In the Night of the Heat (14 page)

I couldn't help it. I chuckled, almost a laugh.

“Please don't be mad,” April said. “That's what kept me from calling. I didn't want to lose everything with you just because…”

“Because you've moved on.” A lonely voice in my head screamed
Tell me what to do, and I'll do it. Tell me what to change, and I'll change it.
Maybe that was what April needed from me, but there's nothing we can do about our past. Nothing we can change.

“I wouldn't say…‘moved on,'” April said, choosing her words as carefully as a presidential candidate. “I'll be gone six months. Maybe the bigger world will help me feel something—a different kind of courage—by the time I come back. I really want to. My priorities need to change. That's the closest thing I have to a plan, Ten.”

“You could have been clearer about that before you left.”

“I said not to wait for me.” Almost a whine.

“Giving me permission to fuck isn't the same as telling me the truth.” I could almost see tears well into her eyes, but I pressed on, my tone purely analytical. “And since you knew you hadn't been clear, you should have called sooner. Or clarified yourself in your email.”

“I'm sorry. I just kept wanting…”

“To grow up?” I finished, unable to catch all of the sarcasm in time. It surprised me how much I wanted to say something hurtful to her.

“Yes,” she said. “I've been trying to grow up.”

“How's that going?”

“Slow.”

“Have you met someone?”

“No, Ten. I swear. And I wouldn't lie about that.”

The naked man in April's room vanished. My bubble of anger
popped. I missed her so much it felt as if there were a vacuum where my heart used to be.

“Ten, my ride is here, but this isn't the last time we'll talk about this. I'm really sorry I didn't call before. I can call you back tonight. I owe you that. Like…seven my time?”

I didn't want a mercy call. “There's no rush. You know my number.”

“Am I a terrible person?” she said.

I wanted to kiss every inch of her face. Sift through her hair with my fingertips. “No.”

“Well, you're the most incredible person I know. That hasn't changed.”

“Something has.”

I heard April's nostrils bubble. Evidence that she was crying helped a little, but not nearly enough. “I wish I knew what,” she said.

I knew.

“Lynda Jewell was the first big mistake I've made in a long time. I'm sorry, April. Nothing even close will ever happen again.”
And Lynda Jewell will be sorry it happened at all,
I finished to myself.

“Ten, it wasn't that.”

But April was lying to herself. It was
exactly
that. Lynda Jewell had not only climbed onto my lap and pulled my hand to her chest; she had once watched her friend pay to have sex with me. Lynda Jewell was my past, still living and breathing, and there were women like her all over Los Angeles. April and I couldn't pretend it away.

I wanted to tell April that I would climb back through time and remake myself inch by inch, starting with my seventh-grade teacher's pool. Nothing had ever cost me so much.

My life was barely ordered chaos. April deserved better, and we both knew it.

“It's okay,” I heard myself telling April. “It really is. I understand, baby. We're okay.”

I sounded so good, I almost believed it.

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 22

Melanie Wilde had taken the week off from work, her receptionist told me the next morning, so I tried her cell phone. When I told Melanie I wanted to talk about T.D., she invited me to her Santa Monica condo. I can't say I was disappointed.

We were both in mourning. I brought Melanie a small potted white lily plant. I've never cared for bouquets; they die too soon. At least an uncut plant has roots and a fighting chance.

Far from her traditional office attire, Melanie was wearing flowing, loose-fitting purple-and-lilac pants and a matching tunic, perhaps West African. It's the world's oldest cliché to tell a woman she looks like a princess, but the words almost slipped out when I saw her. Her unadorned skin was a shade of dark brown I doubted makeup manufacturers could imitate. Melanie's skin spoke best for itself. Sunlight from the doorway gleamed on the bulb of her nose.

Again, she didn't bother smiling. “Thoughtful,” she said, taking the plant. “Thanks.”

Thoughtful
wasn't the right word. The plant was a prop. I'd dressed in my white turtleneck and brown leather bomber jacket to see her. I was in full stalk mode; if Melanie had a fiancé, that was between her and her conscience. I'd prepared a list of questions for her, but I expected more than conversation. Experience had taught me that I only had to find a way to ask. If there was any part of her that wanted me, I was going to find it.

“Wish I could do something more,” I said.

Melanie's lips pressed together, inching slightly upward. Her sad attempt at a smile made me sorry for being at her front door.

“Uncle Emory called me this morning, and it's like night and day. You've given them hope, Tennyson. And I know you'll do more than that. Let's talk.”

Inside, I smelled incense. Not jasmine, thank God. Something with spice, a reminder that I was in a new place. Melanie's condo was neat but free-spirited, with bean-bag chairs, stained-wood crate shelving, and a large futon instead of a furniture-store version of a living room. The open-air space was almost a loft. Her walls were covered in colorful, beaded masks that looked South African, a lovely Dogon door intricately carved with stylized rows of women, and marketplace paintings I recognized as Haitian. Most of the living room's shelves were empty. Boxes sat in orderly stacks against the dining-room wall. There was no table.

