11
I awoke the next morning to a crowded bed. My mother and Dahlia had apparently decided to spend the night with me, and at some point they had crawled into bed. Thea had fallen asleep on my couch. Usually, I’m a light sleeper, often awakened by creaking night noises in my apartment. The fact that I slept soundly, despite being sandwiched between two women, one of whom, Dahlia, had the reputation of being a blanket hog and a violent sleeper, spoke volumes about my grief and my fatigue.
I tried to get out of bed as carefully as possible so as not to awaken the other occupants, but I needn’t have bothered. Both my mother and Dahlia were down for the count. I looked at the clock on the wall and saw it was just past eight o’clock. Good, I thought. If I hurried, I could reach B&J by nine o’clock, in time to face Raymond before the office got too busy. There were several questions I needed answered, and I was sure Raymond had the answer to at least a few of those questions.
I knew Lamarr had not suddenly fallen off the wagon and started doing heroin again. His peace of mind, not to mention his new life, had meant too much to him. I knew how difficult it had been for him to break free of his habit. I knew what that habit had cost him, the loss of all self-respect. I knew he had become too strong a man to want to walk down that road again. Someone had placed a needle full of poison in his arm and killed him. And I was going to find out who that person was.
I didn’t doubt for a minute there was some connection between Chester’s death and Lamarr’s overdose. Lamarr had known something, something he was afraid to tell me, about Chester’s death. His words came back to me, with clarity. You need to be aware of the undercurrents running around here, my sister. Believe me, they are strong. I didn’t know what undercurrents had found their way into B&J, but I was sure Raymond would know. There were few things about B&J, his pride and his joy, Raymond did not know. He made it his business to keep his hands on the pulse of his firm. Whatever “undercurrents” Lamarr was referring to would probably be already well known to Raymond. In any event, I intended to find out.
I walked out into my living room and found the couch was occupied by my father, who was awake. He was sitting, reading the New York Times. In his hand was a cup of tea.
“Hi, Daddy.” I shouldn’t have been surprised to see him. There was no crisis in my life that my parents felt was too great or too small for them to get involved in. Some of my friends would say my parents interfered in my life too much, and I am sure they had a good point. But I knew everything that my parents did was done out of love. Besides, whenever I told them to back off, on those rare occasions, they would respect my wishes. Grudging respect, but respect nonetheless.
“Thea went back to the apartment to take care of Reese,” my dad told me. “Care to join me, pumpkin?”
No matter how old I got, no matter that I now had grey hairs, and I had lived alone and paid my own taxes for longer than I cared to acknowledge, I was still a pumpkin to my father. I walked over and sat next to him, planting a kiss on his cheek.
“Can’t join you, Dad. I’ve got some things that need tending to first thing this morning.”
He looked at me and nodded his head as if he understood exactly what I was referring to. We have always had a bond, my father and I, which some find unnatural. We often finish each other’s sentences, and we can communicate with each other without speaking. Sometimes, when I have a problem, a problem that is presenting me with too much difficulty to either solve or face, I’ll get a phone call from my father, with the solution to the problem.
“I’m sorry about Lamarr,” said my father. “He was a fine man. A very fine man.”
I felt the tears sting my eyes again, but I was determined not to cry. I wasn’t going to give in to grief again. Not this morning. There was time enough to grieve about Lamarr. I would have an eternity for that. Right now I needed to find out what happened to my friend. That was where my energies had to lie.
“Here,” said my father, handing me his steaming cup of tea. “Drink this. It’s ginger tea. Nothing like ginger tea to fortify the soul.”
I took a sip of my father’s ginger tea, and I don’t know if it was the tea or my father’s reassuring arm, which was draped around my shoulder, but I felt better by the time I got off the couch. We didn’t talk long. I had a lot to do. But those few minutes I spent with my father helped strengthen me for what I knew was a difficult day ahead.
By the time I left my apartment, dressed in my dark blue suit with matching pumps and a cream silk blouse, my spirits had not lifted. There was no way that I would feel better so soon after Lamarr’s death. But I felt renewed, and I was determined to face Raymond and whomever else I had to face to get answers.
Raymond was not a man who was inclined to give anyone answers on demand.
“What exactly do you want to know, Jasmine?” he asked in a tone that let me know he did not suffer fools gladly.
Raymond had greeted me with concern when I walked into his office at nine fifteen that morning. He knew how close Lamarr and I had been. I saw the sadness I felt reflected in Raymond’s eyes as he talked about Lamarr. Lamarr’s death had hit him hard. Not only had he liked Lamarr, but Lamarr had been one of the few people working for him whom Raymond respected. But Raymond’s sadness and sympathy quickly gave way to anger once my questions started.
“I want to know what is going on in this firm that would cause two employees of B&J to end up dead,” I said.
“Just what are you insinuating, Jasmine?” asked Raymond evenly, his eyes never leaving mine.
“I’m not insinuating anything,” I said, refusing to back down. “I’m asking you, what’s going on around here? Both Lamarr and Chester are dead. They worked at your firm. That’s a strange coincidence, Raymond.”
