Death Comes Knocking (The Thea Kozak Mystery Series, Book 10)

by Kate Flora

  “I am a slave of duty,” I said. “It’s just outside Boston. Not a big deal. And I have to do what I can to haul Denzel’s ass out of the fire.”

  “Not literally, I hope.”

  “Not in this condition. One of these days, I’m going to let him crash and burn.”

  “No, you won’t. You’re a rescuer, even of those who shouldn’t need it.”

  “I’m trying to reform.”

  He laughed.

  “I won’t be driving alone. We’ve got a great intern, Lindsay, who will be coming with me.”

  “Makes me feel better. Be sure to text me her number so I can send her a thousand texts checking up on you.” He put a big hand protectively over MOC, and seconds later, he was asleep.

  I was envious. Sleeping was hard these days. Tonight it was especially hard. I couldn’t stop thinking about Charity. Whether she was okay. Wondering why Fred and Alice had had such a dramatic reaction when I identified Malcolm Kinsman. Was it possible he was an estranged twin? That his interest in finding Charity wasn’t fraternal but malevolent? I couldn’t answer that question, but before I finally fell asleep, I spent some time berating myself for doing an internet search that might have put Charity at risk.

  But she’d already been at risk. Already found by people willing to commit murder. Where had she gone? Was it voluntary, or had she been taken? Why weren’t Fred and Alice more focused on that, and if they were truly concerned, why not share information that might help find Charity?

  I hated information voids. I liked solving problems working with data and people’s stories. But unless I learned something new, there was nothing I could do to help her.

  I finally fell asleep, a delicious, restful sleep that was interrupted by MOC, whose nocturnal activities seems to be getting longer and more frequent. It’s a weird feeling to be occupied by another human, especially one who was so willful. I know. My mother would say I deserved it because I’d been busy and difficult. That really didn’t help.

  All too soon, my melodious alarm was summoning me to the day. I put on the clothes I’d laid out and went downstairs, carrying my shoes. I made a cup of the half-caf I was allowing myself and poached an egg while I made toast. In the back yard, mama deer was staring hungrily at the lettuce again, her woeful face making me feel guilty. But dang it, it was summer. The world was full of tasty things to eat. I went out to tell her that, but she skipped away in a few graceful bounds. I lingered to inhale the fresh green scents of summer, then ate my egg and sat to put on my shoes.

  I won’t describe the comic antics involved. Suffice it to say, by the time I got them on, I was sweating, and my back hurt.

  Andre appeared, freshly showered and shirtless, and I fought the temptation to blow off Denzel and The King School.

  “Team meeting today about those murders,” he said. “My boss isn’t going to be pleased that I couldn’t pry anything out of Fred and Alice.”

  “You weren’t allowed to use physical force,” I said. “Think you’ll be home for dinner?”

  “That’s the plan.” He carried his coffee out to the back deck, and I followed.

  “You love this house, don’t you?” I said.

  “I do.”

  “We need to carpet those stairs.”

  “On my list.”

  “Soon,” I said. We were getting so domestic.

  “When do you have to leave?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “So sit for a minute and tell me again about your encounter with Malcolm Kinsman.”

  I sat and I told, but the useful stuff was what we didn’t know—what his relationship with his sister was, his relationship with David Peckham, what Peckham’s situation was, and how he knew I was going to be on that plane. It seemed like such an elaborate way to ask about what I knew, and Andre and I both agreed the little I did know wasn’t much help in locating Charity.

  “If he wanted to find her, and he could find me, why not come here?” I said.

  “I don’t know. But I don’t like it. I don’t like the idea of you here alone with so many people targeting you for information.”

  His concern was disturbing. “You’re scaring me, Andre. What am I supposed to do? Stay at the office until you get home? What if you get caught up in an investigation?”

  “Sorry,” he said, patting my hand. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I guess we’ll just play it by ear.”

