when he gave me the name of Prometheus Medical Associates, I asked if she was OK, but all he would say was that Vanessa wanted
to see me.

After seeing the stories about Laila and Marcus in the paper, I had been trying to call Vanessa all morning. I wanted to see how she was doing as well as discuss the pressure DeAnna was putting on me to run a story on Laila’s new reality show. I immediately told MJ to cancel the run-through I was about to have with our accessories editor, Sharan Ali, even though she was already wheeling racks of designer clothing down the hallway to my office. We were going to select items for a story on new fall trends. When MJ saw my hands shaking as I threw items into my bag, he insisted on tagging along, and I was thankful since I didn’t know what I was goin
g to find.

“Here it is,” said MJ as he glanced back down at the paper in my hand and back up at the gold-plated placard on the outside of a five-story brownstone in the middle of the t
ony block.

MJ pushed the small black button on the intercom next to the door and gave our names to the curt, disembodied voice that answered. A security camera tucked into the corner of the wall turned toward us, a red light flashed twice, and then the voice told us to take the elevator up to the fourth floor before it buzzed us into the
building.

The doors of the elevator opened into a small, elegant waiting room decorated in rich chocolate brown, cream, and red accents that looked more like a page ripped out of
Elle Décor
than any doctor’s office in which I had ever been. There was no receptionist. A man in a dark suit put down the copy of
Time
magazine he had been reading, got up from a leather club chair, and walked o
ver to us.

“Ms. Nia?” he asked. I could see that he had a coiled plastic headset snaking out of the collar of his shirt and int
o his ear.

“Uh, yes,” I said, looking at him quizzically. MJ and I exchanged glances. “Are
you Alex?”

“Yes, ma’am. I am. Just a moment.” Alex raised his wrist to his mouth and spoke into a small microphone attached to the cuff of his su
it jacket.

“Ms. Nia is here.” When he received a response, he tur
ned to MJ.

“Ms. Nia is the only one I’m authorized to send back, so you will need to wait out here with me,” Alex said. I undid the belt of my jacket, took off my coat and scarf, and gave them to MJ to hold as he took a seat in one of the overstuffed wingback leather chairs and began to sulk behind his sunglasses over being
left out.

“Right this way, Ms. Nia.” Alex led me over to a heavy oak-paneled door that sudden
ly opened.

“Hi, Nia. I’m Desiree, Marcus’s publicist,” said a petite young woman who extended one hand to shake while she held a ringing iPhone and a BlackBerry in her other. She was dressed in a winter-white wool wrap dress that hugged her curves with black Jimmy Choo boots. Her long jet-black weave hung down her back, and heavy bangs skimmed the tops of long lashes that framed dark brown eyes. I never understood why sisters who wanted to get a weave didn’t at least try to fool folks into thinking it was theirs by getting a look and length even halfway believable. Maybe she should spend less time at the salon and more time keeping her client out of t
he papers.

“Hello, Desiree,” I said, shaking her outstretched hand. “Can you please tell me what’s going on? Is Va
nessa OK?”

“I’m so sorry for all the secrecy. Please, let me take you to Mrs. King.”
Desiree silenced the ringing iPhone and BlackBerry and led me past four closed office doors on either side of the hallway. At the end of the long hallway, Desiree knocked sharply twice on a closed door before turning the knob and holding the door open for me to enter. She did not enter the room; I heard her close the door
behind me.

The room was large and looked like a luxury hotel suite except for the standard-issue hospital bed dressed with crisp white linens and a bank of blinking monitors set up in the center of the room. Heavy white curtains hung from tall windows that appeared to be tinted so that the patients could see out and enjoy the view of the Manhattan skyline without anyone on the outside being able
to see in.

A nurse dressed in light pink scrubs stood by the bed. She took a plastic bag out of her pocket filled with clear fluid and hung it on a chrome IV stand, attached it to a tube, and then turned to gently insert a tiny needle into Vanessa’s arm. Vanessa winced, but she didn’t open
her eyes.

I walked over to the bed, and when I picked up Vanessa’s hand, she blinked a few times as she tried to focus on my face. A tear slid out of the corner of her eye. Underneath her eye was swollen and puffy, and her bottom lip was cut. I clutched the rail to steady myself when I saw the dark bruising on my friend’s neck. I had covered enough crime scenes at the beginning of my career to know the signs of stra
ngulation.

I began to lean down to my friend, but before either one of us could speak, I noticed some movement out of the corner of my eye a
nd turned.

“Kareem?” I said tightly as I tilted my head upon recognizing Marcus’s longtime agent. Vanessa clenched my hand when she heard me say
his name.

“Hi, Nia,” Kareem said as he stood up. He, too, had an iPhone and a BlackBerry in his hands along with a beat-up white envelope. Tall at six foot five and with a muscular build, he now wore custom-made $5,000 Italian suits instead of the Nike sweat suits and shorts he and Marcus used to wear when they were teammates at UCLA. Closer than most brothers, the two had grown up together in LA. Kareem’s mother left the family when he was little, and his father was in and out of jail, so he spent most of his time living with his aging grandmother, in and out of juvie for minor offenses, and at Marcus’s home with his aunt and cousin. The cops, who knew he had a promising future as a basketball player, tried to cut Kareem some slack, hoping the two cousins would end up in the pros together. Despite his lengthy juvenile record, he was accepted to UCLA with Marcus, and they went off to college, determined that they both would make it to
the pros.