“Jasmine, Chester was murdered,” replied Raymond. “There’s no evidence Lamarr was murdered. He died of a drug overdose. As much as I liked Lamarr, it’s not unheard of for an addict to slip up and start taking that stuff again.”
I got up from my seat and walked over to Raymond’s desk and stood in front of him. He looked up at me as if I had suddenly taken leave of all of my senses. Leaning forward across the desk so our faces were only inches apart, I said, “Raymond, you are lying.”
“Back off, Jasmine.”
Where moments before I had seen anger in Raymond’s eyes, what I clearly saw now was fear. One of the reasons that I am known as a good litigator is I know how to read people’s emotions, and I know how to use those emotions to get the information that I need. I decided right there that the only way I was going to get any information out of Raymond was to capitalize on that fear. Looking back, I wonder if I knew then what the consequences of my actions would be. But, I suspect, it wouldn’t have mattered. I was past the point of caring about anything else except finding out who had murdered Lamarr. For as sure I was standing in Raymond’s office, I knew someone had taken my friend’s life.
“I’m going to the police,” I said.
I watched as the fear I saw in Raymond’s eyes grew.
“Jasmine, please.”
I would have backed down, but the thought of Lamarr kept me going. Whatever problem Raymond was facing, he could get help. Lamarr was past the point of getting help from anyone. The only thing left was to set things right so his legacy would not be one of a heroin addict who gave in to a song of death. I didn’t want my friend to be remembered that way. I wanted the truth to come out, and I knew no one else was going to fight for the reputation of an ex-junkie. I didn’t fool myself that I was fighting for justice. Eight years practicing law had taught me justice was an ever-changing and elusive thing. But I knew what reputation had meant to Lamarr. I knew what respect had meant to him. I knew how hard he had fought to stay clean. I couldn’t give Lamarr back his life, but I could damn well try to give him back his reputation.
“Raymond, I can’t let this go.” I tried to reason with him. “Whatever this thing is, it cost Lamarr his life. You’re asking me to do the impossible.”
“Jasmine, if you keep digging, the dirt you find might be the dirt that brings this firm down.”
The firm. Always the firm. I understood Raymond’s obsession with his firm. Raymond had no life other than B&J. But I also understood for the first time that I had begun to buy into this obsession. The fear of losing a job, especially a well-paying job, had been my driving force. I had bought into the “without this job, I am nothing” syndrome. Hook. Line. And you know the rest. Lamarr’s death had a profound effect on me, an effect I was not sure I realized at that point, but I did know for the first time in eight years, there was something more important in my life than the almighty quest to win cases, make money, and attain partnership.
“I’m sorry, Raymond,” I said. “But right now the firm has to take second priority. Are you going to talk to me, or am I going to have to go to the police? I think Lamarr was murdered.”
“You have no proof.”
“No,” I replied, “but you and I both know I’ll find the proof.”
Raymond sank back in his seat. Capitulation. Usually, this was a time of triumph for me. I had faced my opponent, and I had won. Yet victory wasn’t sweet for me this morning. It was a necessary meal, but it didn’t taste good. I went back to my seat and sat down.
Raymond was silent for a few minutes. He sat staring at his hands. I waited. I knew he would talk, but he had to wrestle with some demons first. I just hoped the wrestling wouldn’t take too long.
“Lamarr knew some things about Chester,” said Raymond. “Knew some things that might have gotten him killed.”
“What did he know?”
“He knew Chester was collecting information on people.”
I could see I was going to have to drag this out of Raymond. He was going to give me the information, but I was going to have to work for it.
“What sort of information?”
“Any dirt Chester could find on someone. Chester had a file on a whole bunch of folk. Clients. Lawyers in this firm. Even judges. He was keeping score.”
I knew it was bad to curse the dead, but just when I thought there was no lower point to which Chester could have gone, he would surprise me and go just a little bit lower.
“Lamarr knew about it,” said Raymond. “He came to me about two weeks ago to warn me. Chester had some information about me that would ... ultimately destroy this firm if it came to light.”
The questions came fast and furious in my head. I had to fight to keep it together. There was so much I wanted an explanation for. I took a deep breath and started with my first question.
“What dirt did Chester have on you?”
Raymond looked at his hands again and said, “Are you sure you want to know this?”
I nodded my head. “Quite sure.”
“He knew I killed a man.”
Once again, I felt the air slowly leave the room. My heart was beating fast and in irregular beats, and my palms started to sweat. I was about to get bad news, and even as I tried to prepare myself for what Raymond was going to say, I knew, without any doubt in my mind, that whatever Raymond said would forever change our relationship.
Raymond took a deep breath and released it through his nose. Then he took another breath. Released it. Then he said, “I went to prison, Jasmine. A long time ago. I killed a man.”
I did not understand the words. I heard him, but I did not understand the words. I thought to myself, Did Raymond just tell me he is an ex-con who served time in prison for killing a man?
“Chester’s secretary told Lamarr about it. Apparently, she had been spending extracurricular time with Chester, and at some point he dumped her. Well, you can guess the rest. Hell hath no fury like the secretary who gave up her life for you on the promise that one day she would be Mrs. Chester Jackson, but you up and marry someone else, and I guess the moral of the story is don’t cross a woman.”
