Dying in the Dark (20 page)

“I think somebody else did it, and the same person must have killed Celia, too, because they had the gun. It was a .22, the same caliber weapon as the one that killed Celia.”

‘And you think it would be better for Drew Junior to think that
his father killed his mother and her lover? That he's a murderer?” He looked at me in disbelief, and I thought hard about what I was going to say before I answered him.

“I think that he has to know the truth, whatever that is. Once a person knows the truth he can learn to deal with it. Lies are what destroy a child, especially a lie like that.”

Larry sat for a while, sipping his tea and gazing out my dirty office window. I didn't rush him. I was pretty sure what he had to say, and the fact that he was here showed me he had decided to level with me. Finally he put the mug down and cleared his throat.

“You know we all came up together, me, Drew, Clayton. I can't think of any other men, not any that I had as much feeling for, that I loved as much as I loved the two of them. I would have done anything for Clay and I'd do anything for Drew if it came to that.”

“I remember the three of you as teenagers,” I said, wondering when he was going to tell me what I wanted to hear.

“It just about killed me when Clay died as sudden as he did. We'd had a lot of fun together. He was wild as hell.”

“So I've heard.”

“I didn't mention this before, but Clay was the one who put me back in touch with Celia after all these years. He ran into her through Drew. She had contacted Drew looking for a handout, long before she knew his wife, I might add. He gave it to her because Drew can be a very generous dude. Most folks don't know that about him. When Clay died, all I had left was Drew.”

“So you felt you had to lie for him about where he was the morning Celia was murdered,” I said, eagerly leaping ahead to the point I was sure he was trying to make.

He gave me an odd glance that I wasn't sure how to interpret.

“Most of what I told you was true,” he said. “We did get stinking drunk, and I did fall out on his couch. I was still sick about my wife leaving me and about the general state of my life. Clayton, my other best friend, had died in August and it was New Year's Eve, five months to the day of his death. I had been depressed as hell at the thought of being alone on New Year's Eve, so we decided to spend it together. I left early the next morning.”

“How early?”

‘Around five, maybe six. I'd promised my daughter I'd take her to dinner on New Year's Day, and I wanted to get an early start so I'd be there on time. I just stretched the truth a little, Tamara. I
was
with my daughter on New Year's Day when Celia was killed.”

“No, Larry, Celia was killed around eight o'clock in the morning, so you were on the road when Celia was killed, not with your daughter. Why did you lie to me?”

“Because Drew asked me to say I was with him when she was killed.”

“You think he killed her, don't you?” I looked him straight in the eye, but despite what most people believe, looking a liar in the eye won't get you anything but a lie told without blinking.

“I don't want to believe it, but maybe he did.”

“I'll tell you what you can believe in, Larry,” I said after a moment. He had focused his eyes on my window, looking hard at something I couldn't see. When his gaze met mine, I could see there were tears in his eyes. I wasn't sure who he was crying for—Celia, Drew, or himself.

“You can believe in the truth, Larry. The truth always beats out a
lie. It's the only thing you can build on. You told me what you know and now I want you to tell the police, because if you gave Drew Sampson an alibi and he killed Celia Jones, then he probably killed his wife, too. And if you don't come clean about what you know, you are as guilty as he is.

“If he's a killer, you could very well be putting your life in danger, and my life, too, for that matter. You don't know what is truly in somebody's heart. You think you know, but you never do, which is why folks are always surprised when the beast living in somebody's soul rears up and bites them on the ass.”

He smiled at that, and I offered him some more tea, which he drank without comment until I broke the silence. “Drew Sampson is taking his kid and heading out of the country, isn't he?”

“That's what he told me when I talked to him earlier.”

“When did he say he was going?”

‘As soon as he can pack.”

“I'm going to call a detective I know on the police force here in town and ask if we can have an appointment to see him. Will you come with me?”

“Tell me when and where and we can go in together.”

We shook hands then, and I watched him as he went downstairs, his head bowed down, his foot unsteady. He walked like a man who had wrestled with demons and wasn't sure he'd won.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A
s soon as Larry Walton left,
I made my call to Detective Griffin. The officer who answered the phone put me on hold for a long time. I wasn't surprised.

