Pretenses (18 page)

“You know, Keyth. I don't even want to talk to you anymore tonight. Is Savannah still up?”

“Yeah. Hold on.”

“Hi, Mommy,” I heard my daughter say.

“Hi, precious. And how are you?”

“Fine. You and Daddy mad at each other, huh?”

“Just a little.”

“Why, 'cause you didn't check the hotel first?” I didn't say anything. “Mommy, why didn't you check the hotel first?”

“It's time for you to go to bed. Put your daddy back on the phone,” I said, growing angrier at their repeated questions. Keyth came back to the telephone. “Did you put her up to that?”

“No. She must have overheard me discussing it with you.”

“Well, you know what, Keyth? Thank you for a pleasant conversation. GOOD NIGHT!” I shouted and hit the end button.

I could hear Kelly's Stingray pull into the driveway. At least it wouldn't be a totally wasted night. She had found something already. With her helping at the Taylor house, I hoped we could find some pictures of Adrienne more quickly.

K
ELLY STARTED
in the basement, and I continued looking through the boxes in the closet. She hadn't been down there twenty minutes, when I heard her yell, “EUREKA!” It had been a rough night; I hadn't found anything and Kelly was becoming a regular Indiana Jones. Oh, well, I thought, at least we got something.

Kelly brought in an old projector, a screen, and several reels. I assumed the reels would contain something on the family. While Kelly set up the projector, I continued looking through the last box. I found a picture of Judge Taylor and a white girl. They were standing in front of a corner deli in Harlem, dressed in skirts and knee-high socks. I turned the picture over and read: Jennifer and Adrienne Jefferson, ages 6 and 8. I was floored.

Then it all came to me at once. Images from the Four Seasons flooded my mind. I understood now. The Judge was arguing with her sister in that suite. But why? Then I began to think the unimaginable. Did Adrienne have her sister killed? If so, why?

“Kelly, you better take a look at this.”

“What?” I handed her the picture. “Adrienne is Jennifer's sister?”

“Apparently. You know what that means, don't you?” I asked.

“The white woman at the Four Seasons is this little girl?”

“Yep.”

“Oh, my God. Then that means Judge Taylor's own sister could have had her killed. But why?”

“I don't know. Let's keep digging,” I said, with renewed vigor. “Who knows what else we're going to unearth.”

As I continued searching the box, I found more pictures of Adrienne and Jennifer. They were both beautiful women. I saw the pictures of whom I presumed were their parents. I wasn't sure, so I went to the living room and looked at the black couples on the wall. Removing the photo from one of the frames, I was able to see the names of their parents written on the back. Thomas and Vivian Jefferson, it read. Although I now knew she and Jennifer were sisters, I found it hard to believe that Adrienne was black. She had blonde hair, blue eyes, and a Nordic nose.

I went back in the bedroom, still puzzled by the difference in the physical characteristics of the two sisters. Maybe Vivian had had an affair with a white man. That would explain the differences. But it would also mean that Thomas would have had to have known about it. Or maybe she had a relationship with a white man before she even met Thomas, and he had accepted mother and daughter. That was plausible, too.

Kelly finally got the old projector to work, and we watched old family movies for about an hour. We learned quite a bit. Thomas married Vivian when Adrienne was a baby. Apparently, she had a relationship with a white man during the Harlem Renaissance. That sort of thing was widespread at the time. But it still left many unanswered questions. For example, if Adrienne was behind the killings, what could possibly be her motive? Sterling Wise knew but refused to say.

After we finished watching the home movies, Kelly took the projector back to the basement while I went through the last box. I found some pictures of Adrienne's wedding to a white man. It was Jason Bellamy. Kelly came back into the room. I showed her the picture.

“I think we hit the mother lode, Phoenix.” She beamed.

“Kelly, if you were black but looked white, would you hide your identity and live among whites? Or would you stay with blacks?”