“Raymond,” I said when I finally found my voice again, “you were in jail?”
He shook his head. “Prison, Jasmine. Four years. For manslaughter. I killed a man. A bad man, but that didn’t matter to the judge. I was sentenced to ten years, but I got out in four. Good behavior. It was another lifetime, Jasmine. I was another person.”
“Why didn’t you tell me, Raymond?”
“Because I didn’t want you to look at me the way you’re looking at me now.”
“What happened?”
“A long time ago,” replied Raymond, “there was a boy who grew up hard in a town in Florida—Ocala. This boy, he was raised by his mother. His father had been in prison for armed robbery and God knows what else by the time he was born. His mother went from man to man and job to job until her luck finally ran out in the form of a mean son of a bitch. This mean son of a bitch beat the boy’s mother almost daily. Broke her nose. Her ribs. Her jaw. Her left hand. Took her money. Did everything a man could do to hurt a woman. Kept women and didn’t even try to hide these women. The boy’s mother would kick him out, but he would always come back, and she would always take him in. One day, when the boy became a man, or at least big enough to do what he had been praying to do, which was to protect his mother, the boy took a gun and shot this man. Kept on shooting him until he was sure that the son of a bitch would never hurt his mother again.
“They sent me to prison,” said Raymond. “I got my GED. Got a college degree. Learned about the law. Decided to be a lawyer. After I got out, I reinvented myself, and I never looked back. Never. I changed my name. Got a whole new identity. Worked my way through college and law school. And the rest is history, as they say.
“I knew people who specialized in giving folks another chance. For a price. I paid the price and became Raymond Bustamante. I thought the name Raymond sounded respectable. Good name for a lawyer. And I met this Cuban guy whose last name was Bustamante. It was unusual. I liked the sound of it. Things worked out. Raymond Bustamante has had a good life. A life he never could have imagined, let alone dreamed about, when he was growing up in Ocala, Florida.”
“What’s your real name?” I asked.
“You mean the name I was born with?” He laughed, but it was clear the laughter did not reach his eyes. “Rufus White. My name is Rufus White.”
I sat there trying to make sense of something that made no sense. The man whom I was staring at, the man on whom I had built my professional dreams, had just told me that he had never existed.
“Chester found out about my past life, and he was planning to use that information to secure more compensation, shall we say,” said Raymond. “He hadn’t approached me, but his secretary knew all about his plans, and she told Lamarr, who told me. Chester had me right where he wanted me. There is no Raymond Bustamante. There’s only Rufus White, the ex-con.”
“Raymond, other attorneys have gone to prison and managed to salvage their careers.”
“Do you think any of our clients would still come to us if they knew the truth, Jasmine?” Raymond asked bitterly. “Come on, sweetheart. This is Wall Street.”
He was right.
Raymond continued talking. “I would have paid any price that Chester wanted me to pay. This firm is my life. I wasn’t about to let Chester take it away from me.”
“Raymond,” I asked, “do you think Lamarr paid the price for Chester’s dirty dealings?”
Raymond didn’t bother to lie. “Probably. I’m sure Lamarr’s death had something to do with all the stuff Chester was doing. Lamarr knew too much.”
“Who else knows about this?” I asked.
“Only Irmalee and me, as far as I know,” Raymond responded.
“What about Nina?” I asked.
“I don’t think so,” replied Raymond. “Apparently, Chester wanted her to think he was a good, upstanding citizen, apart from the adultery. But Chester’s secretary knows. According to Lamarr, Irmalee knows a whole lot. She even helped him do his dirty work.”
We both looked at each other at that moment. I could tell we were thinking the same thing. The secretary. She was the key to this whole mess. At the very least, she would be able to provide us with some information.
Raymond buzzed his secretary. “I need to see Irmalee Littlejohn immediately,” he ordered.
“She’s not here,” replied his secretary over the intercom. “She called in sick yesterday.”
“Call her at home!” Raymond barked. I could tell he was feeling the same sense of alarm I was feeling.
A few minutes later, Raymond’s secretary buzzed him. There was no one answering at Irmalee’s home. She gave Raymond the address. Irmalee lived in Harlem, not far from where I live. Ten minutes later we were headed uptown in the backseat of a taxicab.
We were silent on the ride uptown. Wrapped up in thoughts neither of us felt the necessity to share. I couldn’t presume to guess what was on Raymond’s mind, but if I were a betting woman (and I’m not), I would wager Raymond was wondering what I was going to do with his secret.
I stared across the East River to the borough of Brooklyn and thought of Lamarr. I longed for his calm counsel right about now. From the time I learned of Chester’s death, it was as if I were on a roller-coaster ride, where the sudden and dramatic dips and turns were becoming more frequent. Lamarr was dead, and Raymond was an imposter. A well-pedigreed imposter. Everybody deserved a second chance. Whatever he had done, he had paid his debt to society. What I couldn’t get past were the lies. Raymond had lied to me.
The taxi veered off the FDR and eased its way onto the 125th Street exit.
“Take 125th Street to Lenox Avenue; then take a right,” I ordered. Although taxi drivers in New York have maps for all of the five boroughs, when it came to navigating through Harlem, some taxi drivers acted as if they had suddenly come to a foreign land. This was not surprising, because most yellow cabs never came uptown further than 110th Street when they were on the Upper East Side unless they were headed somewhere else.