  It was time to go. He carried my briefcase to the Jeep and gave me a kiss that made me not want to leave. The man knows his power.

  I made an affirmative effort to put my concerns about Charity, and murder, and people driving black SUVs out of my mind, and moved on to the subject of the day—pulling Denzel’s ass out of the fire.

  I picked up Lindsay at the office and hit the road. Until we left Maine, the bad traffic was coming north, but as soon as we crossed the bridge in Kittery, we were in the perpetual sludge of New Hampshire and Massachusetts traffic.

  Lindsay was quiet at first, but after a bit, she said, “Bobby thinks that stuff I found online will be really helpful. Do you?”

  “I do. So, you want to know who will be at the meeting today?”

  “Please.”

  “Okay. We’re going to The King School. Did you read up about it? An alternative private school founded for the specific purpose of giving young Black males a chance to succeed. The founder and inspiration—and the subject of today’s meeting—is the headmaster, Denzel Ellis-Jackson. His right-hand woman is Yanita Emery, assistant head. She handles a lot of the day-to-day business and does some of their PR work. The lawyer helping to sort this mess out is also on the King board. His name is Emmett Hampton. Arleigh Davis, who is head of the board, may also be there. All four are African American.”

  “What should I know about these people?”

  It was a good question. I considered. “Well, for starters, prepare yourself, because Denzel is a gorgeous man and as charming as he is good-looking. He’s a visionary, and the energy behind the school. He’s had a few problems with the ladies. We were called in once before when he was accused of assault…”

  “You defended a man accused of assault?” she said, and I was reminded how young she was and that her world was permeated with Me Too issues.

  “No. I helped a client school handle a potential scandal that could have affected their image and impair their ability to raise the funds to pursue their mission of giving boys without a chance that chance.”

  “But if he…”

  “But he didn’t. An accusation is the beginning, not the end. It’s an assertion that needs investigation. It’s not proof or a conviction. So we investigated. Found that the young woman who had accused him had a history of doing this. A history in which her false accusations had done serious damage to people’s careers and families.”

  She got as far as another “But…” when the car in front of me suddenly slammed on its brakes, and I hit mine, missing their bumper by inches. Lindsay gave a screech and curled into a ball.

  “Hey,” I said. “Are you okay?”

  From behind her arms came a tiny, “No.”

  Okay. I knew what this was. I’d been there myself. “You were in an accident pretty recently, weren’t you?” I said. “A very scary one. Do you want to talk about it?”

  We drove on, the traffic just as crazy and me being more careful. Gradually she uncurled. She said, “I’ve never really talked about it, except to the police.”

  “Your call, but I’ve been there. I know sometimes it helps to talk about it.”

  She sighed. “My ex-boyfriend, Devon. He…”

  Siri announced our exit was coming, and Lindsay stopped.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “We were at a party, back in the spring. An off-campus party at someone’s house. They had a pool and a big yard. It was great. Only Devon…he liked to drink, and he’d had too much. When we left, I asked him to give me the keys and let me drive. But he was…uh…he was into this macho thing where he ha
d to prove he was fine to drive, wasn’t some wimp who couldn’t drink and drive. I was terrified, but stupidly, instead of insisting that I drive, or getting a ride with someone else, I did what he wanted and got in the car.”

  Siri announced another turn. In half a mile, we’d be heading up the long drive to the mansion that formed the central building at the King School, a gift from a successful Black entrepreneur who supported Denzel’s mission.

  “We’re almost there,” I said. “Guess we’ll have to finish your story on the way home. If you still want to talk about it.”

  She sighed. “I was just getting to the part where he hit the kid.”

  Seventeen

  A power quartet—Arleigh, Denzel, Yanita, and Emmett—awaited us in what had once been a mansion’s grand dining room and now served as the school’s board room. I introduced Lindsay as our new social media maven, Yanita offered coffee and muffins, and we sat down and dug in.

