Dying In The Dark_ A Tamara Hayle Mystery Part 6

"DeeEss, he calls himself these days. He was a nice middle-cla.s.s boy for a while, Jack and Jill, the whole bit, but he's definitely taken a turn in another direction. Cecil's influence, I'm sad to say. The kid's world blew apart when Annette fell in love with Celia. If you ask me, what she did was pretty d.a.m.ned selfish."

"But you never know what is really really going on in a marriage," I said, speaking as much from experience as anything else. When I'd been married to DeWayne Curtis, I'd done so much smiling through tears my jaws got cramped. going on in a marriage," I said, speaking as much from experience as anything else. When I'd been married to DeWayne Curtis, I'd done so much smiling through tears my jaws got cramped.

He nodded, agreeing with me. "Yeah, but I would have fought her for the kid. Annette and Drew had what they call a traditional marriage. Drew made the money, ran the business, and she took care of the house, raised the kid, so it was natural the boy would go with her when she left. He and his father weren't all that close, although Drew loves that boy with all his heart. It was strange, though, what happened. Annette always seemed pretty happy to me," he said, then added a moment later in retrospect, "according to Drew anyway. He blamed Celia for corrupting her, as he put it."

"So he blamed Celia for losing his wife and son?"

"That's what he's always said. I've tried to explain to him that he couldn't blame Celia for something like that, but he insisted that she's to blame."

When I heard that, Drew Sampson's name went in red to the top of my most-likely-suspects list.

"It seems to me that Sampson's sense of what was going on in his wife's head was about as clear as a smoky day in h.e.l.l. Did Annette have a job? She must have done something when she wasn't ironing, cooking, and cleaning his house."

Larry looked embarra.s.sed, and I was amused again about how little the average man knows about the inner life of the average woman. Annette as "person" outside of "wife and mother" had completely escaped him. It took him a moment to come up with something.

"Come to think about it, Annette was an aspiring artist. She was very involved with the Newark Museum for a while, and one of her paintings was in a group show at a gallery for emerging artists. That was a couple of years ago, though. Look, Tamara, maybe you'd better talk to Drew and Annette about their business. If they'll talk to you."

"I suspect Drew's number is unlisted. Do you have a number for him?"

He looked so uncomfortable, I didn't pursue it, but asked instead, "So did you you introduce Annette to Celia?" introduce Annette to Celia?"

"Me? No. I was as surprised as Drew when she upped and left with Celia. Celia had mentioned she was involved in a new relationship that was going to be good for her, but she didn't say who it was with. She never mentioned names."

'And you were still seeing her at that point?"

He hesitated before he answered; his expression revealed that he wasn't sure if this was any of my business. I stared him down, as if I had a perfect right to know.

"Tamara, I think you should understand that my relationship with Celia took place a number of years before she was murdered. I looked out for her kid as much as I could, talked to her when she needed somebody to talk to, but I realized early on that I needed more from a woman than Celia was willing to give." He smiled sadly and shook his head. "I suspect Celia had quite a few relationships between the time that we were intimate and when she got involved with Annette Sampson."

I made a point of picking up my cup and drinking the last bit of coffee as I tried to decide the best way to phrase my last question, the one I was sure would end our conversation, probably on a bad note.

"So, uh, did the cops talk to you when Celia was murdered?" I looked him in the eye, trying to spot any truth he was hiding.

He looked genuinely puzzled. "Me? No. Like I said, my thing with Celia happened three years ago. Are you asking me if I killed Celia?"

"Well, uh, I'm trying to figure out how good a job the cops did, who they talked to, what leads ..." I sputtered on, a phony smile fixed on my lips. Larry rescued me from myself.

"Well, Tamara, here's the answer to the question you're not comfortable asking. I was visiting my daughter in North Carolina the day of Celia's death. I read about it in the paper the next day like everybody else. Here's Marva's number so you can check out my alibi." He jotted down his wife's telephone number on a napkin and pushed it across the table toward me. 'As for Cecil, I was down in DC doing a deal with a guy who sold me a fleet of cars, one of which I sold you. I don't have his number, but it's in my office. I'll leave it on your machine so you'll have that, too. The police didn't ask about my whereabouts when Celia was killed because I'm not a suspect, and I never have been. I'm amazed that you could possibly think that I could have something to do with that poor woman's death."