The taxi driver obeyed my directions without comment. He had not been pleased when Raymond announced our destination was 137th and Lenox Avenue. But we had already been seated in the cab when he inquired “where to?” so he had no other choice but to comply with our request that he take us uptown.
The taxi drove slowly along 125th Street, Main Street, Harlem, USA. Although it was just past eleven thirty in the morning, traffic was heavy, and our rate of progress could be described in two words, slow and stop. One of my favorite places in the world was 125th Street. It’s a street filled with history, from the Apollo Theater, where African American musical legends sang regularly, to the Harlem State Office Building, where Adam Clayton Powell, Jr., spoke, to the various nightclubs, coffee shops, clothes stores, and restaurants. When I was a little girl, my father and I would walk down 125th Street and buy fresh vegetables from a grocery stand my father swore had the freshest produce in all of New York. As we walked down 125th Street, I would imagine I heard the voices of those who had walked these streets before me. Street hustlers, musicians, cornerside preachers, folks taken in by the lure of fast money, and fast-living folks who still dreamed of Harlem. These voices would tell me, “Walk tall, little sister.” And I did.
Even now when I go to 125th Street in search of some particular balm for an uneasy soul, whether it be incense oil from the African brother on 125th and Amsterdam, or some curry goat with rice and peas from the Jamaican restaurant just past Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard, or my cheap lipstick, which can only be found in a little store on the corner of the 125th Street and Morningside, or the works of the talented, famous, and not so famous black artists that hang on the wall of the Studio Museum in Harlem, I can still hear those voices, but now I just have to listen a lot harder.
“Turn right on Lenox,” I ordered, my voice sounding calm and in control, in direct contrast to what I was feeling. “Then go to 137th and hang a right.” The taxi driver obeyed, once again without comment.
Although I had never been to Irmalee’s apartment building before, I was certain the three police cars with flashing lights and the crowd of people surrounding a building in the middle of the block were somehow connected to Irmalee. I looked over at Raymond, and the look on his face told me we were on the same wavelength.
“This doesn’t look too good,” I said, expressing the obvious.
“No,” replied Raymond, speaking to me for the first time during our trip. “It doesn’t look good at all.”
The taxi driver stopped as close to the building as he could. A crowd of about forty people was standing in the street, and the police cars blocked off the rest of the block. Raymond paid the taxi driver and told him, “Wait here for us.”
“The meter will be running,” stated the driver, whose facial expression had now gone from displeasure to something close to fear. I could tell he wasn’t comfortable with being in an environment where there were not a lot of people who looked like him. Still, I had to give him credit. His need for the almighty dollar apparently overrode whatever fear or dislike he carried in his soul. He obviously could smell a good fare and an even better tip.
We got out of the taxi and made our way to the sidewalk in front of Irmalee’s building, where one of New York’s finest, one who apparently had not heard the mayor’s speech on the importance of physical fitness for the members of his police force, stopped us, with a “Wheredayathinkyagoing?”
He was well over two hundred pounds, and he was sweating profusely. He had the red, flushed coloring of one who was well acquainted with the bottle, and his face was lined from years in the sun and, I guessed, hard living. His hair was a flaming color that was stuck somewhere between red and orange, and his eyes were the color of wheat. The whole effect was disconcerting. He looked at us with a bored air. Uppity folks, his eyes said as he gave us both a once-over, taking in the expensive suits and the taxi waiting for us obediently at a discreet distance.
Raymond spoke in his “I am a lawyer, and you had better think twice about messing with me” voice. “I’m here to see Irmalee Littlejohn. She lives in this building.”
New York’s finest’s eyes narrowed, and I thought I saw a smile lurking just beyond his lips. “Well, right now we’re conducting police business,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s just not possible.”
“What kind of police business?” I asked. “What’s going on?”
New York’s finest looked at me and said, “Who are you? You related to Miss Littlejohn?”
“No, I’m not related,” I said, his cold eyes confirming my suspicion his presence here had something to do with Irmalee Littlejohn. I was not fond of Irmalee, nor was she particularly enamored of me, but I did not wish her any harm. I saw in the face of New York’s finest the grim eyes of someone who is on a first-name basis with random or specific acts of violence, which told me my wishes on this score would not be granted. Either Irmalee was in trouble or she was in a place where trouble could no longer reach her.
“Jasmine Spain,” said a male voice that was by now getting more familiar, “what are you doing here?”
Both Raymond and I turned in the direction of that voice and found ourselves staring at Detective Claremont. He was standing with two other uniformed officers. He had the air of someone who was distracted or worried or both. Dressed in khaki slacks, which had been ironed by someone who meant business, and a white oxford shirt, he looked like a professor or a graduate student on his way to class.
“I’m trying to get some answers,” I replied.
“I called your house this morning,” said the detective. “I talked to your mother. She assured me if you felt strong enough to leave the house, you were doing okay. How are you?”
“I’ve been better.”