‘Ah, Ms. Hayle. What can I do for you this evening?” Griffin said when he finally picked up. I detected that trace of annoyance that creeps into the voice of weary public servants forced to deal with a pain in the butt member of society. I could almost see him glancing at his watch.

“Thanks for taking my call, Detective. I know it's late, and I—”

“Yes, Ms. Hayle, you just caught me. I was on my way out the door. My wife has tickets for a concert at NJPAC, and I'm running late. Could this possibly wait until Monday? As a matter of fact, it's going to have to wait until Monday.”

“Please don't hang up, sir.” I threw in the “sir” for good measure. “I'm sure you heard about what happened over in Belvington Heights this afternoon.”

“Yeah. I got a call from DeLorca over there. He wanted some info
on Celia Jones confirmed. He mentioned that you were there on some business. By the way, he thinks very highly of you. Well, I guess that solves your case for you. You can go on back to your—”

“She didn't do it!” I said, more loudly than I meant to.

“I beg your pardon?” It wasn't so much a question as a demand for clarification.

“She didn't do it!”

“Do what, kill herself or kill Celia Jones? Every bit of evidence says she did.”

“There were a few irregularities at the scene that I'll be sharing with Chief DeLorca shortly. They point to the fact that Annette Sampson didn't commit suicide. If she didn't kill herself, then she didn't kill Celia Jones.”

“So you think somebody else killed her?”

“Yes.”

“That .22 had her prints all over it. And that drawing she made of Celia Jones found under her pillow points to her guilt and anger. It was as good as a suicide note.”

“Someone else could have given her pills mixed with alcohol, placed her fingers on the gun, and planted the drawing of Celia Jones. We both know that what seems is often what's not.”

He sighed or yawned, I wasn't sure which. “Please don't tell me that you think this has something to do with Drew Sampson.”

I stood my ground. “Yes, I do, and so does Larry Walton.” I was bending Larry's words a bit, but Griffin could draw his own conclusions once they spoke.

“Ms. Hayle. This case is on the verge of being closed, and frankly
I'm happy as hell that it's off my desk. I don't want it opened up again over bullshit.”

“This isn't bullshit, believe me. I think you'd better hear what Walton has to say.”

He didn't say anything for a moment. I didn't know whether he was looking through his calendar or thinking of another way to put me off. “Okay, Monday morning. And it better be early because I have a full schedule.”

I was supposed to report to Cosey in Short Hills at 10:00
A.M.
If I got to the station early, and put things in Griffin's hands, I could still make my appointment without any problem. The truth would out; I was sure of that. I just needed to give it this last little nudge.

“Yes, early is good for me, too. Will seven o'clock be too early for you?”

“Seven o'clock in the morning! Make it seven-thirty”

“Thank you. I think you'll find it will be worth your while.”

“It better be,” he snapped, then added, “By the way, we picked up the guy who killed Pik.”

“Pik?” The events of the last twenty-four hours had all but erased Pik and what had happened to him from my mind.

“Yeah. The Sampson kid's friend. The kid who was stabbed on Wednesday. When you were here before, I mentioned that we knew who killed Cecil Jones, right, and that fate had taken care of it. Well, Pik killed Cecil Jones, and fate definitely took care of his thuggish little butt.”

“You're saying that Pik killed Celia's boy? I thought they were friends!”

“Apparently not. You never know with kids. Here's the way we figure it went down. They had beef over that young girl, Cristal. Anyway, it seems like she was Pik's girl until she started tipping on him with that other kid, Cecil Jones.”

“But wasn't it common knowledge that she was seeing Cecil? She had a child by him.”

“No. That baby was Pik's. Ever wonder why he called himself Pik? Weird sense of humor, that kid had. He had babies by a couple of different girls. ‘Pik’ was some kind of crude reference to his sexual organ. He was also known for ‘pickin’ people, in other words, stabbing them. And he stabbed that Jones kid right through the heart with his knife, with what he liked to call his pick, as in ice pick. Who the hell knows what motivates these damn kids to do what they do!”

I recalled Cecil's funeral and Cristal's reaction to Brent Liston and Beanie's stares at her baby. There had been hatred in Brent Liston's eyes and fear in Cristal's. Now it made sense.

“So Brent Liston killed Pik,” I said, realizing just how fate had taken a hand in things.

