Vulnerable (38 page)

“If he has anything at all to do with…”

“Mr. Payne is—had absolutely nothing to do with Ms. Ross's death. He never met the woman,” said his attorney.

Khalil's upper body had stiffened.
What does
involved
mean exactly?
had been at the tip of his tongue. And hindering prosecution? Why didn't Henderson's attorney ask him to do this thing off the record? “Legally speaking” was so broad.

Without his knowing it, Rawn was then no longer confused. He knew by Khalil saying “David Copperfield,” something had gone down—a twist of fate—which conspired in his favor. Even while he had no clue as to what was unfolding, he was no longer in the dark.

“Shall we proceed?” Hirsch had asked, his eyes darting from the attorneys for the state, and Henderson's very high-priced attorney.

The Poussaints were more confused than ever, and the fact that Henderson, who was in the middle of playoffs, was there made no sense whatsoever. Meanwhile, Rawn had a flash. An image had rushed through his mind, but he could not make out what it was. He had blinked, and the flash—large and white, moving fast—whisked past his eyes. Slowly, he had turned to look at Henderson, whose hands were clasped beneath his chin. He had stared directly at Rawn, and Rawn was confident the popular athlete could read his thoughts.

Abrams, who had studied his watch, said, “Okay, if Mr. Payne has information that can lead to a conviction, he has a deal.” He leaned into the table. “Let's hear it.”

Henderson's attorney had said with a thoughtful nod, “You can proceed.”

In a calm, assured voice, Henderson began.

•  •  •

It was his day off. Generally, Henderson tried to remember to turn off his cellular so he would not get needless disruptions and could spend quality time with Daphne and the children. It worked
only half the time, if that. At roughly eight-fifteen, the cellular rang. The children were safe in their beds and asleep. Daphne, at the opposite end of the sofa, was having one of her marathon conversations with her sister in Providence. Henderson looked away from ESPN and decided to answer his mobile.

“Henderson!”

He raised his torso and his dark eyes bounced to his wife laughing with her sister on the telephone. She looked over to him and he frowned and rolled his eyes, which suggested it was someone they both knew, and Henderson would prefer to have avoided.

Daphne's lips shaped into
Richard?

Henderson nodded and came to his bare feet. He walked to the other end of the quietly lit room. “What's up?” he said into the mobile. “Huh?” He sneaked a peek at Daphne, preoccupied with her conversation with her sister. “Uh-huh,” Henderson mumbled. “Yeah. Yeah. Why?” He turned his back to Daphne while listening to the urgent voice of his caller. Over his shoulder, he could see Daphne was not paying him any attention. Normally when his cellular rang, she was suspicious. She reached for a pillow and hugged it, laughing more than she was talking. She and her sister had spirited conversations, often lasting hours at a time. Her laughter grew louder and more animated, and Henderson knew she was not the least bit interested in him. He pushed a fist into the back pocket of his Levi's, oblivious to the fact that he was tense. “Okay.” He moved toward the window, but was too apprehensive to even peep out.
“Okay!”
He did not intend to raise his voice, and could not bring himself to look Daphne's way to see if she was alerted by his tone. He released the call. Daphne looked over to her husband, and the look on her face suggested,
What?

“I'm going to hook up with him for a minute. He's tripping. I should be back in an hour.” He slipped on his sneakers at the foot of the sofa.

Covering the cordless, Daphne asked, “Is it about Sheila?”

Henderson did the best he could about not lying to his wife. He shrugged, since that would be noncommittal. He reached for his keys and wallet in a bowl.

Henderson interpreted her expression to mean
poor, baby.
With a wink, he left the room, hearing her receding, “It's really windy, baby!”

He called out: “I'll leave my cell on in case you need anything.”

