Dying in the Dark (3 page)

But talk between my head and my heart are two different conversations, and my heart told me I'd gotten involved in Celia's mess the moment her child walked through my door. He had plopped down his $400 in good faith. I owed it to my client, dead as he was, to do what was right. I didn't have a choice.

So I plugged in my electric kettle and while I waited for the whistle, started looking through my tea bag collection for something with caffeine; later for taming my tension. Lipton does the job in a pinch if I spike it with a load of sugar, so I dropped four tea bags into the black flowered teapot, which Jamal had given me for my birthday, poured in some water, and brewed myself a cup of tea strong and sweet enough to pull me out of my funk.

After a few sips, I turned on my old-ass, no-name computer and waited for it to boot up. A couple of years back, I finally saved enough money to buy a new one, and ended up giving it to Jamal, who needed it more than me. My attitude toward my computer is like my attitude used to be toward the Blue Demon; it would have to do me
until its last gasp. It was also a comforting thought that if some nosy somebody broke into my office one night and tried to pull up a file, he'd still be sitting here when I walked in the next morning.

When the thing finally lit up, I typed a date on the screen, saved the file as “redlocket,” and typed in the facts I knew about Celia and Cecil Jones and the details of my meeting with the boy. I searched through my file cabinet for the
Star-Ledger
article about Celia's murder and found it tucked under a stack of old Macy's bills. I shook my head at my own self-deception when I read it.

Whenever I thought about Celia's murder, I imagined it happening as it had in my dream—her eyes big with terror, her red nails clawing somebody's hands. But she had been killed by multiple gunshot wounds from a .22 caliber weapon. Popular wisdom says the .22 is a woman's gun, a lady's little protector that fits neatly into a purse or handbag. But I know from experience that a .22 is as lethal and quick as a .38, if you aim it right and shoot at close range. My guess was that Celia's killer had pumped half a dozen bullets into her, pleased with the thought that he was bound to strike something vital. When somebody kills like that, he wants it to hurt; there's hatred in every shot.

I wondered if the cops had made any progress on her case. Most cops are reluctant to share information on a murder still under investigation, and officially they'd still be looking into Celia's, even though it was more than a month old. But her son's killing would be the one they'd really be interested in because it was fresh. I typed down a note to myself to ask my friend Jake if he'd heard anything about the progress on that one. Not that I needed to remind myself. Despite what is, what isn't, and what I wish were between us, Jake Richards is my first, last, and most important resource.

I took from the safe the red book and plastic case the boy had left and brought them to my desk. The case was a cheap, tacky number Celia had probably picked up for a buck and a half in one of those 99-cent bargain stores. I'd done my share of shopping in places like that, and was sure that Celia had, too. The book, which was the size of a diary, was more expensive. Upon close examination, I saw that it was covered with red cloth made up of tiny hearts, which made me smile. Celia was born on Valentine's Day, and even Christmas had taken second place in her hierarchy of favorite holidays. She had always had a sentimental side to her, crying at sad movies, buying food for some poor, bedraggled cat, remembering your birthday when everybody else forgot it. She didn't let a lot of folks see that tender part of her; hard times and harder men taught her to cover it up, but I knew it was there, and I was sure her son did, too. Did her murderer know it?

The book was brand new, the pages still crisp and white. The price tag on the back cover was legible, and I could see that the original price had been cut by half, which suggested that it may have been part of some post-Christmas sale. The boy had been right about my name. It was the first thing I saw when I opened it. She'd printed it along with my address and telephone number in big, bold letters like a kid does, forming each one carefully, as if she were afraid of getting something wrong.

Her boy had said that the book had been opened to my name when he found her. When did she plan to call me? I wondered. If she'd bought the book after Christmas, calling me may have been part of some New Year's Day resolution. People sometimes reach out to old friends on the first of the year. It's a time to renew acquaintances,
make amends, apologize for past wrongs. She'd written “Hayle Investigative Services” next to my name, which suggested that maybe she wanted to use my professional services; the boy had said as much when he came to see me.