And with that, he paid the bill and left.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

The memory of the kid hit me the moment I walked into my office the next morning. It had been only a week since he'd been sitting here with his tough little self, Celia's ghost trailing right behind him. I snapped on my computer, determined to put them out of my mind and do something constructive. By the time the screen lit up, I couldn't think of squat to write, so I went through my usual procrastination-made some tea, watered the orphan aloe, gazed out my dirty window. the moment I walked into my office the next morning. It had been only a week since he'd been sitting here with his tough little self, Celia's ghost trailing right behind him. I snapped on my computer, determined to put them out of my mind and do something constructive. By the time the screen lit up, I couldn't think of squat to write, so I went through my usual procrastination-made some tea, watered the orphan aloe, gazed out my dirty window.

I thought about Larry Walton and checked for a message with the telephone number of the car dealer in DC, but he hadn't bothered to leave it. Chances were his alibi would have checked out anyway or he wouldn't have mentioned it. I called Cosey Jake's contact about the job, and told him I was interested. He hired me on the spot, explaining that I'd have to start the following Monday, which was fine with me. I remembered that Jake had scribbled the number of the detective on an envelope and searched through my Kenya bag for it, then cursed out loud when I realized I'd left it on my kitchen table. I considered calling him to get it, then admitted to myself that it would simply be a ruse to talk to him and waste more time.

When the phone rang, I answered it on the first ring.

"Ms. Tamara Hayle? Rebecca Donovan here, returning your call. My answering service said you called on Friday, and I wanted to get back to you." She sounded efficient, like a woman who didn't like to waste your time and expected the same courtesy from you. I was tempted to ask her about her hoity-toity answering service but changed my mind. It was best to get right to the point.

"Oh, yes. Ms. Donovan. Thank you so much for calling me back." I tucked the phone between my shoulder and chin and grabbed my notebook and pen. "I was calling about Celia Jones."

"Celia Jones?" She paused and sounded puzzled, as if trying to place the name, then added, "Celia Jones is dead. I believe she died in January. There's absolutely nothing I can tell you."

The note of dismissal in her voice told me she was preparing to hang up so I quickly added, "Yes, I'm aware of her death, but I've been hired to look into her murder."

She gave a slight, well-mannered gasp. "Someone actually hired you to look into that woman's death? I can't imagine who would do that. I a.s.sumed that the police were investigating it. Isn't the trail cold by now?"

"It's hot again. The murder of her son warmed it up." I sounded more sure than I was. I couldn't gauge the effect of my bravado, but it brought a momentary pause, after which she said, "Well, I'll certainly help you in any way that I can."

"Thank you for your cooperation. So how did you and Celia meet?"

"I was a volunteer at a women's shelter. Celia was a person trapped in a rat's hole of a life, and my heart went out to her. As a child, I was taught to always help people in need, that it was the right thing to do, so I offered her as much aid as I could. I'm afraid, though, she needed far more than I was able to give. I was, however, able to help her get away from the father of her son."

"You're referring to Brent Liston?"

"Yes."

"How did you help her get away from him?"

There was silence, then a sigh. "Through my husband, Clayton. I'm the widow of the Honorable Clayton Donovan. He pa.s.sed away last August. Very suddenly."

"Oh yes, I was sorry to hear that."

Another sigh. "There's not much else I can tell you." She cleared her throat. "If my husband were still alive, he might be able to be of help but-"

"Do you know Drew Sampson?"

A long pause. "What does any of this have to do with Drew?"

"He was involved with Celia."

"I think you'd better check your notes, Ms. Hayle." The nasty tone of her response surprised me; it seemed out of character.

"I have good reason to think otherwise. Do you happen to have a telephone number for him?"

A longer pause. "No. Is there anything else that I can help you with?"

"I'd like to talk to you again if I could."

My instincts told me she knew more than she was saying. It's always best to conduct an interview in person. If you know what to look for, only the best liar is able to conceal the truth. The gesture of a hand, the avoidance of eye contact, her posture in a chair, will give her away. You can find out more in ten minutes when you sit across from somebody than in ten hours on the phone.

"Well, I don't think that will be possible. I-"

"Please, Mrs. Donovan. The police are planning to open up the investigation again. I used to be in the department, and we Pis often share information with the authorities. With the cutbacks in the police force, it saves time and manpower. I suspect you might be more comfortable talking to me than to them."

"Could I ask who your client is?"

