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.
An alibi was an alibi, and, for whatever reason, he was willing to give one to Sampson. Despite the tension between us, I liked Larry Walton, and it saddened me to see him compromise himself like this. If it was a compromise. I called the number he'd given me in NorthCarolina to check his story, but got an answering machine. I hung up without leaving a message. Since I wasn't a cop, what was I going to say? His ex-wife would probably think I was some jealous hoochie trying to get the goods on her ex-husband's whereabouts on New Year's Eve. Drew Sampson and Larry Walton were each other's alibi, and that was that. But in my book that made them both look suspicious.
A B C D
I had to laugh at myself when I imagined the response any cop worth his badge would give me if I trotted out Celia's scribbles and tried to tie them to one of these men. They'd laugh me clear out of the squad room. I closed her book and put it back in my safe.
Larry aka Chessman, Drew, Clayton Donovan, Annette, they were all respectable, responsible members of this community. Celia and her son were the outsiders, the uninvited guests who had disrupted everyone's lives.
I typed a few more notes into “redlocket,” recording my impressions of the conversations I'd had with Donovan, the two Sampsons, and the alibi Larry Walton gave Drew Sampson. I turned off the computer, emptied my teacup, locked my office, and headed downstairs, glancing into the Beauty Biscuit, hoping Wyvetta was working late. I could do with some friendly talk and a shot of bourbon. But Wyvetta had gone, so I started toward the parking lot, my mind on what I was going to fix for dinner and whether or not Jamal had finished his homework.
I felt the bastard's hand on my shoulder even before he grabbed itgood. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted his woman, dressed all in black, watching us from that broken-down midnight blue car I'd seen so long ago.
Had it been a woman in that long black coat?
“You killed Celia, didn't you? I know you did it, and I'm going to prove it,” I shouted out because I couldn't think of another damn thing to say, and figured this would be as good as anything else. That was another thing I learned early on: All a woman has in a situation like this is her nerve, and all she can do is go for broke. Liston tightened his grip on my arm so hard I thought he would break it.
‘And you killed Cecil, too, didn't you? You stupid son of a bitch, you killed your own son!” I screamed, my voice shrill with outrage, like / was the one who had hold of his arm.
I figured the bastard would do one of two things: He'd either kill me on the spot or let me go. To my surprise, he didn't do either. He started to cry, which shocked the hell out of me.
“I didn't do nothing to hurt that boy,” he wailed. “I loved
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.
An alibi was an alibi, and, for whatever reason, he was willing to give one to Sampson. Despite the tension between us, I liked Larry Walton, and it saddened me to see him compromise himself like this. If it was a compromise. I called the number he'd given me in NorthCarolina to check his story, but got an answering machine. I hung up without leaving a message. Since I wasn't a cop, what was I going to say? His ex-wife would probably think I was some jealous hoochie trying to get the goods on her ex-husband's whereabouts on New Year's Eve. Drew Sampson and Larry Walton were each other's alibi, and that was that. But in my book that made them both look suspicious.
A B C D
I had to laugh at myself when I imagined the response any cop worth his badge would give me if I trotted out Celia's scribbles and tried to tie them to one of these men. They'd laugh me clear out of the squad room. I closed her book and put it back in my safe.
Larry aka Chessman, Drew, Clayton Donovan, Annette, they were all respectable, responsible members of this community. Celia and her son were the outsiders, the uninvited guests who had disrupted everyone's lives.
I typed a few more notes into “redlocket,” recording my impressions of the conversations I'd had with Donovan, the two Sampsons, and the alibi Larry Walton gave Drew Sampson. I turned off the computer, emptied my teacup, locked my office, and headed downstairs, glancing into the Beauty Biscuit, hoping Wyvetta was working late. I could do with some friendly talk and a shot of bourbon. But Wyvetta had gone, so I started toward the parking lot, my mind on what I was going to fix for dinner and whether or not Jamal had finished his homework.
I felt the bastard's hand on my shoulder even before he grabbed itgood. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted his woman, dressed all in black, watching us from that broken-down midnight blue car I'd seen so long ago.
Had it been a woman in that long black coat?
“You killed Celia, didn't you? I know you did it, and I'm going to prove it,” I shouted out because I couldn't think of another damn thing to say, and figured this would be as good as anything else. That was another thing I learned early on: All a woman has in a situation like this is her nerve, and all she can do is go for broke. Liston tightened his grip on my arm so hard I thought he would break it.
‘And you killed Cecil, too, didn't you? You stupid son of a bitch, you killed your own son!” I screamed, my voice shrill with outrage, like / was the one who had hold of his arm.
I figured the bastard would do one of two things: He'd either kill me on the spot or let me go. To my surprise, he didn't do either. He started to cry, which shocked the hell out of me.
“I didn't do nothing to hurt that boy,” he wailed. “I loved
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