But maybe I was wrong about the timing. There was no way to know what her intentions were. The only thing I knew for sure was that she'd been murdered on New Year's Day. Had she spent New Year's Eve with her killer? Could her death have been somebody's New Year's resolution?

On the top of the next page, she printed the letters ABCD, encircling them with hearts and arrows. It was the kind of scribbling a teenager does when she has nothing much on her mind. I couldn't tell whether the hearts and arrows were connected to a particular letter or if they were simply put down randomly. Had she been jotting down the alphabet for the hell of it? Or could the letters stand for names, the “B” for the “B” in Brent, the “C” for Celia or Cecil? Chances were that the whole thing meant squat, but I typed the letters on my screen anyway—A, B, C, D—with “Brent Liston” who only showed up “every now and then” according to the kid, in parentheses behind the “B.”

The pages that followed were filled with scraps of indecipherable scribbles, what seemed to be lists of gifts for her son, lines of poetry, and the titles of self-help books. I finally struck gold on the last page. Halfway down, she'd scribbled three names and numbers in red ink. I typed the names and the matching numbers onto my screen, then called each of them.

The first belonged to someone named Rebecca Donovan. The phone rang four times before it was answered by a woman with a pretentious
British accent who told me in a no-nonsense voice that I'd reached Ms. Donovan's answering service and that Ms. Donovan, with an emphasis on the Ms., would return my call on Monday. Although the woman didn't say exactly what Rebecca Donovan did, I assumed she had some kind of a professional relationship with Celia, probably in a “helping” capacity. I knew from my experience with Karen, the hardworking sister whose twenty-four-hour answering service I use, that you don't bother with a service unless you need to get your calls screened. When you run a business like mine, you never know when some nut is going to get your number from the yellow pages and call you with foolishness you don't want to be bothered with. I was sure that Ms. Donovan, whoever she was, paid plenty for that clipped British accent. Karen, with her home-girl attitude and occasional lapses in judgment and grammar, came cheap. I love the sister, but for a hot minute, I wondered how Hayle Investigative Services would sound in that high-class professional voice. That would be one way to let losers know that
Ms.
Tamara Hayle was definitely beyond
their
reach.

A sullen teenager answered the phone for Annette Sampson, the second number on the page. I left my name and number, but knew from experience with my occasionally sullen teenage son that she probably wouldn't get it until sometime next week. I made a note to call her back on Monday morning.

Aaron Dawson, the owner of the last number, apparently wasn't at home either, or at least wasn't answering his phone. I tried him again, then gave up. On impulse, I called the three numbers the kid had jotted down on my blotter, with no responses. I couldn't forget
the undisguised contempt for both Celia and Cecil that had been in that woman's voice, and whoever she was, she didn't answer again. I added those numbers to the screen, saved the file, and decided to call it a night. It was time for me to go home and spend some time with my son.

I'd almost forgotten about the plastic case next to the book. Before I put it away, I opened it, took out the locket, and read the inscription: “… best friend.”

Within a month, we'd both forgotten about the fool who had torn us apart, and all that remained was our anger. But she had been my best friend on that warm June day, when loving each other like sisters, we'd bought and exchanged our gifts.

“Catch you later, girl,” I whispered, uttering the farewell we always said when we parted, and the long-gone teenage girl I'd once been was back in my voice. We'd believed then that we could beat anything the world threw our way and that nothing could change how we felt about each other. Tears welled in my eyes for the loss of her life and my innocence. The locket was mine now, back with the “best friend” who had bought it.

A cold gust of wind blew in from somewhere, startling me. Impulsively, I glanced at the locket and then at the window, which I saw was cracked. I chuckled at my uneasiness. It was wind from the open window, not Celia's spirit, that had sent me shivering. I'd had enough haunting by my old friend for one day. But difficult friends, even dead ones, can be hard to shake.

I put the necklace back into the safe along with the book, then filled a glass with water to pour on the orphan aloe plant that had
taken up residence in a corner of my window. I called my aloe an orphan because years ago I found it, dusty and stunted, on my doorstep. Nobody—not Annie, my best friend who owns the building, nor Wyvetta from downstairs—claimed to have put it there, so I became its adopted mama. My orphan aloe had aged like me and everything else in my life. I smiled tenderly down at it as I poured water into its roots.