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say."

"How did you get my name?"

"It was written in a book that belonged to Celia Jones, which I currently have in my possession," I said, implying that if she didn't talk to me I'd be inclined to turn said book over to the cops.

'And you're saying that if I talk to you I won't have to talk to the police?"

"I doubt very seriously if the police will contact you." Now that that was the truth. was the truth.

She sighed again. This is one sighing sister, I thought.

"Okay, but it will have to be soon. I'm leaving for my country home in Connecticut on Thursday night. I'll be there for the next few weeks. Maybe even until spring. I go there to find peace."

"Will tomorrow be okay?"

"No, Wednesday is better, and it will have to be early in the morning. Mornings are always best for me. Early morning. Eight o'clock."

I'm not a morning person, but I figured I'd better take what I could get. "Thank you. Before you hang up, I'd like Drew Sampson's telephone number if you have it," I asked her again, loading my request with the weight of pseudo-authority My tone must have convinced her. She handed it over this time without question.

I smiled to myself. I'd counted on Rebecca Donovan not knowing squat about cops and private investigators, and the rules, hostilities, and occasional respect that mark our relationship. If she knew anything about law enforcement, she'd have known that most cops consider it beneath them to take a tip from a private investigator, and although Pis are law-abiding citizens, our first responsibility is always always to our client. We work the same streets as the police, but from different directions. Most folks, though, would rather talk to a private investigator than a cop, particularly if the PI is a woman. to our client. We work the same streets as the police, but from different directions. Most folks, though, would rather talk to a private investigator than a cop, particularly if the PI is a woman.

I wasn't so lucky with my next call.

"Who are you, how did you get my private number, and what do you want?" Drew Sampson had a squeak of a voice, the kind that might make a person laugh out loud if she didn't watch herself. I didn't remember him sounding like this in high school, but that had been a long time ago. He'd been such a handsome kid, n.o.body would have noticed it anyway.

"Good morning, Mr. Sampson. I'm a private investigator. Tamara Hayle of Hayle Investigative Services. I'd like to ask you a few questions, if I could."

'About what?"

"I'm looking into the death of a woman. If you have a moment, I think you may be able to clear things up for me."

"Why the h.e.l.l are you calling me? And I'm asking you again, how did you get this number?"

"I got your number from Mrs. Clayton Donovan," I said, guessing correctly that the mention of Rebecca Donovan's name wrapped in her dead husband's mantle would win me a few minutes. He paused for a moment, which gave me time to throw in somebody else. "I also spoke recently with Larry Walton, and he said that it might be helpful for me to speak to you. Larry was extremely helpful, and he was certain that you'd be able to give me a bit of your time."

I hoped the double whammy of Rebecca Donovan and Larry Walton would do the trick; it almost did.

"So this woman is Celia Jones, I a.s.sume?"

"Yes. Celia Jones and her son, Cecil."

"I guess Larry told you about the grief that b.i.t.c.h and her little b.a.s.t.a.r.d caused me and my family, didn't he?"

'Actually he just said I should talk to you," I said, recalling the adage about never telling everything you know. "If possible, I'd like to make an appointment to-"

"To what?"

"Well, to talk about your relationship with Celia Jones."

"That little wh.o.r.e got just what she deserved as far as I'm concerned and the same thing goes for her kid. I hope they both burn in h.e.l.l."

That took me back a beat, but I quickly recovered. 'Are the police aware of your feelings?" I asked in what I hoped was an appropriately threatening voice.

"Look, lady, you can tell the police, the Devil, or G.o.d himself what I said about that woman. I don't give a d.a.m.n. As a matter of fact, I talked to the cops about her because of my wife's involvement with her-and I'll tell you what I told them: I was with a friend the day Celia Jones was murdered. It was New Year's Eve, and since we'd both had a lousy year, we thought we'd bring in the new year together. We got stinking drunk and both pa.s.sed out on my couch. I didn't get up until three the next day. Now leave me me the h.e.l.l alone." He slammed down the phone so hard I could almost feel it. I placed the receiver back into the cradle, wondering what his wife had to say. I wasn't disappointed. the h.e.l.l alone." He slammed down the phone so hard I could almost feel it. I placed the receiver back into the cradle, wondering what his wife had to say. I wasn't disappointed.