Detective Claremont took two strides, and he was in front of me. He looked at me hard before speaking; then he looked at Raymond. “Mr. Bustamante,” he said by way of greeting; then he returned his attention to me. “What answers are you trying to get, Jasmine?” he asked.
“Irmalee Littlejohn lives here, and I want to make sure she’s alright. She hasn’t been to work in two days, and we’ve been unable to reach her.”
“She’s dead.” Raymond’s words were not a question, just a sure and certain statement. I had almost forgotten his presence; I was so consumed by the unfolding drama around me and my fear that Irmalee’s life had come to the same ugly conclusion as Lamarr’s and Chester’s had.
Marcus nodded his head, his eyes never leaving my face. “Yes.”
This news didn’t come as a shock. I wasn’t stunned. I wasn’t surprised. I think deep down, I’d suspected as much when I got in the cab. Whoever took the trouble to murder Chester and Lamarr was not going to leave any loose ends. Irmalee had been a loose end.
“What happened?” I asked, marveling that my voice had remained calm, reflecting a detached air I did not feel.
“Her throat was slashed. Like Chester.”
Throughout this discussion, New York’s finest stood silently by, observing us. I thought I saw a mild curiosity in his eyes, but upon closer reflection, I saw I was wrong. I saw boredom. Another day. Another murder. Another statistic.
“Mr. Bustamante,” Marcus said, now turning his attention to Raymond. “I think you and I need to talk.”
He knew. It was unspoken. There was nothing unusual about the words spoken by the detective, but all three of us, Raymond, Detective Claremont, and I, knew Detective Claremont had found out Raymond’s secret. The jig, as they say, was up.
My protective instincts went into high gear. I owed a lot to Raymond. Without his encouragement, I would probably have gone to a white-shoe, established Wall Street law firm, where I would have languished in obscurity, doing unimportant work that needed to be done to bill hours, until I was gently let go. Raymond allowed me to shine, and that opportunity had opened many doors to me. I was not going to turn my back on Raymond. Not now. Not ever. I am a loyal person. I owed a lot to Raymond. Other powerful partners wouldn’t have taken me under their wing and safely guided my career the way Raymond did. I wasn’t about to forget that, no matter how attracted I was to Marcus Claremont.
“There will be no questions of my client unless I’m in his presence,” I said.
Marcus raised one eyebrow, but otherwise his expression was inscrutable.
“Fine,” Marcus said. “Why don’t we do this back at the precinct?”
Raymond nodded his head. I watched as the realization came to him that his life, a life he had so carefully and meticulously crafted, was coming inexorably to an end. A shameful end. The secrets he had buried back in Florida had now blossomed into an ugly fruit right here in Harlem.
I turned to Raymond and said, “Let’s get this over with. It’s going to be okay. I promise.”
Raymond smiled, and once again his smile did not reach his eyes. “Cross your heart?”
“Cross my heart,” I responded, squeezing his hand.
“We can take my car,” said the detective, gesturing to his unmarked police vehicle, the same one I had ridden in yesterday. I don’t know how I could have missed it. I walked right by it on my way to Irmalee’s apartment building.
I walked over to the taxi driver and told him we would not be needing his services. Then I handed him a fifty-dollar bill, which took care of his wait, his ride back downtown, and then some. He started his engine before I could say, “Keep the change.”
Marcus Claremont’s office was not the standard antiseptic detective office I’d come to know in my dealings with my various criminal clients. It was filled with pictures of family and various plants, which added to an almost homey feeling when we entered the room. On the wall were numerous citations from the mayor, the governor—even one from the President of the United States—all attesting to Detective Claremont’s bravery in the line of duty. He was apparently very accomplished, which did nothing to ease my nerves as the interview with Raymond began.
Raymond and I sat down in two chairs that looked good but were extremely uncomfortable. Marcus Claremont sat down behind his desk. In the position of power. He cleared his throat. “I’m not here to trap you, Mr. Bustamante. But I am here to get some answers.”
Both Raymond and I digested this information in silence. I sat up a little straighter in my seat. Prepared for battle. My senses were all on red alert, waiting for the strike to come. Something told me Marcus Claremont wasn’t a man to be underestimated.
“Mr. Bustamante,” said Marcus, “what I want to know is any information you might have about the murders of Chester Jackson and Irmalee Littlejohn.”
He didn’t mention Lamarr, but I knew he suspected Lamarr had also been murdered.
“Is my client in custody?” I interrupted. “Because if he is, I will not allow any further questions until you read him his rights.”
“He isn’t in custody,” Marcus replied. “I’m just asking him a few questions—for informational purposes only.”
Yeah, right.
“May I proceed?” asked Marcus, with exaggerated formality.
I didn’t respond; instead, I turned and focused my attention on Raymond.
“Do you know anything at all, anything at all about these murders?” Marcus asked Raymond.
“No,” said Raymond. His voice was flat. “I don’t know anything about anybody getting killed.”
“Mr. Bustamante,” said Marcus, “did you visit Chester Jackson on the night he was murdered?”
“Yeah, I saw Chester the night he was killed.”
I had to resist the urge not to snap my head in Raymond’s direction. In the words of my late grandmother, what the h-e-double-l was going on? This was the first time I’d heard this information.
