Of Blood and Sorrow (8 page)

“Go on to bed, Son, and your father and I will talk to you in the morning,” I said. Jamal kissed me good night and headed upstairs.

“He better stay down here with me until this mess blows over,” DeWayne said as soon as he was out of earshot, and I agreed. “What else do you think we should do?”

“I’ll go back tomorrow and see what else I can find out,” I said.

“Don’t you have some lawyer-friend up there who can handle this?”

“He won’t be back until Monday, and I don’t know how to get in touch with him.”

“We can’t wait until then,” DeWayne said, shaking his head. “I got a friend I can call. A lawyer. Handled my last divorce. I’ll talk to her in the morning.” He yawned twice and stretched. “Well, I’m going to hit the sack, too. The couch in the study lets down into a reasonably comfortable bed, Tammy. I’ll go upstairs and get you some clean sheets.”

“No,
you
sleep on the damned couch in the damned study, and get me some sheets for that California king-size bed you got upstairs,” I corrected him. “I want some comfort, some privacy, and you out of my face.”

He looked hurt for a moment, then obediently climbed the stairs and got the sheets I’d requested.

I settled into his bed, every bone and muscle aching. But I had one more thing to do. I had to talk to a good friend, who I hadn’t spoken to in a month of Sundays. Her name was Matilda Gilroy, a cop in Belvington Heights, where I used to work. When I quit, they hired Matilda to fill the “woman” quota. We’d been friends ever since, and the fact that she was white didn’t change our friendship one bit. We both loved Sleepytime tea, had grown up poor, and been married to jerks. Our sons were about the same age, too. A couple years back, her son, Jeremy, had run away, and I’d found him and brought him home safe. She said she owed me big for that, and to call her anytime day or night if I ever needed anything. I needed it now.

“Matilda Gilroy here,” she said when she answered the phone. She was always business—at work, at home, in bed—and I smiled as her image came to mind. She was beanpole thin with a bony, narrow face that had never met a blusher it didn’t like. Her lank hair had been every shade of blonde there was, and her large, able hands, which never seemed to rest, were always topped by short nails painted some bright tropical color. Matilda Gilroy, bless her soul, was one of the oddest-looking women I’d ever known; she also had the biggest heart.

“Hey, Matty, it’s me, Tamara Hayle.”

“Tamara Hayle! What are you doing calling me at this time of night? Jamal okay?” she asked in the same breath.

“Barely. He had a close call with the boys, and I need you to get me some information.”

She coughed, and I heard her light a cigarette. “Our boys? Belvington Heights? They better get their shit together.”

“No. My town this time. They found a dead body in the trunk of a rented car this morning. A woman named Lilah Love. Can you get me some information on it?”

“They think Jamal is mixed up with that?!”

“I don’t know what they think, to tell you the truth, but get me what you can, okay?”

“You know I will, Tam.” She paused for a moment. “Every time I look at my son, I say a prayer for you.”

“Thanks, Matty.”

“First thing tomorrow morning I’ll look into it. I know somebody over there who owes me a favor, so I should be able to get something for you soon. Now I’m going back to sleep, okay?” She hung up before I could answer. I sank into DeWayne’s pillow of a bed and went out fast.

Matty was on the case. She called me back in the morning before I had brushed my teeth.

Lilah hadn’t been beaten like the cops had said, Matty told me. She’d been killed quickly and brutally: a fist driven straight through her throat, crushing her larynx back against itself like it was nothing. They suspected it was somebody she knew—unless it was a professional, which seemed unlikely; only folks you knew killed you like that. They liked this guy named Turk Orlando for the killing and were looking for him.

I thanked Matty for the information, shook my head, and sighed.

So my girl Lilah died just like she lived—fast and mean.

