In the Night of the Heat (21 page)

“Who's the officer?” I said.

“Sorry. No can do. A source is a source. But I'll say this: Donald Hankins, being nobody's fool, got real cozy with LAPD after that traffic fatality. The wife said she got stonewalled. LAPD wouldn't touch the case. It was just a car that drove off the road.”

A beep on my phone told me I had a text message, but I ignored it. “Did anyone ever bring Ronald-slash-Roland in for questioning?” I said.

“Nope. I've got nothing on him. Guy was a ghost. His name's in my notes, but I won't be back in town until next week. Even then…we're talking about a story that's almost ten years old. I can't promise I could find the notes. I can't even promise I'll look.”

At least he was honest.

“What about the wife?”

“Her, I'll talk about. Name was…Laura Ebersole. With a B. She called me every day for six months, then she dropped out of sight. No contact. I found out she'd moved to Canada. Toronto. The forwarding number had already gone bad.”

“Retired?”

“She was in her thirties. Felt more like…she was scared off. It was sudden. She just dropped everything.”

Grief drove people to drastic changes, but I agreed with Burnside. Seemed sudden.

“You think Hankins's thug got to her?” I said.

“No proof, but sure, it's possible. I got a heavy breather once myself. Someone called, and a gruff guy's voice said, ‘Let it alone.' Southern accent. Click, he's gone. I didn't have a clue what he was talking about at the time…but who knows? Could've been Ronald. Roland. Whatever.”

Interesting but thin. Nothing like the tip about Carlyle Simms that Jeanine had dropped on me that morning. Still, sketchy as the details were, I wrote them down.

“Guess what?” Burnside said. “Your five minutes are up. I've got an interview.”

“Hey, man, thanks. If you find the mystery thug's name, let me know.”

Burnside laughed. “Don't hold your breath. Hey, tell April we'll miss her. She'll be Mandela's press secretary before you know it.”

God, I hoped not.

As soon as I'd hung up, I checked my text message. It was from Melanie.

WE'RE IN—HANKINS AT
7—
CALL ME
.

Like I said, Burnside's call came right on time. You never want to underestimate the man you're about to interview face-to-face.

I was about to meet Chantelle Jackson's parents, the same day I might have learned exactly how their daughter died.

“I HEAR YOU'RE CHECKING UP ON ME,”
Melanie said.

She was waiting at our designated meeting place—the Jackson's curb, beneath the jacarandas. The previous day's anger had vanished from Melanie's cheekbones. They don't call dusk the Golden Hour for nothing: The setting sun ignited a quality in Melanie's face that fooled my eyes into thinking I was seeing her for the first time. The sight of her made my memory sluggish.

“New York?” she prompted.

Right. The day before, I'd put in a call to the Black Lawyers' League in New York to check Melanie's alibi. I'd found her name on the event program on the internet, but I wanted to make sure she'd been there. Second nature, after what happened to Serena. Melanie's story checked out. At the time the coroner said T.D. died, Melanie was at a late-night mixer at Trump Tower. The guard's log confirmed she had been there until 2
A.M.

“I made a couple calls,” I said. “Procedure.”

“I'm glad you're so thorough.” She sounded like she meant it. “What about Carlyle?”

I sighed. It had been a long day, followed by rounds of whining from both Dad and Chela when I told them I would have to miss dinner because of an appointment.

“Still working on it. I racked up a lot of mileage trying to find Carlyle and his friends, but they're all missing. I saw one pissed-off wife and two pissed-off girlfriends. One of the guys—Brandon—made an appearance at home Tuesday night to get some clothes. His wife says he stank of whiskey and pot.” Brandon's wife hadn't looked as willing to lie as Alma, and she was clearly distraught about his behavior. She said her husband had been at home Sunday night, with her sister there to vouch for the story. Like Alma, she had conceded that her husband sometimes “took off” when T.D. and his friends were involved. But despite the friends' suspicious behavior, neither of the other women had been interviewed by the police.

“They're holed up somewhere together,” Melanie said. “I knew it. It's been that way since college. Their whole Heat brotherhood is just an excuse to disappear when they feel like it. If T.D. was here, he'd kick all their asses—leaving all this stress on me…” She was already backing away from the notion that Carlyle might have killed T.D. She didn't want to believe it.

Soon, I might have to tell her what Jeanine had said. But not yet. I wanted her sharp and focused for our meeting at Senator Hankins's house.

We took Melanie's car. Her front seat was immaculate, brown leather seats shining, but the backseat looked like a mobile file cabinet, stacked with boxes and papers. We would have to work to make room for her niece and nephew.

T.D.'s mother hadn't been exaggerating when she told me how close the Jackson and Hankins families were; they lived in the same neighborhood, within only blocks. Almost walking distance. Once upon a time, that had been cozy—now I was sure both families
wished they were a continent apart, except for the grandchildren who kept them tethered.

I looked at my watch. It was still a quarter to seven. “We're early.”