I was glad for the training and experience I had as a litigator, or this bombshell would have made my mouth drop open. Instead, I concentrated on Raymond’s face as I was confronted by a thought that had never before surfaced. Raymond had killed before. Had Raymond killed again? And again? And again? I pushed away all thoughts of Raymond being the murderer of anyone but his wife-beating stepfather. Raymond had changed. He was no longer that little boy from South Florida who wanted to help his mother. He was a distinguished jurist. The man who gave me a start in my career. No, it wasn’t possible Raymond was involved in these murders.
“Why did you go to see Mr. Jackson?” asked Marcus.
Once again the litigator in me sprang into action, even though I was still reeling from this latest information. “Raymond, I think we should end this questioning now.”
I turned to Marcus and said, “If you’re going to charge Mr. Bustamante with a crime, then please do so. If you are not, then my client wishes to end this line of questioning.”
“Do you want me to charge him with a crime, Jasmine?”
“No, Detective Claremont,” I said, standing up and giving him the clear indication that this interview was over. “I do not want you to charge Mr. Bustamante with a crime. However, I will not allow you to interrogate him—”
Raymond’s voice interrupted the speech I had planned to give on Miranda warnings and custodial interrogations. “Sit down, Jasmine,” he said. “I’ve got nothing to hide from Detective Claremont.”
If I lived to be a hundred, I would never understand the male species. Here Raymond had broken his neck to keep his secret from all concerned, and now he was waving the white flag, letting a cop interrogate him, getting God knows what information from him, only to be used against him. I could see where this questioning was going. Marcus was building a case against Raymond, and Raymond was helping him do it.
“Raymond, please,” I said, hating the fact that my voice was now getting dangerously close to a whine.
“It’s okay, Jasmine.” Raymond’s voice was firm.
I turned to Marcus Claremont and said, “I wish to consult with my client.”
Marcus answered, “Apparently, your client doesn’t wish to consult with you. Am I correct in that assumption, Mr. Bustamante?”
“You are correct,” replied Raymond.
I sat down. There was nothing I could do at this point but watch as Raymond allowed everything he’d worked for to be destroyed. The information that I knew he was going to give Marcus Claremont would help build the coffin in which he would bury his career. Although I could not swear Raymond was not involved in the murders of Chester, Lamarr, and Irmalee, in my heart, I did not believe Raymond had murdered any of those three people. True, he had murdered before, but if he was to be believed, it was in defense of his mother. But why would Raymond kill any of his employees? To protect B&J? I knew B&J meant the world to him, but would he kill for his firm? My heart said no. But my heart had been wrong before.
“I went over to talk to Chester. I had learned Chester had found out some very damaging information about me, and I wanted to know what he planned on doing about the information.”
“Was anyone at his town house when you went over?” asked Marcus.
“No,” said Raymond. “I’d called Chester to talk to him about it. He hung up on me, and I went over there to talk to him.”
“To talk to him?” asked Marcus Claremont, with one raised eyebrow.
“To talk to him,” replied Raymond, “and to beat some sense into him if he proceeded down the very dangerous path of messing with me and what is mine.”
The quiet words belied an undercurrent of violence. I did not doubt for a minute Raymond would do bodily harm to protect what was his, but would Raymond have killed Chester?
“Did you,” asked Marcus Claremont, “beat some sense into him?”
“No,” said Raymond. “We talked. He told me he hadn’t yet decided what to do with the information, and for now, my business was not going to be told, at least not by him. We left it at that.”
“You trusted Chester’s word?” asked Marcus Claremont.
“No,” replied Raymond. “But for the time being, his word was all I had to hold on to.”
“How long did you stay at the town house?” asked the detective.
“Not long. I got there around nine, and I was gone by nine thirty. He was drunk. Couldn’t talk much sense into him, anyway. Besides, I had gotten what I wanted. A reprieve. I figured out I had time to reason with him to do the right thing.”
“Do the right thing?” repeated the detective.
“Not to mess with my business,” replied Raymond. In Raymond’s words, I heard something I had not heard before. An accent. A southern accent. His voice became softer. Rounder. More musical. Southern Florida had caught up with Raymond in more ways than one.
We were all silent for a moment. Then Raymond said, “I didn’t kill him. Although I don’t know what I would have done if he had gone on and tried to test me. He was a sorry bastard who turned everything he touched to dirt. From his business partners to his marriage. Everything always turned to dirt, although he ended up smelling like a rose. But I wasn’t about to let him mess with my firm.”
Nothing like the client who won’t listen to you. I had no doubt Raymond had now become a suspect in Chester’s death. A prime suspect. In my mind, I was certain Raymond was not the killer. I was convinced all three deaths were related, and while I knew Raymond could kill Chester, I didn’t believe he could have killed poor Irmalee or Lamarr.
“Is there anything else you have to say?” asked Marcus Claremont.
“No,” said Raymond. “Not at this time.”
I thought the detective would push Raymond more. Ask him questions about the information that Chester had on him. Instead, the detective said, “I’d like to thank you for taking the time to talk to me.”
“Is this line of questioning over?” I asked.
