Of Blood and Sorrow (16 page)

“My husband is a good man,” she said out of nowhere, and I knew then it wasn’t her son she was worried about.

“I’m sure he is.”

So maybe Basil, rarely wrong about criminal minds because he had one himself, had gotten it wrong. Maybe I’d been right, that Treyman Barnes was mixed up in this mess. Or maybe they both were, father and son. Barnes getting Turk to kill Lilah and his son protecting his father by killing Turk. That was one way a troubled son could earn his distant father’s love and respect. They could be out of the country by now, planning to send for Nellie later. But then why had Barnes come to my office looking for Baby Dal? How was Thelma Lee involved?

But there was no need to share any of these thoughts with Nellie Barnes. She carried on about her good-hearted son and “good man” of a husband and how much he loved her and where they had gone on their honeymoon and cruise last winter, and I sat there, sipping tea and watched her talk, wondering just how much information she didn’t want to know that she’d tucked away. Wyvetta’s name for her, Know-Nothing Nellie, had a heartbreaking resonance now.

Yet I felt a sense of relief.

“If I hear from either of them, you’ll be the first to know,” I said as I bid her goodbye.

“You’re a good woman, Tamara Hayle,” she said, and I hoped she’d still feel that way when she found out I’d tossed my red-meat suspicions about her family into the waiting jaws of the hungry cops.

I did some research on an upcoming case for the next couple of hours, then went to dinner with Wyvetta, sneaking out the back door like schoolkids and into her car in case any cops were around. Sitting across from her in our favorite Chinese restaurant, I got mad again when I thought of what Larry had said about her and Earl, and when she asked about him, all grins and expectations, it was all I could do not to share my real thoughts.

She didn’t ask about what was going on in my life, and I didn’t tell her. Better to share it over that bottle of bourbon when everything was over. She dropped me off in the back of our building so I could pick up some things in my office before I headed home. It was going on ten, and when I heard the knock on the door, I opened it quickly, assuming it was Wyvetta. It was the two cops again, looking tired and surly. They were dressed as they were before, same suits and ill-fitting jackets, but the young one had a day or two growth of beard that gave him a sinister edge.

“Hello again, Ms. Hayle. I’m Detective Coates, and this is Detective Ransom. May we come in?” asked the veteran.

“Of course,” I said, standing back. No use acting like I had something to hide. But the glint in the rookie’s eyes made me nervous.

“Monday,” the rookie said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Monday we want to talk to your son. There have been some…well, some new developments. He’s a minor, but he’s a possible witness to a violent crime, so we can’t put it off any longer,” said the veteran.

“If you think my son is somehow involved in Lilah Love’s death, you’re wrong, and as for anything else, he’s been out of—”

“We know where he is, and we’ll pick him up if you don’t bring him to us. He’s a material witness,” the young one said, cutting me off.

“He didn’t witness a damn thing,” I said. But I knew it didn’t matter. The police could hold a material witness almost as long as they wanted to. There were few protections against it.

“We’ll be the ones who decide that. We don’t want to go down there and pick him up unless we have to. It would be easier for the kid if you bring him in, make it casual like, don’t put more on him than you need to,” said the older cop.

“This whole thing stinks to high heaven, and every time we look up, the name
Hayle
seems to pops up,” added the young one. His veteran partner shot him a warning glance.

“What are you talking about?” The skin on the back of my neck crawled down.

“Your son was the last person to see Lilah Love alive. As far as we can ascertain, you may have been the last person to meet with Treyman Barnes. His wife told us a little while ago that he was here with you the day before yesterday.”

“Treyman Barnes! Are you telling me that Treyman Barnes is dead?!”

“Yeah, he’s dead.”

His words had an immediate, violent effect; I fell back against my desk like somebody had punched me. “He’s dead? How could he be dead?” I hardly knew the man, and certainly hadn’t liked him, yet even I was surprised by the intensity of my reaction. I could hardly breathe for a moment, maybe because of his wife, and what she must have felt when she found out. Or his son. If he hadn’t had a hand in it. But mostly because my biggest fear was becoming a reality. The murderer was closing in and getting reckless. The cops, unimpressed by my response, stared at me blankly.

“Don’t you listen to the news? It was on every station, first story. Big-time businessman found dead in the trunk of his car.” The younger one smirked. “Somebody took him by surprise, probably handcuffed him, got him out of his office, and cut his throat, ear to ear, before they threw him in his fancy car,” he said, as if he enjoyed telling me.

Execution-style. Cut his throat.