“Tough question, Phoenix. You know I'm not racist, but at the same time, there are privileges and advantages to being white. For example, do you think she could have married Bellamy if she looked more like Jennifer, who was darker and had more African features?”

“Probably not,” I said. “Assuming that Adrienne is behind all of the killings, what's her motive?”

“Maybe she was trying to hide the fact that she was black pretending to be white?”

“Is that a reason to kill that many people?”

“Well, consider what she had to lose, Phoenix. Jason Bellamy was a billionaire. He inherited most of the Bellamy money and the businesses, which he evidently left to Adrienne. If people knew she was black pretending to be white, she might lose a lot of influence.”

“True, but do you kill your own flesh and blood for that? If the world found out, she would still be a billionaire, wouldn't she?”

“I think there's something else going on, Phoenix.”

“Me too, Kelly. I think that Martha Blevins probably disapproved of the marriage. According to Coco, Martha was supposed to be brutalized first, then killed.”

“You ready to have Sterling give her a call?”

“We don't need him any longer. The only thing left to find out is why she did it. Let's call it a night and get some rest. Tomorrow, we find out everything there is to know about Adrienne Bellamy.”

S
EX WITH
F
ATHER
R
EYNOLDS
continued until the wee hours of the morning. It was the first and only sexual encounter he would ever have. As usual, Coco thought it was the least she could do. The alarm's high-pitched tone jerked her out of a deep sleep at 10:00
A.M
. She opened her eyes and looked at Reynolds, who was wide-awake.

“Ready for another round, Father?” she asked, looking at his stiff shaft. She had left the golden needles in his chest all night. He nodded his head quickly several times. “Addictive, isn't it?” she asked, climbing on top of him.

After fifteen minutes of intense sex, Coco grabbed a hunk of his hair and jerked to the right, snapping his neck. Then she took a shower and put on her priest disguise. She walked into the sanctuary of the church and saw a female parishioner already at the confessional. She was about 5 feet 5 inches and athletic-looking, pretty, with chestnut hair and wearing an expensive gray bouclé jacket, offset by a burgundy mock turtleneck, matching slacks, and Italian-made burgundy shoes with clear vinyl sides. Coco laughed to herself and thought, this is going to be fun. Too bad my life is almost over.

She walked into the confessional and sat down. The first parishioner entered and waited quietly. Coco was wondering why the parishioner wasn't confessing her dirty little secrets, then realized that she hadn't slid the panel open. After opening the window, the woman said, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” The woman had a genteel voice, and sounded well-educated.

“How long has it been since your last confession, my child?” she said, imitating Father Reynolds' voice.

“It's been six months since my last confession.”

“Go on, my child,” Coco said, covering her mouth while she chuckled under her breath.

“I have sold myself to my husband's friends.”

“Why have you done this?” she asked, feeling better about her own sins. “Do you need the money or what?”

“Yes. It all began when my husband lost his well-paying position at …well, I'd rather not say. But the company was downsized, and he's been out of work for a year. We have a twenty-five-hundred-dollar monthly mortgage payment, and I didn't know what we were going to do. My husband's best friend offered me the mortgage money if I would have sex with him. That's how it all started. I was desperate, Father,” she said, then sniffed a couple of times.

“Go on, my child. Free yourself.” Coco could barely contain the enormous glee that began to bubble to the surface, forcing her to grin widely.

“I was doing it for the money. You know, to take care of our family. At first sex with them was an arduous chore. But then, I started to like it.” The woman was crying now. “Each time I committed the act, little by little, the real me began to emerge. The me that I've kept hidden deep within. The me that no one knew about. The me that has longed to be free from social restraints.”

“Go on,” Coco encouraged.

“I continue taking their money, but the truth is, after a while, I would have done it for nothing, Father. That's when I realized that I was a whore. I've always been a whore, if only in my mind. I found myself living out every fantasy I've ever had with these men. I'm so ashamed.”