Melanie's living room had a large picture window, so the room was bathed in light. Outside, there was a partial view of the ocean three blocks west. Not bad. Aretha was singing from speakers at a volume so low that my ears couldn't make out the song, but it was earthy and sad. Nothing could soothe the loss of a beloved family member, but Melanie's condo was doing its best. I glanced toward an open doorway and saw the foot of her bed, covers turned back.

Melanie brought me a mug of coffee on a small tray with creamer
and sugar on the side.
SOCAL STATE SPARTANS FOOTBALL
, the mug read, emblazoned with the sword-wielding mascot.

“Nice place,” I said.

“Won't have it long. I'm pretty much living at Simon's house. We're getting married in June.” Melanie was trying her best to shut me down. She'd seen where my eyes had drifted.

“Simon,” I said, trying on the name. “A brother?”

Pow.
I'd hit her so fast, she hadn't seen me coming. Melanie's eyes flitted away, defensive. “No…he's English. From Sussex.”

“Hey, that's cool. Great town, Sussex.”

So. Miss Afrocentricity 1992 was marrying a white boy, and even if she hadn't felt a nibble of guilt or self-doubt, I could give her one last chance to redeem her Negritude points. I might be the last black man she ever touched. Ruminating on my luck, I took off my jacket and folded it over my crossed knee. I could barely fight off my smile.

“How's your ear?” Melanie said.

“If you want me to hear you, better sit on the right.” She started to sit in a chair across from me, but I patted the spot beside me on the futon. “Closer is better.”

“Did you hear me mention I was getting married in June?”

“Lovely ring.” Her white gold and diamond engagement ring had cost plenty.

“I would appreciate it if you would bear that in mind.”

“I'm sure.”

Melanie locked eyes with me; the same gaze I'd given Lynda Jewell. She knew, and I knew. The only question was which of us would get our way. When Melanie sat beside me, I could feel her body heat right through her clothes. “Tell me what you need to do your job.”

“You weren't with T.D. on Sunday,” I said. “Why not?”

“You get to work fast,” Melanie said, eyebrow arched. Part admiration, part irritation.

“Some things I do fast. Others, slow.”

“I won't pretend I'm in church every week, because Lord knows I'm not. But I had a Black Lawyers meeting in New York last weekend. Just curious, or are you looking for an alibi?”

I shrugged, remembering my coffee. It was fine black, so I left it alone.

Melanie sighed. “You're right. I wasn't in church with T.D. on Sunday, and I wish I could change that. I have a hundred regrets. Anything else on that subject?”

“No, darlin'. But I've been meaning to ask you…Why did you call him Bumpy?”

Melanie almost smiled at a memory. “He's three years younger, so he was always just little Bumpy. A big fat face, fat legs, and always running into the furniture. Born running.” She kept smiling even when her tears came.

Then Melanie got tired of reminiscing. “This is where you're supposed to ask me if I think I know who did it,” she said.

“Yes, ma'am,” I said. I pulled out April's notebook. “I'm sure you have some ideas.”

“Too many to count,” she said. “So I'll start with the most obvious: Look very closely at the Hankins family. I might be able to kiss their asses and get you a meeting today or tomorrow. Chantelle's father has come apart since her death. Chantelle was their only child. But LAPD treats Donald Hankins like he's made of glass. Unfortunately for Uncle Emory, Hankins trumps a federal judge.”

When I gave her a blank look, she went on. “Two-term state senator, Ten. Plays golf with the mayor and police chief. Backed a huge law-enforcement initiative to pour money into LAPD's coffers. More cars. More officers on the street. He's planning to run for governor, and he polls very high. He's hoping for an Obama Effect.”

I scribbled fast. I remembered that Chantelle's father was a poli
tician, but I hadn't remembered the details. A war between these two families would be a clash of titans.

“Murder is risky for a man with that much to lose.”

Melanie shook her head. “For someone that unhinged, risk doesn't matter. Look, I'm not saying he did it: I'm saying I think he could have made the call. Start with him and feel him out for yourself. I have very strong instincts about it.”

“Who would he have called?”

“That's where the detective part comes in,” Melanie said grimly. “You tell us.”

I gave her a look:
So it's like that?
“Just asking, sister. Anything else?”

“Chantelle was engaged.” Melanie paused but kept some thoughts to herself. “Her fiancé was Arturo Salvador, a former probation officer who quit the grind to go to law school. He seemed like a good guy. Great with the kids. Most of his family is in Mexico, but he has a brother, Miguel, who was convinced T.D. had killed him. He lives in Pomona. Miguel threatened T.D. He said if the police didn't put him away, he'd ‘take care of it' himself.”

“At the trial?”

“No. Before the trial, he wrote T.D. a letter I found in his mail. You should have it in the police records. I told them to keep it.”

“There was an interview. Salvador had an alibi.” An officer's handwritten note had described Miguel Salvador as “grinning from ear to ear” when they brought up T.D.'s death, but his wife insisted he had been in bed with her in a San Francisco hotel room when T.D. died. I made a note of his name. He would have been smarter to try to contain his glee during his police interview, at least. My gut told me that the killer would have known better, but maybe not.