It was then that I saw him.

He was dressed in a black, heavy coat that fell to his ankles. I couldn't see his face, but I knew that the light from my office made it easy for him to see mine. He stared up toward my window, as if spellbound by what he saw. He made no movement, no nod of his head or shift of his arms or legs. He just stood there staring up, and it felt like a violation of my space and of me. I pulled back into the shadows even though I knew it was too late.

What did he want with me? Was it simply chance that he was standing here under my window tonight? Instinct, which I have in spades, told me that chance had nothing to do with it, that he wanted something only I could give him. Fear squeezed my stomach tight, and for a moment I couldn't catch my breath.

“No,” I said aloud, speaking to the fear as if it were a person. “You're not going to get me! You're not going to take me over! Why the hell should I be scared of you?” I spoke to the man. “Who the hell do you think you are, trying to scare me like this? Fuck you, you dumb bastard!”

It felt good to say it, real good, and I jerked down the shade, nearly pulling it off the roller as I cut him from my view. But even as
I did it, I knew I would see him again. I had to leave my office and leave the building. I had to walk five long blocks to catch the bus and another three and half from the bus stop to my house. I drew in my breath, pulled the shade up again, and searched for him in the darkness. But he was gone.

CHAPTER THREE

I
was uneasy as I waited
for the bus and then walked from the bus stop to my home. My house was dark when I entered it. I stood in the kitchen frozen with fear before I found the light, snapped it on, and as calmly as I could, yelled out for my son. That was when I saw the Post-it on the refrigerator explaining that he'd gone to the movies with a “friend” (didn't mention the gender), and he'd be back before one. My apprehension dissolved into annoyance, but I relaxed.

Things sure had changed. In the old days, I could count on Jamal being here when I got home from work. Sometimes he'd have some makeshift little meal, usually out of a can, waiting for me. Often he would simply be doing his homework with the TV on for company and greet me with a grin that reminded me why I got up every morning to meet the madness.

My boy is growing up. He'll be heading to college in a few years, and I'm swept by loneliness whenever I think about it. I dread being alone in this house, filled as it is with memories. Part of me doesn't want Jamal to go. I know that's selfish as hell, but it's the truth, and I've reached the point in my life where I can't lie to myself about anything.
But the reality of motherhood is that you raise a child to let him go or you both end up crippled. Learning to be alone is a skill I'll need to master; I don't have a choice.

I felt sorry for myself for a minute or two, then opened a can of black bean soup and made a tuna fish sandwich with a double dose of mayonnaise. I watched a cop show, turned on the news, filled my bathtub with lavender bath oil, and soaked for fifteen minutes. I climbed into bed around eleven-thirty but I tossed and turned as I listened for the sound of the back door lock that would tell me Jamal was home safely. I couldn't fall asleep until I heard it. He came in sometime after midnight, and I drifted off to sleep. But it was a restless, fitful sleep, and my face must have shown it the next morning. It was the first thing Jamal noticed when he bounced down the stairs for breakfast.

“Hey, Ma, you feeling okay?”

“Yeah, why do you ask?” I knew only too well. My face can't take a sleepless night or too much wine before I go to bed. If I don't get a restful sleep, I look like hell the next morning. “I look that bad, huh? It must be these dark circles and bags that have etched themselves under my eyes.” I smiled at his concern.

“No, Ma, you look great!” He gave me a reassuring peck on the cheek. My son has grown tactful with age and understands the vanity of women. “I just thought, well, you looked like maybe you were worried about something.”

I took a sip of coffee and turned back to the used-car section of the
Star-Ledger.
“The usual crap, honey. Bills, bills, bills.”

I'd decided not to share the details of yesterday's encounter with the man in the black coat. I didn't want to hear about the perils of my
profession, which Jamal brings up with alarming regularity, and I certainly didn't want him getting the crazy idea that it was up to him to protect me. He sat down across from me and emptied the contents of the Cheerios box into his bowl.