How could a place change so drastically in the span of a few hours? Last night’s performance had jolted Black’s with electricity. This morning’s gloom washed surfaces in cheerless hues.
The Purity delivery driver arrived with my milk order. He, too, seemed morose. In silence we unloaded gallon containers—whole, two percent, and skim—into my upright fridge, then quarts of half-and-half into the undercounter unit.
“We billing you?”
“Yeah,” I said, “I normally just sign.”
He extended his clipboard. I scrawled my signature and then locked the door again as he left. Extra security measures seemed like a good idea.
I was ready for opening. And glad to know an officer had been assigned to Brianne’s place. She would be here soon.
Between the silence and the thought of seeing Brianne, my thoughts seemed to come together.
Had I washed my hair? Brushed my teeth? Scrubbed both armpits? A clean bill of inspection.
Checked zipper? Done.
With my mind rattling over these adolescent anxieties, I found a zone. Maybe I’d been trying too hard previously, shoving puzzle pieces against one another in hopes of finding a match, but in that moment I saw something. So what if Johnny Ray and Uncle Wyatt wanted to keep secrets from me? I’d piece this together on my own.
I bumped into a table and sat in the empty dining area with my first cup of morning joe, a special concoction of my own. I blew and sipped. Blew and sipped. I looked back at the mahogany bar and thought of Darrell Michaels standing there, his back turned as he faced the counter. An easy target for the guy in the Old Navy shirt and painter jeans. No more than twelve feet away.
You need the whip …
What whip?
I theorized out loud, “Lewis had a whip of some sort … and ICV wants it because it leads to the gold … if such a treasure exists. Maybe a Spanish payment in gold Lewis intercepted on its way to Wilkinson.”
It all made sense.
But a few questions remained. Where was the whip? How had these secrets been passed down through the centuries? Who’d sent the handkerchief to me? And who had planted the lock of brunette hair in my bedroom?
“Got a minute?” Ignoring appalled stares, Detective Meade stepped to the front of the espresso line. “I need to speak with you about last night.”
“What happened?”
His gaze went from Brianne’s position at the espresso machine to a padded leather booth. “Let’s take it over there.”
“Now?” I jerked my chin at the line of patrons.
“Aramis,” he said softly, “someone was outside her place.”
Brianne looked up at the next customer and smiled. I didn’t think she’d heard.
“Be right back,” I said.
Her mouth turned down, and she continued steaming an ordered triple breve.
“We’ve stood here patiently, and now you’re leaving?” a woman called to me.
“It’ll be quick.”
“The past few times I’ve been in here, this poor girl’s been left to shoulder the majority of the work. As the owner, you owe it to your—”
“Folks.” Meade stepped in, holding up his identification. “I’m Detective Meade, Metro Police. If you’ll be so kind as to let me pull Mr. Black from his duties for just a few moments, I’ll be better able to do my job of protecting you and your loved ones.” He was circumspect enough to avoid mentioning last week’s murder on this spot. I appreciated that about the man. The less said, the better.
Grudging nods and furtive whispers released us to our corner.
“Who?” I asked again.
“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to disrupt your flow,” the detective said.
“Who was it? Tell me what happened.”
“The same man we spotted on security footage at your parking lot.”
“What camera? At Johnny’s and my place?”
“Your brownstone. We obtained the tape last evening, the one from the day your mother’s handkerchief disappeared.”
I hadn’t even known the parking lot had a security camera. But I was suddenly thankful it did. “So, Detective, who is this guy? What’s he look like?”
Meade’s face adopted that disinterested look again, his eyes dark and dull against his coal black skin. “I need you to look at the video. See if you can provide a positive ID.”
“You can’t tell me what he looks like? Did he have one of those hooded sweatshirts? That’s what the mugger was wearing. Jeans and high tops.”
“A fairly generic description, I hate to say.”
“Or maybe a golfing visor?”
“That’s an odd thing to ask, isn’t it?”
The beauty of the detective’s method struck me. By leading and hinting, he had me throwing out suggestions, popping off theories. He wasn’t trying to tie me up in my own words, though he seemed capable of it. Rather, he was priming the pump of information. Perhaps my subconscious had a few facts still down there.
“Leroy Parker,” I said.
“What about him?”
“He’s a parole officer.”
“I know who he is. We’ve been in contact with him regarding the death of young Mr. Michaels. He’d been overseeing the kid’s progress.”
“Did he tell you about the Spanish gold?”
Meade’s eyebrows rose, slow and purposeful, bulldozers shoving furrows into the dark earth of his forehead. He folded his arms across his chest. “Gold, Mr. Black?”
“Uh. Yeah.”
“Spanish?”
“That’s what he told Darrell.”
“And why would Mr. Parker say such a thing? He’s been silent on the subject in our interviews, not a word in his reports. Perhaps you can enlighten me.”
“Never mind.”
“Please continue now that it’s out on the table.”
Customers were checking their watches and looking at me. I was losing my grip on reality, and soon I’d be losing business as well.
“The line,” I said. “I need to help Brianne. When I come in to look at the footage, we can talk about Parker.”
Detective Meade nodded. “We’ll do that.”
“Can we jump to the description? Real quick?”
“Sure. The man on the film is middle-aged, graying hair and long beard, squat build, dressed in layers of sweaters and coats. He looks like a homeless gentleman.”
“Freddy C.” I thought it out loud.
“That’s right. He’s never been fond of police officers, or any authority, for that matter. With things recently uncovered in his record, he’s become a person of interest in our”—Meade let his eyes slide across the room as he lowered his voice—“ongoing investigation of the sexual assault cases.”
“That’s hard for me to believe.”
“He’s from Chicago. Did you know that? He was a janitor at an elementary school, indicted on molestation charges eight years ago. Went to trial, but they failed to get a conviction. The defense argued that the victim’s testimony had been coached by the prosecuting attorney.”
I shook my head. “Freddy’s my friend.”
“Regardless.”
“I wanna see the footage.”
“The sooner the better. Meanwhile, we can’t ignore threats such as the one you received in the alley. Last night the officer was unsure of Freddy’s mental state and called for backup before approaching him, but Freddy vanished. We’ll be sweeping the park, bringing him in to answer a few questions. I’d like to put this case to rest.”
Stay outta my hair, you hear … I’m no longer safe.
I suspected that Freddy would be nowhere to be found.
“I’m authorizing round-the-clock surveillance on Ms. Douglas,” Meade added. “No need for her to know for the time being. But it might put your mind at ease to know she’s being watched.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it, Detective.”
“I’ll let you get back to your customers.”
I sat up. “Wait. Will they be watching tonight?”
“Undercover officers? Yes.”
“Oh. That’s a good thing, I guess.”
“Aramis, is there something you’re not telling me?”
The idea of a date under the eyes of armed officers seemed disturbing and a bit creepy. If we shared a good-night kiss on the porch, would it be recorded in some report? “Thing is,” I said, “we’re having dinner. Me and Brianne.”
“Together?”
“You’re sharp, Detective. Nothing gets by you.”
“You just behave yourself, and there’ll be no problems.”
“It’s not like that.”
“I believe you.” Meade cocked his head toward me and wagged a long finger as the hint of a bemused smile touched his cheeks. “Remember, we’ll be watching your every move.”