Marcus Claremont stared at me, with an expression I couldn’t discern. At one point, I thought he was going to say something to me, but instead, he turned his attention to Raymond. “You have my card, Mr. Bustamante. Please call me if anything comes to mind.”
The detective rose from his chair as both Raymond and I stood up to leave. “I’ll be in touch,” he said.
Yes, I thought, I’m sure you will.
Raymond walked out of the office, and as I followed him, Marcus caught my arm.
“Be careful, Jasmine. I know this man is your friend, but he might be a murderer,” he said softly.
I shook my head. “I’d bet my life Raymond’s innocent.”
Marcus looked at me. “I hope you’re right.”
After we left the police precinct, Raymond and I walked for awhile, with no particular destination in mind. Once again, Raymond was quiet. Lost in his own thoughts. I wasn’t sure how long Raymond intended to walk aimlessly all over the Upper West Side, but I decided I would walk with him until he decided not to walk anymore or until he told me to go away.
When we reached Seventy-second Street and Broadway, Raymond finally spoke. “Jasmine, why don’t you take the subway home. I’ve got some things I need to sort out.”
He sounded tired. Broken. Defeated. I cursed Chester once again for his role in bringing Raymond down. Whatever predicament Raymond was in was his own doing. Still, I blamed Chester for whatever role he played in this whole mess.
“Call me if you need me,” I said. “Anytime.”
Raymond smiled then. He pulled me to him in a quick embrace and enveloped me in his arms. I could hear the sounds of New York City surrounding us. The blaring horns of taxis and other vehicles. The shouts of street vendors. Hip-hop music from someone’s boom box. The sound of a couple fighting in Spanish.
Raymond kissed my cheek and then pushed me away from him. It was an odd gesture. Gentle and firm at the same time.
“Do you know, Jasmine Spain, I’ve always had a crush on you?”
I had by this time thought I’d lost the capacity to be stunned or in any other way surprised, but I was wrong.
Raymond continued. “I’ve wanted to date you for some time ... but I held back. Thought it wasn’t proper. Thought you might think my motive for hiring you was something other than that you were and are one of the best damn lawyers I’ve ever encountered. Guess I missed my chance with you, Jasmine.”
I stared at him. “Raymond, I don’t know what to say.” This was, in fact, true.
“There’s nothing to say. You apparently have an effect on men. I think Detective Claremont is smitten with you.”
Damn, was it that obvious?
I cleared my throat. “I’m not interested in him,” I lied.
He smiled. “Yes, you are. He’s a lucky bastard.”
Then, he turned and walked away.
Later that night Thea and I sat down on my living room floor, listened to reggae music, and ate Chinese food. Reese was spending the evening with my parents, but Thea had escaped my mother’s lectures on the sanctity of marriage and the prudent nature of forgiveness. I’d had a hell of a day, and I felt a little selfish, in light of my sister’s problems, but I was glad to have her spend some time with me. I’d told her a little about what had happened that day, and like me, she’d been shocked about Raymond’s true identity.
Her cell phone had rung periodically throughout the evening. Her husband, Brooks, had called her, but each time Thea refused to answer his telephone call. He’d already called most of her friends and my mother, trying to get someone to tell his wife to come back home. He knew better than to call me. I would have cursed him out. I don’t take kindly to cheating men, especially when they cheat on my sister.
“What are you going to do about Brooks?” I asked as I dug into a carton of ginger chicken.
“Divorce him,” my sister replied as she devoured her garlic shrimp and broccoli.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “I mean, it’s not going to be easy raising Reese on your own.”
Thea sighed. “You sound like Mom.”
“You really know how to hurt a sister,” I laughed.
“No, seriously. She’s been singing that song.”
“It’s just that I’ve been down that road before—not the single mom part, but the divorce part.”
Thea put her carton of food down on the floor.
“When did you finally get over the divorce?” she asked.
I thought about this for awhile before I answered.
“I don’t think I’m over it,” I said. “Sometimes I wake up, and I still expect to see Trevor lying next to me.”
“Do you still love him?” Thea asked.
“No,” I answered honestly. “But I do miss him. I miss his companionship.”
“I never liked him.” My sister lowered her voice as if she was afraid there was someone in the room, listening to our conversation.
“Really?” I was surprised. I thought that everyone loved my ex-husband. He was the charming one, the life of the party, the one with the outgoing personality. He had a great career, a terrific resume, and he vacationed regularly at my mother’s favorite spot, Martha’s Vineyard. He played golf and moved easily into social circles that I was uncomfortable with. He was my parents’ dream. It didn’t matter that he was self-centered, emotionally distant, loose with the truth, and at times pathologically insecure. He looked good in a suit, was outstanding in bed, and everyone, except my sister, apparently, thought that he was a good catch.
“You didn’t like Trevor?” I asked.
“No,” Thea replied very firmly. “I thought that he was an arrogant ass. You were too good for him, but he was too stupid to realize the gem that he had.”
“You’re just saying that because I’m your sister.”
“Jasmine, you are far from perfect, but you were way out of his league. Trevor’s problem is that he drank the Kool-Aid.”
“Come again?”
“He believed the hype about himself. He wasn’t satisfied with a good woman ... Basically, he wasn’t satisfied with himself. I think that deep down he was jealous of you.”