“You got it. Brent Liston apparently loved something in the world more than his miserable life, and that something was his son. So he took his revenge on the kid who murdered him. He stabbed Pik right through the heart like Pik had his boy. I guess we're lucky the girl wasn't there or she'd probably be dead, too. Violence begets violence. It never ends, does it?” Griffin sounded weary.

“The other kid, the Sampson boy, was lucky, too. No telling what Liston would have done if he'd found him. But after Pik died, we thought he might have had something to do with it, so we kept an eye
on him until we had the evidence we needed. His woman put up a fight when we finally picked him up. We thought we'd have to take her down, too.”

“Beanie?”

“Was that her name? I knew it was something that started with a ‘B’ but that wouldn't have been my first choice,” he said, chuckling at his own attempt at a joke. “So that's it, Ms. Hayle. Pik killed Cecil Jones, like we suspected, and Cecil Jones's old man killed Pik. He finally admitted it when we questioned him, so that's that.”

‘And I guess you'd add that Annette Sampson killed Celia Jones then killed herself, and that ties things up nicely, too, right?”

“That's what the evidence points to.”

It didn't tie up for me, though, but I wasn't ready to say it.

“You will talk to Larry Walton and me on Monday, right?”

“Yeah, I said I would, didn't I? For what it's worth. Early Monday morning,” he said and hung up.

I called Larry Walton, and left a message on his machine telling him that I'd spoken to the detective and requested that he meet me at the precinct Monday morning. I apologized for it being so early, and said I hoped that he would understand. I turned on my computer, waited for it to boot up, called up “redlocket” and added some final notes about Cecil Jones, Pik, and Brent Liston.

It was Friday night, and Jamal was spending the night with a friend, so I decided to take Wyvetta up on her offer for dinner, but she'd already left. I thought about calling Jake to see if he was up for a drink, but changed my mind. If my suspicions about the nature of Jake's relationship with Ramona Covington were true, then he was
probably with her. One run-in with Ramona was enough for one week. Finally, I decided to simply head home, maybe stop at the fish fry place on Central Avenue for some fish and coleslaw.

I grabbed my coat and bag, turned off the lights, set my second-rate burglar alarm, and headed to the rest room on my way out. The building was empty and cold as a tomb, and I shivered as I came out of my office, making a mental note to take up the heating problem with my friend Annie, who owns the place. It was also dark; two of the ceiling lights had burned out. Another matter to take up with Ms. Annie B. Landlady. She'd recently installed a new lock on the ladies’ room door, which locked when it was closed, and I was happy she'd done that. With fried porgies on my mind, I came out of the rest room heading toward the stairs.

I saw him as the lavatory door closed behind me. He was kneeling in front of my office door. His hat was pulled down low over his face, and the black coat trailed on the floor behind him like a train. He glanced up and around when the door closed, then went back to fiddling with the lock. He wasn't very good at it. It's a cheap lock and any professional with nimble fingers could have jacked it open in a minute flat. I could have done it in two.

I stopped where I stood, my heart pounding so hard I was afraid he could hear it. He was breaking into my place so he probably had a gun. I was alone in this building. My first impulse was to run back into the rest room, but it was too late for that. I'd have to dig through the junk in my bag to find the key again, and he'd hear me sure as hell. If he saw me standing here, he could rush me, shove me back into the bathroom, then lock the door behind us before I had a chance to get away.

I could make a run for it, down the hallway, down the stairs, but I'd have to pass him on the way out, and the stairway was long and steep. If I ran too fast, I'd risk breaking my neck on the way down. Or he could give me a shove to make sure I went down faster than I should.

I stepped back into the shadows and reached for my cell phone, which was on the top of my junk. I'd put 911 on speed dial, and was sure I could put up a noisy enough struggle for the cops to get here within five or ten minutes. I could fight him off until then. But then came the realization that the damn thing needed to be recharged. I always forget to do it. I cursed my forgetfulness. The man looked up again, as if he sensed my presence, then stopped long enough to glance warily to either side. I stepped deeper into the shadowy corner of the door, thankful for the darkness I'd cursed a moment ago. He started working again. The best I could hope for was that he would manage to open it. When the door opened, it would set the alarm off.