The Santa Anas made the Los Angeles air feel sultry. The sky was sinister, deep indigo blue, and the cool wind that pressed against the air was strong enough to shed palmate leaves from the palm trees, littering the empty streets. Henderson entered the Windsor Village community, and pulled into a space on Lucerne. He spotted the cream-colored Lexus parked a few cars away. On the seven-minute drive to the park, he tried to decide how he was going to handle the situation. Instead, when he turned off the engine and jumped out of his Porsche, slowly, he began to release some pent-up frustration that most likely had nothing to do with the moment. When he approached the haphazardly parked vehicle, he tapped his wedding band against the window three times before it rolled down.

Tamara stepped out of the vehicle with the slyness of a cat—her long and slender legs lifted her out of the taupe interior.

Angry, Henderson started with, “What the hell is wrong with you? You are one crazy!”—he managed to stop himself. “Don't you
ever
—I need you to
hear
me, Tamara—don't
ever
sit outside my house again. I am
married
. You are an educated, intelligent woman, so what about keeping it
light
do you fail to comprehend?” Henderson did not let Tamara respond. He continued: “Don't ever threaten me again. Don't try to work me. Who the hell do you think you're dealing with? Huh? And one more thing!” Henderson tried to calm himself. It had been some time since he felt this worked up.
Tamara pushed every wrong button he had, yet he had a spot reserved for her in his heart which he did not understand, for the life of him. She knew it and played it to the hilt, and that messed with Henderson. Despite the fact that their relationship was platonic, he understood how unhealthy she was for him when he played in Portland and she drove down so they could hang out together.

Tamara needed to cut him off. He was unnaturally incensed with her, and his anger was visibly visceral. “Henderson…”

But Henderson hardly cared why she was there. He was too irritated with her to even listen. “Were you stalking, Tamara?”

Abnormally defensive, Tamara said, “No! I don't
stalk!”

“Why did you call me outside my home?”

“I…I guess…I don't…”

“What the hell! What are you doing
here?”

“I need your help.”

“With?”

“Something happened.”

“Like?”

“An accident.”

Henderson contemplated with the idea of getting back inside his Porsche and leaving her there. But even on his worst day, he was not so vicious as to leave a true friend tossing about in the wind. He looked around the dark night, the park quiet and lifeless. The massive trees that dotted the area swayed like hula dancers against the wind speed. Tamara was a naturally provocative woman, which was any man's fatal flaw should he acquiesce to her—what Henderson once referred to it as—weapon of mass destruction. She used it like Daphne used her American Express card—pulling it out at will, confident it would secure her every need or want.

Tamara's sexy cleavage was quite revealing from a low-cut angora
sweater. Henderson would like to think the choice to wear it was deliberate, but Tamara did not think that way. He darted his eyes away from her momentarily, checking out the immediate area for anyone walking their dog, or taking a late-evening run. When his eyes roamed back to Tamara, she looked sad, lost.

“What are you talking about? What accident?”

“Henderson,” she said in a breathless whisper, “I messed up.”

Henderson met Tamara at the House of Blues during a period when he and Daphne were not in synch, disconnected, sleeping in different rooms, and they were like ships out at sea passing through a remote night. Had it been another woman, Henderson might have been a stronger man—he knew, however, that was no excuse. Still, Tamara came on strong and he was weak. Over the years, he must have been subjected to every hot and cold emotion she could feel. There was a time when he even felt sorry for her.

There was never an occasion when Henderson saw Tamara vulnerable. Her father and mother were highly regarded politicians but no more than functional as parents. Writing out checks was their expression of love; therefore Tamara was used to being on her own. When she left home to go to college in New York, and only shy of eighteen, she was astonishingly shy and self-conscious. Perhaps that was the only time in her life when she was innocent, gullible, and naïve. Something happened to her back then; Henderson had tried a few times to find out what. But to no avail. He never could get it out of her. Yet while standing in front of her—this seductive woman who managed to take a halfway decent talent and risky concept and went on to become a successful fashion expert by any standard—he did not need to look too hard to observe that she was indeed powerless. It was not because she came to him; she had come to him a few times when she panicked. Instead, it was because she stood in front of him trembling. Henderson
knew she would never allow herself to ever
need
someone. Occasionally, she craved companionship; there were times when she wanted intimacy. But to actually
need
someone—that was not Tamara. Her voice, the look on her face, told him to cut her some slack.