Melanie smiled grimly. “We'll have more time this way.”

The Hankins house was roughly the same size as the Jackson house—about six thousand square feet, I guessed—but it was colonial-style instead of Tudor, with whitewashed wooden columns, a wide porch, and a quaint porch swing that evoked memories of
Gone With the Wind
. A child's Huffy racing bike lay on its side on the porch, beside a large plastic box brimming with sports equipment. It was easy to see where the children spent most of their time.

As we climbed the porch, Melanie followed my eyes. “The kids have been living here since Chantelle died. Uncle Em and Aunt Evie have to fight for every minute with them. It's about to get ugly now—in his will, T.D. said he wanted them with me.” Her voice was low.

“What will you do?”

Melanie shook her head. “I don't know. Whatever's best. We have a funeral first.” She rang the doorbell, and three sober tones chimed through the house.

There was a patter of footsteps, and the door was flung open.

Maya Jackson was much taller than she'd looked in her photo in T.D. Jackson's den, the top of her head reaching Melanie's shoulder. She had an oval face, and long, relaxed hair parted into ponytails. The sturdy thirteen-year-old grinned. The grin surprised me.

“Auntie Mel!” she cried, and flung her arms around Melanie.

Aunt and niece shared a long, swaying embrace in the doorway, while Mel smoothed Maya's hair back with her fingers, kissing her forehead; I could see a mother lurking within Melanie. I felt like an intruder standing so close to them, so I hung back toward the swing. They stayed in the doorway a long time, as if Maya was reluctant to
bring Melanie inside. The thought of the family pressures on that kid were too sad to dwell on.

Finally, Maya Jackson looked my way. Her eyes were clear and aware, not nearly as trodden as I had expected from a child whose father had just died.

“Where's Simon?” Maya said, her knowing eyes fixed on me. Her intuition was eerie.

“Simon will be back tomorrow,” Melanie said. “This is a friend of mine—Tennyson.”

Maya didn't greet me. “There's a poet named Tennyson,” she said, and took Melanie's hand to pull her inside. Those private-school dollars weren't being wasted.

“She's named after a poet, too,” Melanie told me. “Maya Angelou.”

The Hankins house was so cluttered that it seemed smaller than it was, teeming with unique furniture and artifacts, many of them African and Caribbean. Incense had been burning recently. Wooden floors complemented wooden chairs and wooden figurines and masks throughout the house.

The family was well traveled. Above the table in the foyer, I saw a photo of Donald Hankins posing with Nelson Mandela. April would be envious; her biggest dream in South Africa was to have her chance to meet Mandela. One call from Hankins might get it done, but I wasn't there to curry favors.

A slightly plump woman in a plain red dress came hurrying down the stairs. I recognized her from her stoic gaze during the Jackson trial: Chantelle's mother. Mother and daughter shared the distinctively shaped face that Chantelle had bestowed on Maya.

“Is it seven already?” Loretta Hankins said.

“Sorry, Retta,” Melanie said. “We're early.”

Retta smiled widely, trying too hard, both hands waving dismis
sively. “It's not a problem, darling. Junior's just not quite ready, but I'll give him a nudge.” She reached toward Melanie for a mechanical hug. I guessed that Retta Hankins knew full well what T.D.'s will said about custody of the children, and she was going out of her way to keep Melanie placated. That was probably the only reason I'd been invited.

Retta's smile faltered as she turned to me, but she glued it back on. She patted Maya's shoulder. “Go on up and check on Junior, baby. He's looking for his shoes.”

Maya cast a last glance at me before she left. Her eyes seemed to say
I know why you're here, and nobody wants to talk about it in front of me, but don't think I'm stupid.
Like Chela, Maya was one of those kids who had wisdom beyond her years. Life had beaten it into her. As she walked away, I heard her gum pop.

“That Mel?” a man's voice boomed. I saw movement out of the corner of my eye.

Donald Hankins was peeking from around the corner beyond an upright piano, wearing a white chef's apron over his dress shirt and slacks. He'd raised a plastic spatula as if it was a bludgeon, but his grin was luminous, so natural I thought I'd earned it. I suddenly smelled gently frying food. Spicy fish. Corn bread. His house smelled like a church basement.

In a glance, I understood why Donald Hankins thought he had a shot at the governor's office. His hair was closely shaved, his mustache full but meticulously clipped. He had the same bottled charisma T.D. had mastered, the kind I could focus like a flashlight beam, while his filled the room. He didn't make a motion that wasn't calculated for effect. He was smooth and fluid and already my best friend. He looked happier to see me than Judge Jackson ever had.

“Hey, man,” he said, hand outstretched. “Don Hankins.”

“Senator,” I said, shaking his hand.

“Mel, Junior's a mess today,” Hankins said. “He really needs you up there.”

Immediately, Melanie's eyes flew toward the stairs.
Shit,
I thought. I'd hoped she would be present for part of my conversation with Hankins, but he had just sent her out of the room.