“Jealous of me? What do I have that Trevor would want?”
“Integrity. Kindness. Decency. All the things he didn’t possess. He’s a shallow bastard, and trust me, he’s going to end up with a woman who isn’t going to look past his checkbook. He had someone who really loved him, and he blew it. He deserves what he gets.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” I asked.
“Because you loved him.”
“Well, do me a favor. The next time you have those feelings about anyone I’m involved with, give me a heads-up.”
My sister snuggled next to me, just as she had when we were kids.
“Brooks is an idiot,” I told her.
My sister continued eating. “I know.”
Just then my doorbell rang. It was close to nine o’clock.
“Who could that be?” I wondered out loud. “I hope it isn’t Mom.”
My mother was known to make unannounced late-night visits when she was upset, and God, my sister’s impending divorce had thrown off my mother’s already delicate equilibrium.
I got up and went to the front door. Looking through the peephole, I saw Marcus Claremont. Once again, in spite of everything, the sight of Detective Claremont brought a heady rush of pleasure.
I opened the door.
“Detective Claremont, this is a surprise,” I said.
He looked different. His typical calm, easygoing demeanor was gone. He looked as if he was upset about something.
“I hate to ask this question,” I said, “but has anybody else I know met an untimely end?”
He shook his head. “Not that I know of.”
I opened the door wider and stepped aside. “Come in.”
My sister stood up, and I made introductions when Marcus entered my living room.
“Listen,” my sister said as she picked up the food cartons, “I’ll just be in the bedroom.”
“You don’t have to go anywhere,” I protested, but she was on a mission. In the space of two minutes, she’d cleaned up the food, put the cartons away, and deposited herself in my bedroom.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I asked, remembering my manners.
He shook his head. “No.”
“Please, have a seat.”
He sat down on the couch, but I remained standing.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“Yes.” Marcus Claremont looked at me. “There’s something wrong.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“You, Jasmine,” he replied fiercely, “dammit, you’re the problem.”
“Excuse me?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly.
“You’re the problem,” he said, “or more specifically, you’re my problem.”
“Your problem?”
“Yes,” he said. “My problem. Since you left my office today, all I’ve thought about is you. Even when you were in your pit bull lawyer mode, all I wanted to do was kiss you. Ever since I first saw you, Jasmine, years ago, when you were in court, giving some judge hell, I’ve wanted to kiss you.”
I watched as he got up from the couch and walked over to where I stood. He was very close to me, too close. He lowered his lips until they were a fraction away from mine.
His voice was hoarse. “I’ve waited a long time, Jasmine.”
“What are you doing?” I asked, now truly alarmed.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he said, and then he did.
He kissed me more thoroughly than any man had ever kissed me. My ex-husband had been a good kisser, but he was no match for Detective Marcus Claremont. He ravished my mouth, and instead of pushing him away, as all common sense directed, I pulled him closer. Maybe it was the sadness that surrounded me because of Lamarr’s death. Maybe it was the turmoil that surrounded the place where I worked. I don’t know what it was that made me crave Marcus’s embrace, but his arms felt like a blessing.
When he finally pulled away, I felt as if I were in some sort of trance. This wasn’t me; this was some wanton stranger who had invaded my body. It was some consolation to see that Marcus looked as shaken as I felt.
I looked up at him. “What just happened?”
“I kissed you, and you kissed me back.”
I couldn’t look at him. Embarrassment flooded me. I had behaved like a lunatic. I should have pushed him away indignantly. I should have at least registered a protest before I flung myself in his arms. This was bad. This was very bad.
“This is bad,” I said.
He looked like he wanted to kiss me again. “I know.”
“And you’re right. It is a problem.”
He gave me a lopsided smile that made my insides grow very warm.
I took a very deep breath, which I hoped was fortifying. “This can’t happen again.”
“It can’t?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“You’re right. It can’t. I’m in the middle of an investigation of murders that somehow might be connected to you.”
I walked over to the couch and sat down. I needed to regain my equilibrium. “The murders have nothing to do with me.”
“You might be right,” he replied. “But I have a hunch that you’re somehow connected, and my hunches tend to be right on target.”
He sat next to me, and just as I was about to tell him that he was entirely too close, he took my face in this hands and kissed me again. This kiss was different. It was sweet and slow. He took his time exploring my mouth as all common sense flew out of my head. The last clear thought I had was that I could get used to a man who kissed like this. I had no idea what I’d been missing, and if this was how he kissed, I could only imagine how he would be when ...
When the kiss ended, he gave me a wry smile. “This is going to have to keep me until this damn investigation is over.”
I waited a few minutes before I responded to try to appear calm and rational.
“I think it probably would be a good idea if you leave,” I said, my voice still shaky. “Or I won’t be held responsible for what could happen next.”
“I’m not going to kiss you again until I’ve asked you out on a proper date, and that won’t happen until this investigation is over.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not so sure that either of us can keep that promise.”
“I will,” he said.
“You won’t be the first man who’s broken a promise to me,” I said before I could stop myself.
He walked to the front door, and before he opened it, he looked directly into my eyes and said, “I don’t know what kind of man you’re used to, baby, but I don’t break promises.”