“But I just talked to his wife! She was just here!” I wailed, as if they would care.

“We know you were working for him. We know you had a heated disagreement, and we’ll find out the rest,” said the veteran.

“Have you talked to his son, to Troy Barnes? He had reason to want both Lilah and his father dead. He may have had something to do with Turk Orlando’s death, too!” I said, pouring out everything I knew.

They glanced at each other again, then back at me. “Turk Orlando?” asked the rookie.

“The guy who was found in that motel, same MO.”

“How do you know about Turk Orlando and how he was killed? The details haven’t been released yet,” said the veteran.

“Just how much do you know?” the young one demanded.

“Nothing,” I said miserably. “I’m not going to say anything else without a lawyer present. I don’t know anything!”

The veteran sighed, long and wearily, and said, “Look, I’m going to cut you some slack because I knew your brother, and I know you were in law enforcement a while back. But you’d better meet us at the precinct with your son and that lawyer first thing on Monday morning, you got it?”

“And don’t leave town or we’ll pick your kid up at his daddy’s place,” the young one added.

The veteran laid two cards on the edge of my desk, and the two of them left without looking back.

FIFTEEN

M
Y CELL PHONE RANG
as I was walking to my car, and when DeWayne’s name flashed on the screen, I picked it up quick.

“Is he there yet? I don’t know where the hell else he could be but with you,” he said before I could answer.

I stopped dead in my tracks, right where I stood.

“Did you hear me? Did Jamal get there yet? He’s probably headed to—”

“Are you telling me that Jamal’s not with you?”

“That’s what I said.”

“I just talked to him yesterday. Yesterday he said—”

“Today ain’t yesterday, Tamara, and he ain’t here today. I figured he’s probably headed up to you. He said something about going home. I—” DeWayne couldn’t finish because I was screaming at him, my fear and rage combining in a wail that came straight from my gut.

“Now, calm down, Tammy. The boy—”

“There’s been another killing! The killer might be looking for Jamal! The cops want Jamal here on Monday morning, so they’ll be looking for him, too! They might even have him now, for all we know! How could you let this happen again? How could you let this happen?” My words rolled out in a tirade that left me breathless.

“Don’t blame me. I got home this evening, and his bag was gone. I—”

“You stupid son of a bitch!” I spit out. “You careless, irresponsible,
stupid
son of a bitch!”

“No need to get nasty, now. This is as much your fault as it is mine. Who introduced him to the bitch in the first place? Who exposes him to lowlifes every day of the week? Who spoils the boy to the point where he don’t know shit?” His accusations, shouted fast and loud, knocked my legs from under me, and I sat down on the curb, unable to speak. Everything had come apart. Every bit of peace I’d felt. Jamal’s voice came back, mocking me.

I’m fine. Hey, Mom. Take a deep breath. Relax. Okay?

But he wasn’t fine. I knew it now, and I should have known it then.

“Tamara, you still there?” asked DeWayne cautiously.

“Did he leave a note? Did he give any hint where he was going?” It did no good to scream at the fool or for him to scream at me. It just made things worse.

“He said something last night about being worried about
you
and wanting to get home. Said he didn’t want to wait until Sunday. They still ain’t found that killer yet? What you mean the cops want to see him on Monday?”

“They want me to bring him in so he has to be home by then.”

Neither of us spoke. I could hear DeWayne breathing heavy on the line, as if he was trying to catch his breath. I knew he was as worried as me.

“Tamara, I’ll find him, I promise,” he said after a while, his voice low and earnest.

“Your promises don’t mean shit to me, DeWayne Curtis, you know that.”

“I promise on the memory of my boys, Tamara, I promise on that.” He said it like a kid does, promising the world with a cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die, but I knew that the memory of his sons, murdered because of his recklessness, was the only decent thing DeWayne had left; it was all he had to offer. “There’s a bus leaving for Newark from Atlantic City around midnight. He probably made his way over there to catch that one. I’m going to drive over to the bus station and see if he’s there. You go on home, and I’ll call you from the station, okay?”

“Okay,” I said after a while, because there was nothing else I could do.

I ran to my car thinking of nothing but my son, even the cops a memory. My car door wasn’t locked, and I realized I’d forgotten to turn on the alarm system. Big mistake in this neighborhood. A few years back, Newark was known as the carjacking capital of the world. I was damn lucky my little red VW was still here.