Annette Sampson made no bones about her eagerness to talk about her husband, Celia Jones, and what had happened between the three of them. We agreed to meet the next day, which was a Tuesday, at "high noon," as she said with a charming chuckle that indicated "high" was the operative word, which was fine with me. In vino veri-tas In vino veri-tas as they say. There is truth in wine. I was sure that Annette could give me the name of her husband's friend. He hadn't mentioned gender, and if he'd had something going on the side, I was sure she'd be more than willing to talk about it. as they say. There is truth in wine. I was sure that Annette could give me the name of her husband's friend. He hadn't mentioned gender, and if he'd had something going on the side, I was sure she'd be more than willing to talk about it.

I was feeling pretty good by the end of the day. I'd jotted down verbatim what Rebecca, Drew, and Annette had said in my "redlocket" file, placing a star next to Drew Sampson's name. I was sure the cops hadn't pressed him hard. Their questions had probably been routine, and I doubted if they'd even bothered to check out his alibi. Drew Sampson was a big man in Newark. They wouldn't touch him unless they had him dead to rights. If they'd grilled anybody about Celia's death, it had probably been dumb, no-pot-to-p.i.s.s-in Brent Liston. by the end of the day. I'd jotted down verbatim what Rebecca, Drew, and Annette had said in my "redlocket" file, placing a star next to Drew Sampson's name. I was sure the cops hadn't pressed him hard. Their questions had probably been routine, and I doubted if they'd even bothered to check out his alibi. Drew Sampson was a big man in Newark. They wouldn't touch him unless they had him dead to rights. If they'd grilled anybody about Celia's death, it had probably been dumb, no-pot-to-p.i.s.s-in Brent Liston.

But if they did did have a case against Sampson, they wouldn't hesitate to bring him down, and I might be able to help them with that. My advantage over the police was that I knew Celia Jones. I had her journal and knew what had been written in it. I would also have conducted face-to-face interviews with two women who looked like me, and I knew from experience they'd be more honest with me than they'd be with cops. have a case against Sampson, they wouldn't hesitate to bring him down, and I might be able to help them with that. My advantage over the police was that I knew Celia Jones. I had her journal and knew what had been written in it. I would also have conducted face-to-face interviews with two women who looked like me, and I knew from experience they'd be more honest with me than they'd be with cops.

I couldn't make an arrest if I found out something important, but I could make it d.a.m.n easy for the police to make one. I had a good contact in Griffin, and if push came to shove, there was always De-Lorca, my old boss from Belvington Heights. With a bit more digging, I might find out some crucial tidbit about the murder of Celia or her boy that had been overlooked, and the police would take the next step. Maybe then I'd be able to get a good night's sleep.

I've never seen anything like it. To shoot a woman right through her privates.

When it came to Celia's murder, I was sure that Old Man Morgan had called it right. Those bullets, shot at close range, had made a definite statement.

f.u.c.king her was a very small part of our relationship.

How many other men-and women-could say the same?

I pulled out Celia's journal and looked again for something I might have missed, even though I was sure that her little red book had told me all it was going to tell. I called Aaron Dawson's number again, but it was disconnected. That would be one question Annette Sampson might be able to answer for me: Who the h.e.l.l was Aaron Daw-son?

I was convinced that whoever killed Celia killed her son, too, for something he knew about his mother's murder but didn't realize he knew. What scared me, though, was if the murderer knew that Cecil had talked to me, then maybe our conversation had contributed to his death.

At the thought of that, my fears about the man in the black coat came back strong; they started in my belly and worked themselves clear up to my heart, and when the phone rang, I almost jumped out of my chair.

"Tamara, this is Larry Walton. I wanted to apologize to you about the way I left you yesterday. I asked you to brunch and I should at least have had the decency to walk you back to your car." He ran his words together in one long sentence, which got my guard up.

"No harm done."

"Listen, I, uh, wanted to clarify something. I mentioned that I was down south visiting my daughter, right? Well, uh, I may have made a mistake. I was out with a friend on New Year's Eve and into the next day, when Celia was killed."

'And that friend was Drew Sampson." It hadn't taken Sampson long to call in his chips.

"Drew didn't do anything to Celia. You have to believe that."

"Because he was with you, right?" I didn't hide my disbelief.

"Listen, I just wanted to let you know what the deal is, okay? I'm sorry, Tamara," he said as if he meant it.

"Right, thanks for calling, Larry," I said, trying hard to make my voice sound neutral.