  It seemed like my girth had expanded overnight. I could barely get my chair close enough to the table to reach my papers. No one tells you about these things when you read about what to expect when you’re expecting. I’m not sure how it would help anyway, since getting longer arms or suddenly acquiring a servant to tie my shoes weren’t possibilities.

  They were all looking to me to take the lead, so I dove in, starting by asking Emmett for his opinion on the rap song and other video footage and social media postings that Lindsay had found. “Would it be useful to broadcast it, use it to create a counter-narrative about the events, or do you want to keep it to use in court?”

  Then I realized I needed to back up. “Yanita, you’ve seen the song, and some of those posts boasting about what they were going to do. Have you been able to identify the actors, and are they the same boys involved in the altercation?”

  “Yes. And yes. The boy whose parents are threatening to sue is the—I’m not sure what to call him?—lead singer? Head rapper? I’m afraid my rap and hip hop days are pretty long ago.”

  To the four of them, I said, “Have the boy’s parents seen the video? Has his attorney?”

  They hadn’t, yet. Emmett planned to sit down with the police later today, and with the boy’s attorney after that.

  “Now, we’ve had some back and forth, and I’ve seen the videos and photos, but I haven’t heard Denzel’s personal account of the event.” I looked at him. “Could you?”

  “I was a fool to let myself get sucked in,” he said. “But I couldn’t just stand there and let him hit me, and if I’d walked away, I would have lost my credibility. This is a boys’ school, Thea, and these boys are big on image and respect. As they…or my younger self…might have put it—I couldn’t let them disrespect me without responding.”

  He then launched into a description of the fight that was not what it seemed from the brief clips that the media had shown. The bottom line was that he’d raised his fist to hit back, thought better of it, and pushed his assailant away. The video that was being shown was edited to show his raised fist and the boy staggering back.

  I looked at Lindsay. “Do you have video that confirms Denzel’s version?”

  She nodded. Just as the plotters had been careless about posting their plans, they’d posted longer videos that showed the lead-up and provocation as well as Denzel’s hesitation and then the attacker being pushed away.

  Sounding aggrieved, Denzel said, “Teenagers or not, my students or not, I should be able to defend myself.”

  Arleigh raised an eyebrow. Denzel shrugged and fell silent.

  “So,” I said, “legal strategy is Emmett and Arleigh’s department. Protecting the school’s image and reputation is mine. I think we’ve all agreed that much as Denzel wants to go public with his side of the story, maintaining a dignified silence while others speak for him is the better approach.”

  “Look,” Denzel said. “It’s my reputation at stake. It’s my school that’s being impugned. I have to be able to…”

  “Sit quietly and listen to what others have to say,” Arleigh said. “Much as I wish you hadn’t pushed back, I understand the provocation. We’ve got witnesses. We’ve got visuals. Your job is to regret an unfortunate situation with an out-of-control student who has impulse-control issues, and get on with running the school.”

  “But…”

  Instead of speaking, Arleigh put a finger to her lips.

  Denzel could be a handful, but his team seemed to have developed a system for calming him and moving forward that was impressive. He settled back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, subdued and frustrated. For now, his body language said he’d go along. But he was still something of a wild card.

  “If I might…” Lindsay said tentatively.

  Everyone’s attention switched to my intern.

  “One of the problems with cell phone video is that it lacks context. It can focus on a piece of an event without showing all the angles. All the expressions. Often without quality sound, so what the actors are saying is absent. I was…” She looked down at her lap nervously. “I majored in media studies with a minor in film. I could…uh…if you’d like…take the videos that are online, as well as anything you’d like to share, and put together…well, it’s not exactly a hot reel. I guess it’s more like a movie trailer. A video that shows the premeditation and then gives a fuller and fairer view of the fight. I mean…I don’t want to be pushy here. But you’re dealing with a population used to getting their information that way.”

  An intriguing idea, but I envisioned weeks of work and hiring an editing studio, which would be both too late and too expensive for the school. “What equipment would you need to do this, Lindsay?”