I climbed in, put the key in the ignition, then realized I’d left the cops’ cards on my desk. Worrying about Jamal had shaken their names right out of my head. I’d need those cards. After I’d checked in with DeWayne, I’d try to get Jake again and ask him what to do. He’d need to know their names. I tried the door to get out, and when the thing jammed, I cursed out loud. The cops had left a card when they came to my house. Maybe it was somewhere in the house. I didn’t feel like messing with this door now. But as I turned the key in the ignition, someone hit me hard against the back of my head.

“Don’t turn around,” said the man behind me, his voice mean and cruel. “I want what is mine. Just drive and don’t turn around.”

“Troy Barnes,” I said. Who else could it be?

I tried the door again for the hell of it, then realized even as I did that there was no use doing it. He wouldn’t let me out. He must have jammed something on the way into my car. I put my hands back on the wheel.

“I need to go home, Mr. Barnes,” I said without thinking. “Please let me—” I stopped short. If he was the killer, I needed to be as far away from home as I could get.

“What?” His voice was vague, with no tone, and I backtracked fast.

“Why did you break into my car?” I said, as if it mattered.

“Drive. No main streets. Cops are looking for me. Backstreets. Drive slow.”

“Why did you break into my car?”

“Just drive,” he said again. “Just drive around, slowly in a circle. I got to think.” He was scared, I could hear that, but not as scared as me.

Wherever he wanted to take me, I was willing to go—as long as it wasn’t home. I drove for the next twenty minutes. Down one street, up the next. Listening to every sound that he made, trying to figure out his moods. He sat straight as a soldier, and that scared me, too. I studied his face in my rearview mirror—eyes as haunted as they’d been the first time I saw him, homely face unshaven and mournful. I thought about the knife he surely had and about Turk Orlando and his father, Treyman Barnes. And then about Lilah Love and what she must have thrown in his face to set him off.

I got me a real man now. And them arms ain’t the only place Turk’s got muscles, if you know what I mean.

Could those or ones like it have been her final words to him, the ones that put his fist through her throat? He would have had to kill Turk then, too, because she’d told him whom she was meeting—the man with muscles everywhere. But why his father? I remembered Nellie Barnes’s words about her boy and how all he wanted to do was live up to his father’s expectations, make his father proud. Had he murdered his own father? Had he lost his temper, lost control of every decent thing he had in him? I’d read men had to do that when they killed in wars. Killing was killing, and sometimes a man couldn’t stop.

Maybe his father had become the enemy. He’d sounded like one in his office that day. A father’s expectations could be a double-edged sword, driving a son to success or making him crazy if he couldn’t meet them. What had they done to Troy Barnes?

“What do you want from me?” I asked him, keeping my voice calm, cautious.

“I want my little girl.”

“I don’t have her.”

“My father said you would know where she is.”

“Your father is dead,” I said.

Silence.

“You knew that, right? I’m not telling you something you didn’t already know?” I was pushing it, but I didn’t give a damn. I slowed the car, gave myself time to think, wonder what he was going to do. Should I hit something to throw him off balance? But he would kill me sure as I was sitting here. If he’d killed Lilah, if he’d killed Turk. His face caught the light that streamed in from the streetlights, and what I saw surprised me. He had covered his face with his hands and was crying hard and silently into them. His body shook with the sobs. Was it grief or remorse? I played it for all I could.

“The cops think you might have killed him,” I said, exaggerating. Hell, the cops thought I might have killed him, too.

“You think I give a fuck what the cops think?”

“You’d better give a fuck!”

“Shut up!”

“Where were you anyway? They’re going to ask you that. Where were you when he died?”

“None of your goddamn business!”

“You know how he died, don’t you? Somebody slashed his throat, threw him in the trunk of his car, the same way
somebody
did your ex-wife!”

“Shut the fuck up! I didn’t kill him. I didn’t!”

“Where were you, then? Where? They’re going to ask you that, you know that? The cops are going to ask you that.”

I glanced in the rearview mirror at him. His hand was over his eyes as if he didn’t want to see.
Remorse or grief?
I asked myself again.

“I was feeling down on Tuesday night. I went to the hospital, the VA hospital, and checked myself in for a few days. That’s what they tell you to do. He was my dad. I loved him; why would I kill him?” He spoke in a hoarse whisper, his voice broken. I pushed him further.

“You tell me. You didn’t seem to love him that much in the office that day, when you threw the ashtray at him. When you scared everybody including your mother half to death.”

“I didn’t throw it at him. I was mad, that was all. I was just fucking mad.”

“You get mad like that often, don’t you? Mad enough to kill somebody, slash somebody’s throat?”