“What happened, Tamara?”

“I don't want you involved.”

“So why am I
here?”

“It's not good, Henderson.”

“So what is it you need from
me?”

“I need to get away.”

He looked at her closely. “How much do you need?”

“It's not money.”

“Then what?” He shrugged.

“I want to use your villa.”

“My
villa?
In Portofino?”

“Yes.” Tamara took one step, and her voice sounded desperate.
“Please.”

“Get in the car.” Henderson started walking around the SUV to the passenger's side, but Tamara stood there, rooted to the spot. The street light spilled over her which revealed this childlike innocence he would never see again.

Once they were both in the vehicle, Henderson said, “What's what?”

•  •  •

“Tamara!” She was the last person on planet earth D'Becca expected to see at her front door.

“Hey, girl!” she said. Standing beneath the delicate lighting which glowed above the front door, Tamara looked not only chic, but alluring in her black velour pant and a cropped leather jacket with a faux fur collar and suede gloves. “Are you inviting me in?”

D'Becca stopped reeling from her astonishing presence and moved aside to let Tamara enter the foyer. Tamara did a swift assessment of the exotic flowers in immense vases and artsy paintings on the soothing violet walls.
Hmmm, she has good taste.

Tamara turned to D'Becca who was shutting the door. “Are you alone?”

With clumsy fingers, D'Becca combed her hair away from her face. “Uhhh, yes. Why?”

Nonchalantly, Tamara shrugged, and wore a cocky smile on her face.

“Well, come on up. I'm running a bath. I don't want it to flood the place.” She attempted to make a joke.

Tamara tailed behind D'Becca trotting up the spiral staircase. When they reached the top, Tamara said, “You have quite a setup here. It's like romantic meets feng shui.”

“Yeah, I love it.”

“Did you decorate it yourself or did you hire someone?”

“I did.”

“You have a good eye.” Tamara scanned the full hallway with attractive photographs bordered in maple-colored frames. When she looked around, D'Becca was not there, but she could hear her in the bathroom, a few feet away. When Tamara entered the full room, D'Becca had turned off the running water and was drying her hands with a hand towel.

“Candles?” Tamara lifted a brow, teasing D'Becca. “You sure you're alone?”

With her hands on her hips, D'Becca replied, “Yes.” She crossed her arms and looked into Tamara's conniving-laced eyes. “How did you know where I lived?” The pitch in her voice suggested she was more than curious.

“You're on my mailing list,” she said, fast on her feet.

Although skeptical, D'Becca went along with it. “Oh!”

Tamara looked fleetingly around the bathroom—flowers, photographs, books, fluffy bright-colored towels in an oversized rich brown wicker basket—and she said, “This place must have cost you some change. I guess it's why you still need to model, huh?”

“Let's say I made a wise investment.”

“I'm sure,” Tamara said in a sardonic tone.

“So, Tamara, what brings you here?”

“I was in the hood,” she joked. “Dropped by to see Rawn on the other side of Crescent Boulevard.” She waited to determine what, if anything, her comment would provoke from D'Becca.

“Rawn? You mean…R-A-W-N? That Rawn?”

“Oh.” Tamara chuckled. “I didn't realize he spelled his name that way.”

“And yet you two are friends,” D'Becca stated sarcastically.

“Did I see Sebastian Michaels leaving your place as I pulled up?”

Distracted, D'Becca forgot that Sebastian had left only minutes ago. “What do you want?” she asked, needing Tamara to get to the point.

“I told you…”

“Yeah, that you were in the hood.” She walked around Tamara, but she blocked D'Becca from leaving the bathroom. Tamara was slightly taller and at least ten pounds heavier than D'Becca. “Excuse me, but what exactly is your problem?”

Tamara moved so close to D'Becca that she could hear Tamara breathing through her nostrils. “You're pregnant, aren't you?”