“What about T.D.'s buddies? Those guys at the fund-raiser?”

“I'll vouch for every one of them,” Melanie said. “Most of them
played with him on the Spartans. They were all Taus, and three of them were a team within a team: They called themselves the Four Horseman of Heat.”

“Heat?” I wrote that down. I remembered the scar from the autopsy photo. “Does T.D.'s H-shaped scar have anything to do with that?”

“Yes.”

“It looked like a heat scar.”

“They took their little club very seriously. Too seriously, I think.”

“Seriously enough to get matching brands…” I mused.

“How did you know about the H?”

I paused. “Autopsy photo.”

Melanie blanched slightly, her lips tight. But she went on. “That fool Bumpy couldn't sit for a week. Carlyle and T.D. did crazy shit once in a while, but they had sworn to watch out for each other, and all those Heat guys always did. But Carlyle knew him longest. He was T.D.'s best friend since junior high.”

“All that matters is access. Could he have gotten into the house? Or the rest of them?”

“I'll give you their names and anything else you need. But it's a dead end, Tennyson.”

“Where can I find Carlyle?”

Melanie paused, uncomfortable. “I saw him…the day we heard. Monday. But I haven't seen him since. He hasn't returned my calls since Monday, after I told him.”

Now it was my turn to raise my eyebrows. “Not even to find out about the funeral?”

Melanie shook her head. “He's broken up over it.
Broken
up. They were like brothers. T.D., I'm getting worried about Carlyle. His girlfriend said he hasn't been coming by.”

“Ten, you mean.”

“What?”

“You just called me T.D,” I said gently.

Melanie looked at me, startled. “I did?”

I nodded, and her eyes overflowed. I patted her knee; still stalking, even then. I almost went in for a consoling embrace, but I have a heart. And I'm patient. Besides, I had more questions.

Melanie shifted her knee away from my touch. “I can give you a dozen more names.”

I wrote Carlyle's name down, and a checkmark. “I've got time.”

Melanie named everyone from disgruntled former business partners to ex-girlfriends, and I noticed that most of the names she mentioned had been absent from the police reports. She even mentioned a former barber of T.D.'s who had trash-talked him on television after T.D. started getting his hair cut somewhere else. Said he'd confessed to the pedicurist. Last, a celebrity stalker who had been released from a mental institution six weeks before.

T.D.'s charisma had attracted the bad as well as the good, and Melanie had been keeping her eye on every one of them.

By the time she finished, she was weary. Primed for The Question of the Day.

“Mel, did T.D. kill Chantelle and her fiancé?”

Melanie sat up as straight as a rod. Everything about her bristled. “If I thought my cousin was a killer,” she said, “I would have told you.”

“He never said anything? No moment of remorse after a few drinks? Or a few lines?”

“No,” she said, ice in her voice. She didn't appreciate the reference to T.D.'s cocaine use, but she didn't bother denying it.

“Would he have told you if he had?”

The ice thawed, only slightly. “I doubt it.”

“So it's a possibility. You know that.”

Instead of answering, Melanie stood up and gathered up our empty coffee mugs. She walked to the kitchen and back before she answered me. “I know he had a temper. He might have hit her, but that only happened once. She was seeing Arturo while she was still married—no one wants to talk about that. And T.D. found out about it. A lot of guys would lose their composure in that situation.”

“So she was cheating, but he wasn't?”

Melanie winced. “T.D. wasn't a perfect person, Ten. I know it and you know it. He drank. He did coke. Yes, he was running around. Please—he was T.D. Jackson. Chantelle was a big girl: She knew T.D.'s lifestyle. Those guys live in a world unto themselves, starting in school. But he couldn't handle it when she started seeing Arturo. She didn't try to keep it quiet like he did. She tried to provoke him, make him jealous. He got mad, he hit her, she got a restraining order. That all happened three years ago. T.D. and Chantelle put the divorce behind them to raise Maya and Tommy. Those kids were the center of their universe. After Chantelle was killed, did I have doubts? Of course. I know how it looked. But I won't believe he could do that to the mother of his children. Not T.D.” She wrenched out the words, her voice coarse.

“And his blood in her garage?”

“It was his garage once, too. The blood evidence wasn't conclusive. Ask the jury.”

That was all I was going to get out of Melanie on that subject. Her body was rigid, arms and legs crossed. If I wasn't careful, she was about to ask me to leave.

“I have calls to make…” she said, a beat behind my thoughts.

I closed my notebook and laid it down. Then I leaned against the back of the futon for a better view of her, my palms locked behind my neck. Her tough-girl act was wearing thin on her face. “You were T.D.'s rock. Now you're your uncle's. Who's yours?”

“You're wasting your time, Ten.” Her words were resistant, but not her eyes.

“Why are you staying at your condo instead of Simon's place?”

The mention of her fiancé's name made Melanie frown. “Because I wanted to be here. Simon's in London for a couple of days. He'll be back before the funeral.”

She didn't have to tell me that. She shouldn't have.