“Just fucking drive,” he said, and I did, around and around and around the same goddamn six blocks. How many times had I driven down these streets? More times than I could remember, yet it was as if I’d never seen anything before: The CVS on the corner where I bought cheap makeup. The tacky little deli with its tasteless, weak coffee. China Wing, where Wyvetta and I had just shared shrimp egg foo young and peppered steak. Fear had turned everything unfamiliar. “All I want is my little girl,” he muttered from the back, breaking the silence. “That’s all I want, and I’ll kill anybody who tries to stop me from getting her.”

He settled back in his seat then, tired it seemed from the words he’d uttered. I tried my door again, cursed to myself. No way would it open. Those last words about killing scared me, but I didn’t want him to know it. I waited ten minutes before speaking again.

“Do you have any idea who could have done it, killed your dad?”

My tone was conciliatory, the good cop, understanding and wise. But I wasn’t sure about the man, and I sure as hell didn’t trust him.

He dropped his head down to his chest and shook it hard. I thought maybe he might be telling me the truth. But that didn’t say squat about Lilah or Turk.

It was nobody’s business what she did with what was hers.

Had she decided to keep the baby, figuring she could milk his family for as long as she needed to?

“Your mom came by to see me today,” I said, when he didn’t answer. “She’s a nice lady, loves you very much, believes in you, thinks you’re going to get better. How come you didn’t bother to tell her the name of the mother of your baby, and that she was dead?”

“It didn’t matter one way or the other.”

“Because Lilah was dead?”

He waited a few minutes before he answered. “Because I didn’t mean shit to Lilah Love, and neither did my kid. I didn’t want to say her name any more than I had to.”

“Your father said she got what was coming to her. Do you think he was right?” I threw it out, taking a chance, studying his face in the mirror, waiting for him to speak, and when he did, his voice was surprisingly tender but matter-of-fact.

“I loved Lilah once, and she was the mother of my baby. She didn’t deserve to die like that. Nobody does.” I wondered again if he was trying to fool me. But I’d seen enough killers in my day to know that they always found a way to brag about what they did. They had to make you see their point, appreciate the desperation that had brought out the killer in them, and they usually explained it to you right about the time they were trying to take your life.

But he wasn’t bragging. His words were sad, regretful; surprisingly, they softened the tension between us.

“You know a girl named Maydell?” I said after a while.

She’d come to me suddenly, with her easygoing, lazy style. Despite what Wyvetta said, Maydell had a good sense of people, keen enough to spot a good tipper—or a
real
gangster. Her name brought a trace of a smile and an easing of the taut line across his forehead.

“Maydell Washington?”

“Said she knew you in high school.”

“Yeah, I know Maydell. How’s she doing?” he seemed genuinely interested, a good sign. I made a note to give the girl a big tip if I got out of this car alive.

“Fine. Called you a true-blue war hero. True-blue was what she said. What do you think about that?”

There was a glimmer of light in those sad eyes, and I could glimpse for a moment what he must have looked like as a little boy, the good soul his mother said he was.

“Maydell always saw the best in everybody, even if they didn’t deserve it. I should have married her instead of Lilah.”

“You would have been a damn sight better off.”

“Thanks for telling me about Maydell. If you see her again, tell her I said hi, okay?”

“Yeah, sure. So was she telling the truth? Are you a true-blue war hero?” I’d heard a lot of strange stuff about this kid and didn’t know what to believe. His father said he was a nutcase, and Lilah called him a trained killer. But he was true-blue to Maydell Washington, whatever that meant, and his mama loved him like mamas do.

“What branch were you in?” I asked him.

“Special forces.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing I want to talk about.”

“Bad dreams?”

“Yeah, sure, I get them.”

There was nothing for a while, and that made me nervous. I didn’t want to lose our connection, as tenuous as it was. “Hey, Troy, you still with me?”

“About people that died. Kids sometimes. Kids I saw blown apart. Women. I talk to people now. Guys at the center who spent some time in the Gulf or Nam. Guys who have been through the same as me. I wanted to, you know, to kill myself when I got back.”

I thought about my brother and didn’t say anything for a while.

“Are you getting some help?”

“Yeah. At the VA. The nightmares have stopped. I can control my anger more than before, but every now and then, it comes out like it did at my dad over bullshit. I don’t sleep with a .45 underneath my pillow anymore, if that’s what you want to know. But I need to get my kid back. I need to hold her and know she’s okay. She and my mom, you know, are all…”