“No need to be ashamed, my child,” Coco said. “Tell me, does your husband know about this?”

“I eventually told him, yes.”

“Ah, the truth has set you free then?”

“Yes.”

“Are you still seeing the men, my child?”

“Yes.”

“What are you charging them?”

“Just what it costs to survive. We have three children in very expensive private schools. Twenty-five hundred dollars each—no more.”

“Raise your price to four thousand dollars. Or increase the number of times you see them per month. I'm sure you have needs and desires, judging by that expensive outfit you're wearing. And if they pay that sum, continue the practice, but make sure you come to confession. If they refuse to pay, tell their wives. Now, go in peace, my child.”

When the woman left the confessional, Coco laughed so hard she could hardly sit still. She composed herself when the next parishioner entered.

The next seven or eight parishioners' confessions were boring compared to the first woman. Coco began to wonder how long it would be before the Rapist arrived. Anxious to meet him, she hoped he would be on time.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“How long has it been since your last confession, my son?”

“About a week.”

“Go on, my son? Unburden yourself.”

“Father, I murdered a woman.”

Coco suddenly became serious. She wondered if this was the Rapist. She looked at her watch. It was only eleven. It was a little early for the Rapist, according to the time that Father Reynolds told her. He shouldn't have been there for another hour.

“Go on, my son. Why did you murder the woman?”

“As you know, I haven't been able to control my urge to rape men.” Coco raised her eyebrows. It was the Rapist. She was a little disappointed she wasn't going to be able to hear more confessions. After the first one, she was hooked.

“I followed them through Union Station. They looked like the perfect couple. I thought he loved her and would fight to keep her from being raped. Apparently, he didn't care for her at all. The two of them ended up in a big fight. When I tried to break them up, he grabbed the gun and it
went off. It was an accident. The whole scene was bizarre. I knew I had to kill her, but the strange thing is I feel so liberated now. Don't get me wrong, Father, I felt bad for a few days, but I got over it. Given enough time, you can get over anything.”

“Tell me, my son, will you stop violating men, now that you've committed murder?”

“No. I'm even more committed to doing it. Isn't that strange, Father? After you forgave me, my mind was made up. I was going to stop. But after a few days, the desire to do it again was stronger than it had ever been. After the murder, I felt terrible, but now I feel like I've been emancipated, like the burden of morality has been eradicated. I don't think I'm ever coming to see you again,” he said, then abruptly left the confessional.

T
HE NUMBER
that Sterling had given us for Winston Keyes turned out to be an office in the World Trade Center. Apparently, Adrienne Bellamy kept a business office there. According to the computer-generated voice mail, Winston Keyes would return our call if we left a message. I wasn't ready to meet with Bellamy just yet. I wanted to learn as much about her as I could.

I ran her name through the bureau's computers and learned that she had part ownership in several sports franchises. Shortly before his death, Jason Bellamy had launched a new, commercially sponsored television network. When Adrienne took over, she landed a professional football contract, which catapulted the network to the fourth largest, behind NBC, ABC, and CBS. The football contract opened many other doors, and before long, her network was producing Emmy-winning dramas and situation comedies.

She also held large quantities of stock in the major film studios in Hollywood and Burbank. Her assets included full ownership of three major newspapers, a chain of grocery stores, department stores, movie theaters, several malls, a shipyard, and a Las Vegas casino. The litany of enterprises she had her hands in went on and on. I was impressed and intimidated at the same time, but she had broken the law. Everything we learned indicated that she had been responsible for the killing of her own flesh and blood, several of Washington's elite, and a dozen FBI agents. I had to bring her down.

T
HE RAPIST
was a handsome man, Coco thought, tall, slim, and well-muscled. She was following him in a rented Intrepid, still dressed as the priest. The ninja motorcycle would have brought too much unnecessary attention. The Rapist went to Union Station, bought a paper, and sat at an empty table in the middle of the food court. Tourists from all over the world occupied the busy concourse.