  She smiled. “My computer? It won’t be TV quality, but it will tell the story.”

  Doable, then. Only part of what we’d have to do, but it was brilliant, and I felt momentarily brilliant for having invited her along. Like me, the King School quartet were hesitant. It’s hard to embrace new ideas and approaches. But as part of our messaging, it could be very effective. After some discussion, Arleigh gave Lindsay’s suggestion the nod. Then we moved on to the rest of our communication strategy, via press releases and the school’s website, as well as a letter to the parents.

  “One question,” I said. “The boys who were involved, the ones that video evidence shows planning this thing—how are you going to deal with them? I know you have a rule book and an honor code, and I’m sure there are rules about fighting. Have some of your rules been broken?”

  “It’s a dilemma,” Yanita said. “We don’t want it to seem like we’re retaliating.”

  “How would you handle this if it were boys fighting among themselves? Or if one of the boys hit another adult on campus?”

  “I’d like to get the criminal matter settled first,” Emmett said.

  “And what about the boy who punched Denzel? You say his parents have filed a lawsuit. Under the circumstances, have you assessed whether they understand he’s at risk of being expelled?”

  It was leverage. I was sure Emmett was already thinking about it. I just wanted to be sure holding hearings for the involved students on violating the school’s conduct code, with the potential implications including suspension and expulsion, was on the table. I wasn’t being a weasel. The school couldn’t let fighting go unchecked. These students needed to get the message that fighting was unacceptable. Ignoring it risked creating a negative atmosphere for all the students and risked giving them permission for future misbehavior.

  Our respective assignments clear, and after I’d gotten a copy of the student conduct manual for Lindsay, I gathered my papers to leave.

  It remained to be seen whether the rest of his team could keep Denzel in check. That wasn’t EDGE’s department, but we’d pulled him out of the fire before. I hoped we could do it this time.

  I took a quick bathroom break before we got back in the car, and we headed home. I used to be able to skip from meeting to meeting, all day and all night. Now, a two-hour drive and a two
-hour meeting, and I was ready to recline on my chaise and eat bonbons. Too much sitting and my back starts to ache. It didn’t look like bonbons were in my future, though. Suzanne needed the two of us to get together as soon as I got back, and then I had to review the questionnaire she’d cajoled Marlene into finishing.

  From time to time, I imagine life as a hermit, without the calls and texts and anxious clients and the challenges of staffing our office. Now the hermit option was off the table. The reality was that if I retreated to my mountaintop cave now, I’d have to bring onesies and pacifiers and diapers and swaddling wraps and a whole host of other baby gear. I might as well stick around.

  Once we were back on the highway, I said, “That was a great suggestion, Lindsay. You really think you can do it?”

  “I know I can,” she said. “Actually, I’ve already started.”

  “Any chance we can clone you?”

  She grinned. “I like to think I’m one of a kind. Glad you liked the idea, though. And can I tell you something?”

  I said, “Sure,” without wondering what it was. I figured that she was going to finish telling me the story of her drunken boyfriend. Instead, she said, “It’s uh…about Jason.”

  Maybe she knew why he’d disappeared?

  “Okay. Unless you’re not comfortable, or you’d be betraying a confidence.”

  “It’s not like that. It’s…uh…I mean, it’s really not my business. He didn’t tell me. He was on the phone and I overheard.”

  I waited, unsure whether she wanted me to pry it out of her or if she was just formulating the story.

  “He’s got another job. I mean, he has a website design business which he does from home, only I guess he had a client who wasn’t happy, or a client that he had to have a meeting with. That’s why he disappeared for the afternoon—to go see a client. He didn’t want to say anything about where he was going, so he just left. Which, in my opinion, is really dumb. If he’s going to keep running a personal business, he needs to do it outside of his hours at EDGE.”

  She went silent. Then, “I’m not wrong, am I?”