EIGHT

I
T WAS A LONG WAY HOME
, and I felt every mile. My back hurt, my head ached, and I couldn’t stop worrying about Jamal. Why had he gotten into that woman’s car in the first place? Had he been so angry at me, so mistrustful of sharing his feelings, that he forgot every rule I’d ever taught him? Yeah, he was almost a man—or thought he was—but why had he acted so impulsively? I answered my questions even as I asked them. Because of those murders in my city, the deaths of so many kids his age. They made him reckless, careless. A confrontation with violent death could make you do strange things. My first year on the force had made me fearful and anxious, jumping at my own shadow. Jamal was flirting with danger, defying it, and that scared the hell out of me. How much more would he risk?

I wondered if Lilah Love had told him about our activities down in Jamaica. I could almost hear that whiny voice sharing my involvement in her sordid little tale. The thought that had worried me when she first walked into my office hit me again. Did she have something on me? Could I be tied to her murder?

I couldn’t cut the memory of Lilah’s murder loose. How do you jam a fist through a woman’s throat? Shooting somebody I can almost understand. Banging somebody over the head, well, depends on the circumstances. But balling your fist and slamming it so hard into flesh that you kill somebody? That was a special kind of brutality, a special kind of killer.

The cops would be looking for someone with a lot of rage and huge fists. That would be Turk. But thanks to his anger over all the murders in town and his martial arts training, that might also be my son, who, as far as they knew, was the last person to see Lilah alive, which could make him a prime suspect. At the very least, he was a material witness. The good thing was they hadn’t gone down to South Jersey to pick him up. The bad thing was they could take their own sweet time. Jamal’s duffel bag was hard evidence if they needed it. He wouldn’t be completely beyond suspicion until they found out who really did it.

Lilah had treated Turk like a homeless mutt, and he had probably turned on her like one. You can’t order a grown man around like she had Monday in my office and not expect some kind of payback. Another possibility was the emotionally fragile Barnes kid. I wondered if the cops knew about him. She could have been referring to their child when she said “it was nobody’s business what she did with what was hers.” Pure and simple rage could have made Troy Barnes snap and hit her with the same force with which he’d smashed that glass ashtray on his daddy’s wall. He was a trained killer, according to Lilah, and if that was true, he knew half a dozen ways to kill somebody with his bare hands. Or maybe somebody else killed her, some man Lilah had picked up on a whim. Somebody she owed money to or who owed money to her. Someone she had something on. Somebody like me, the cops might say.

What else we got to talk about?

The person on the other end would know what that something was and who she was about to meet.

Guess who I’m talking to in half a minute.

Anybody could have killed her. Anybody but me or my boy.

I’d eaten a late breakfast with Jamal when he got up and held him until he got embarrassed and squirmed to get loose. He grinned when I told him that summer school would have to come later, and I’d been glad to see that grin. Then I got on the road. That was all I could do, except keep my ears and eyes open and see what the day would bring.

I didn’t feel like going home. Nothing waited for me there but a sink full of dishes and a whole lot of worry, so I headed straight to my office. At least, I could water my plant. At best, I could make some notes about my last meeting with Lilah Love.

I got to get back something that belongs to me. Something important. Stolen property, you might say.

If Lilah considered Baby Dal “property,” she could be sold to anybody who wanted to buy her, and that had been Treyman Barnes, or so he’d told me.

But who had the baby now?

Thelma Lee, as far as I knew.

If Thelma Lee had given—or sold—the baby to Treyman Barnes yesterday morning when she was supposed to meet me, could
he
have gone after Lilah to make sure she was out of the picture once and for all? There would be no legal challenges then, that was for sure. But he wouldn’t have done it himself. More than likely he’d have had somebody do it for him. Somebody like Turk. But why would Treyman Barnes go that far?

I don’t give a shit about the law. There are ways around the law.

And one of those ways was murder.

It was still early when I pulled into the lot across from my building. I’d had coffee with breakfast but could use another cup, so I stopped in the café that had recently opened across the street and got a double. I peeked into the Biscuit on the way upstairs to see if Wyvetta was around and spotted her in the back getting ready for her day. I thought about dropping in to tell her what was going on, but gossip buzzes around Wyvetta like flies around molasses. Wyvetta was as quick to gossip as she was to listen. Best to keep my business to myself.