The first two years they were unstoppable, and
ESPN
magazine billed the two sophomores as the dynamic duo in a cover story predicting that Marcus and Kareem could go to numbers one and two in the draft. There was also a brief scandal that erupted their junior year involving Kareem and allegations about gambling, which were never proven. And just as Marcus and Kareem were leading their school to an NCAA championship, Kareem was struck by a hit-and-run driver on a rainy night. Kareem’s left leg was shattered and, a year of painful rehab later, so were his dreams for a professional basketba
ll career.

Equally as devastated by the accident but determined to continue to press on for himself and his friend, Marcus led UCLA to a championship and dedicated the victory to his friend who watched the game from his hospital bed. After winning the championship, Marcus felt like he had nothing left to prove on the college level and despite the pleas from his parents to finish the last few months of his senior year and get his degree—he would have been the first in their family to graduate from college—Marcus announced he was entering the NBA draft. And then Marcus fulfilled a promise to his friend by making a move that left many of the top agents and managers who had hoped to sign the young phenom shaking their heads. He announced on the night of the NBA draft that his cousin and former teammate, Kareem Davis, would be both his agent an
d manager.

And so Kareem came along for the ride. And when he wasn’t handling business negotiations, he was inserting himself in press appearances and magazine and TV interviews, trying to get as much of his own shine as possible. His personal life was messy, and he traded off Marcus’s name to bed a bevy of rotating groupies, young starlets, and R&B singers. And I was sure some of these chicks even thought Kareem was Marcus because they resembled each other so much. But once a hustler, always a hustler. Every so often there would be some incident at a nightclub or event that would hit the blogs and be all the chatter until Desiree stepped in to make it all go away. The last incident had been one for the foolywang record books when a sex tape featuring Kareem and a Hollywood actress was leaked to TMZ. The footage was so shadowy, many people initially assumed it was Marcus in the gra
iny video.

Over the years Kareem had managed to do a fairly decent job steering his friend’s career, landing lucrative endorsement deals with sneaker companies, sports drinks, and athletic apparel, but Vanessa said there were always other agents and managers swarming around Marcus, just waiting for an opportunity to swoop in and grab him. She had tried to push Marcus to at least take some meetings with potential new representation, but Marcus wouldn’t hear of it, and her suggestions only served to make Kareem her permanent enemy. Marcus and Kareem had a contract, but Vanessa hoped their contract was just the right lawyer away from being able to
be broken.

Vanessa knew there was no separating the cousins, so she tried to stay out of the professional matters. But as the problems with groupies and Marcus’s infidelity began to cause problems in their marriage, Vanessa couldn’t help but wonder if Kareem wasn’t secretly hoping their marriage would dissolve. She had told me that he knew she was pushing Marcus to drop him, so a divorce would certainly benefit him in the long run. But in the short term, she had to believe that a nasty divorce wouldn’t be good for his client’s image and therefore wouldn’t be good for business. And, if nothing else, Kareem’s sneaky behind was all about the
business.

I always got a bad vibe from him. Even now, suited and booted within an inch of his life, as MJ would say, he still reminded me of one of those slick brothers on the block back in Chicago always looking for that next hustle. Kareem’s insistence that the threatening e-mails Vanessa and Marcus had been receiving be kept secret didn’t seem to indicate he had their family’s best interest
at heart.

Kareem, who was dressed in a well-tailored midnight-blue wool suit, crisp white shirt, and Hermès silk tie that he had loosened around his neck, took my extended hand and leaned in to give me a kiss on the cheek in greeting. His chestnut skin gleamed from what I imagined were regular facials, and his teeth were like two rows of gleaming white Chiclets, from cosmetic bleaching no doubt. We didn’t see each other often, but since I was Damon’s godmother and he was his godfather, we did interact on family occasions. And he sniffed around occasionally trying to get a little taste, but I let him know to pump the brakes since he had been so slimy and backhanded wit
h my girl.

“What the hell happened, Kareem?” I hissed through gritted teeth as my eyes narrowed. I snatched my
hand away.

“Look, let’s go outside and talk. The nurse just gave Vanessa something so she can sleep.” I turned back to the bed and saw that Vanessa was dozing off. I leaned over the railing of the bed and kissed her on the cheek, then followed Kareem down the hall and into a sma
ll office.

“Let me try this again, Kareem. What the fuck happened to Vanessa? And where the hell is her husband?” I said as soon as he closed the door b
ehind him.

“Nia, I know you’re upset . . . ,” he started. Kareem took a seat behind the desk as if he were holding office hours. He waved at one of the chairs in front of the desk to indicate I should take a seat, but I placed my fingertips on the desk and leaned t
oward him.

“You’re damn right I’m upset. My best friend is lying in a hospital bed, but not in a hospital. Where are we? What is this place? What the hell is
going on?”