“Guess I better go see him,” she said.

The worst way to be played is to
know
you're being played—and still be unable to avoid the play. After an apologetic gaze toward me, Melanie was gone. Retta Hankins had vanished, too, when I wasn't paying attention. Her duty was done.

Hankins waved with the spatula. “Come on in the kitchen with me. Let's talk.”

The custom kitchen was three times the size of mine, equipped like a small restaurant. Spotless pots and pans hung in regimented rows above the marble counters. Every corner gleamed with cutlery. I could cook my ass off in that kitchen.

Hankins went to the stove, where fish was frying in a small pan. Whole fish, not fillets, heads intact. As he flipped the fish, I felt the déjà vu of standing in the kitchen with my father, except that Donald Hankins was much heartier. I wished I hadn't had to miss dinner at home.

“We're having catfish, but I'm 'fraid it's just enough for me and Retta.”

“I wouldn't dream of imposing, sir.”

Donald Hankins looked at me over his shoulder. He chuckled, jabbing his spatula toward me. “Now we both know that's not true, or you wouldn't be here in my home at dinnertime. I may be a politician, but I don't truck in bullshit. I hope you don't either.”

“Fine by me.”

“Good. Mel's horseshit aside, I know why you're here, so we'll talk like two men. Grab me a beer out of that fridge.”

I opened the large refrigerator and found a row dedicated to Amstel Light. The other rows were crammed with colorfully labeled children's foods.

“You might as well have one, too,” he said. “We're short on fish, but there's beer to spare.”

I took him up on his offer. As I sat at the barstool counter to drink my beer, I noticed the mail. A Southern California State Alumni magazine was at the top of the pile, addressed to Hankins. The cover shot was a football receiver leaping for a photogenic catch at Spartans Stadium. I thumbed through the magazine. Hankins pretended not to notice, but I felt his body tensing from two yards away. I put his magazine down.

“I was at SoCal a couple years in the eighties,” I said. “You a Spartan, too?”

He laughed. “Shoot. A hundred years ago.”

I gazed at his shoulders, trying to imagine him forty years younger. Donald Hankins was big enough to have been an athlete. “Play any ball?” I said.

“'Lil' bit,” he said. “Hand me that pepper, would you?” He nodded at a spice bottle arm's reach from me on the counter. I gave him the ground red pepper, and he sprinkled it liberally before handing it back. “Right cabinet. At the top.”

I was tiring of his tasks, but I put the pepper away. I recognized his ploy, and it was clever; by keeping me occupied, he could control the conversation while at the same time creating perceived rapport. I couldn't have done it better myself.

“You know what a sociopath is?” Donald Hankins said suddenly. He was concentrating on the frying pan, which sizzled so loudly that I wasn't sure I'd heard him right.

“Sir?”

“A sociopath,” he repeated. “A person who looks like you or me,
but who has no feelings for other people. He has no concept of right or wrong. He is…dead inside.”

“Sounds right.”

After moving the pan to another burner, Hankins took off his apron, folded it across the counter, and turned to look at me. His chest was broader than it had seemed. Even leaning casually against the kitchen counter, he was taller than I am. His eyes didn't blink. “My daughter, Chantelle—my only child on this earth—was married to a sociopath. She was
murdered
by a sociopath.” As he said it, one eye fought wincing. “His name was T.D. Jackson.”

“Yessir,” I said. “I'm afraid that may be true.”

“I'll tell you in plain English, and I've said it before: T.D. Jackson killed my daughter. So if you're standing there judging me because I haven't shed any tears over his recent departure, I just told you why. If you were in my place, you'd be dancing a damn jig.”

“I don't doubt it.”

Donald Hankins shared a conspiratorial grin. “And I'll tell you this, too: That beautiful little girl you met—Maya? She isn't shedding any tears either. That was her
father
…and yet she understands she is better off without him. A child! Now, that should really tell you something.”

I took a swallow of beer. It was sharp and cold, but my mouth was sour. “Maybe she had reason to think her father killed her mother. Or, someone encouraged her to believe that.”

Hankins's grin vanished. “Retta and I broke our hearts every day trying not to bad-mouth that monster in front of those kids. And Junior, well, he's a different story. He's younger, and it takes a whole lot to make a boy that age look at his father cross-eyed. I feel bad for Junior—tell you the truth, Junior is the
only
reason I feel bad. I wish he didn't have that bastard's name.” For the first time, I saw bitter grief on his face. He took a long swig of beer. “Son of a bitch.”

I raised my bottle in a toast. “The son of a bitch is dead now.”

He clinked our bottles. “I only wish I'd seen it, and I wish he'd done it sooner.”

We both drank to that, Hankins gazing beyond me at nothing. Where his mind was, I never want to know. When I lowered my bottle, half my beer was gone. I wanted to go on toasting T.D.'s death, but I had work to do.