I should have noticed the long, pretty Benz parked in front of my building. Standing the way it was between a beat-up Ford and a dirty Honda, it glittered in the sun like a pile of silver dollars. But I just didn’t think about it until the owner stomped into my office and parked his plump little butt in the chair across from me.

“What the fuck is going on?” said Treyman Barnes, fast, loud, and in my face.

Stunned, I sat there, coffee cup midway between lip and chin.

“I want to know what the fuck is going on!”

Had this jackass lost his natural mind?

I carefully placed my cup down, gave a ladylike blot to my lips with a napkin, and smiled sweetly. “Good morning, Mr. Barnes. What can I do for you today?” That bullshit little greeting took everything I had.

“You can do what the fuck I paid you that thousand dollars to do, that’s what! You can bring me that baby like you said you would! Or are you holding out for more like I think you are?”

It took a full minute for me to gather my thoughts and my cool.

“I did what the
fuck
you hired me to do,” I said, tossing him back what he’d tossed me. He narrowed his eyes, trying to scare somebody, and he did—me.

“I want that child,” he said.

“As far as I’m concerned, you’ve got that child, so get your sorry ass out of my office.” I took a swallow of coffee, praying I wouldn’t choke.

He stepped back, took a breath, then gave me the charming, cherubic grin he probably bestowed on folks before he ripped out their throats.

“We’ve gotten off on the wrong foot this morning, haven’t we, Ms. Hayle? Forgive me. I sometimes forget I’m not talking to some of those hardheads who come my way and that I’m in the presence of a lady. I had to make sure of something. Understand where you were coming from. May we start again? Please?”

I waited a beat, then, with a curt nod, indicated that I would give him another chance.

“Do you know where my grandchild is?”

“I assumed you had her. Didn’t you get my message concerning Thelma Lee Sweets?”

He hesitated. “Yes, I did. I thought it best if I talked to her myself, so I called her shortly after I got your message.”

“Late Monday night?”

“Yes. She said she would bring the baby to my office first thing on Tuesday morning. I waited around until late, but she didn’t show up. Then she called me around five, said she wanted to meet me at this motel off the highway, this shit hole of a place on the edge of town. I hated to think of her taking my grandchild to a place like that. Why she’d want to meet me there I have no idea, but she insisted, and I said I would. But I didn’t know whether she’d bother to show up this time or not, and I’d canceled too many appointments already, so I told her it would be late.”

“How late?”

“I told her eight, then she said it would have to be later than that. I heard somebody in the background then, a man, yelling at her, arguing with her. He wanted me to come even later, and they wanted some money. I heard that because she got back on and told me to come at midnight and bring some cash. She hadn’t asked for money before, so I figured she got herself a partner. Then I heard the baby crying, so I knew they had her. They asked for fifty thousand dollars in cash, and that’s what I got out.”

“Fifty thousand? Just like that?” I didn’t hide my amazement both that Thelma had the nerve to ask and that he’d had it on hand.

“I keep a lot of cash in my safe. Unexpected costs sometimes arise,” he said impatiently. “I went to where she said, but she wasn’t there. Never showed up. I knocked hard on the door, but the room was locked. I remember that filthy place from years ago. Made me uncomfortable. I didn’t want to be seen there or stay around. I figured maybe she changed her mind again, and because you knew what was going on, knew how much I wanted the baby, I figured maybe you—”

“You thought I had something to do with this?” My throat was so tight with anger, I could barely speak.

He glanced away quickly and then looked straight at me. “Yeah, I didn’t know. I thought maybe you’d tried to cut some kind of a deal with her, include yourself in it. That’s why I came in here yelling about the baby. I wanted to see your reaction. I figured you’d ask for the money. But you passed the test.”

I sat for a minute, too mad to respond, then said, “Are you aware that Lilah Love was murdered Monday night? They found her body Tuesday morning in her rented car. Maybe Thelma Lee didn’t come because she just found out about her sister.” I threw it out quickly, studying
him
for a reaction, seeing if he’d pass
my
test.

He stared back hard, gave me nothing, passed with flying colors. “So Lilah Love is dead? She got what she deserved,” he said.

Could Treyman Barnes be the “big-time gangster who done gone legit” Lilah had said Turk worked for? “Do you know a man named Turk Orlando?” I asked.

“I know a lot of men named Turk, and one city named Orlando,” he said with a smart-ass grin.

“Cops are looking for him.”

“You think I give a damn?”

I took a breath, let it out. “So what do you want from me now?”

“Thelma Lee is Lilah Love’s sister. She must still have the baby. So I want you to find Thelma Lee.”

“Again?”

“Again,” he said. “You know where she is, don’t you?”

“I have no idea, but if I did, do you think I’d tell you so you can get some hardhead to shove a fist into her throat like he did her sister?” The words tumbled out before I knew I’d said them or thought good about how he’d take them; he didn’t take them well. His grin slid downward into an ugly grimace that brought out the cruelty in his eyes. Then he changed up quickly, smiled, pulled out his checkbook, started to write.

You be careful around Treyman Barnes, you hear me, Tamara?

“I don’t want your money, Mr. Barnes,” I said, suddenly as wary of him as Wyvetta had warned me to be. “My calendar is full now, and I’m simply not able to help you. I will type up my report, and you will receive it in the mail by the end of the week. If, after reading it, you’d like your money refunded, I’ll gladly do it, and if you have any problems with that, please take them up with the state agency. I don’t want to see you again.”

“What did you say?”

“For all I know, you could be making this whole thing up. How do I know you even talked to Thelma Lee? You didn’t trust me; I don’t trust you. Our business is over. I’d like you to leave.”

“You throwing me out?”

“Yes, I’m throwing you out.”

I didn’t realize my legs were shaking until I tried to stand up, but I forced myself to stand straight, move toward the door. He stood up and followed me but stopped when I opened it.

“I’m asking you to leave now, sir,” I said, my voice trembling.

“You sure about that?” he said, his voice cagey, cute, like he was flirting with me.

I nodded, too scared to trust my voice again. He looked me up and down, sizing me up, then walked out the door. But he stopped at the top of the stairs and stood to the side. Sweet Thing and Jimson Weed were coming up, slow and with concerted effort. When Jimson Weed saw him, he stepped back against the wall. Treyman Barnes looked at him hard, his eyes narrowed into mean slits.

“Where I know you from, man?” he said.

“Hell,” Jimson Weed muttered, so low I barely heard him. He roughly pushed Sweet Thing into my office in front of him. I stood back amazed as the two of them barged in. They looked like extras from a movie circa 1960. He sported a forest green polyester suit, flared pants, Nehru jacket, and a white turtleneck that fit tight around his thick neck. He was built like a fighter, and the suit complemented his physique. He obviously hadn’t gained a pound since he’d bought it forty years ago.

She was dressed grandly—from the decade before: crisp seersucker suit, neat white gloves, small black hat with a veil that reeked of mothballs, which I smelled as she’d whisked past. In one hand, she held a black plastic handbag fastened with a fake diamond clasp, and in the other, a pink and white umbrella, meant, I assumed, to block the sun. When she sat down, he stood behind her like a soldier-protector—hands at side, back ramrod-stiff. She preened like a reigning monarch for a moment, then opened her handbag, took out my card, and placed it on my desk.

“You told me to come if I needed something, so here I am,” she said.

“You still working for him?” Jimson Weed nodded toward the door where “the Devil,” as he’d called him before, had just exited.

“No. I’m not working for Mr. Barnes anymore,” I said wearily.

“He in that big building over there on Broad Street, the one they been working on, ain’t he? He rich now, ain’t he? He paid for that fancy car he got parked outside with blood, you know that?”

I didn’t give him an answer; I doubted if he was looking for one.

“If he came for that child, ain’t no way in hell he’s going to get her back,” said Jimson Weed. “And if he try, Sweet Thing got something in that bag for folks who mess with her family. I taught her to use it, too. She can aim straight, and she can aim sure.”