My little missy had grown up right nicely. Ms. Class with Sass stopped in her tracks. “Miss Bell?”
“Kalaya!” I jumped to my feet. I loved that kid. I hadn’t seen her in years. She was one I’d taken a special interest in. She was bright, funny, and talented. “I can’t believe it’s you! Look at you, pumpkin.”
Honestly, it looked like she was blushing under all that brown skin. “Yeah. You remember me with the bad posture and even worse skin. And look! I grew into my head. Finally.”
“I always thought you were beautiful. You’re even more so now. Your eyes are stunning.”
“If you like cow eyes.”
I gathered her into a hug, and she flopped around like nobody hugged her anymore. When I released her, she looked uncomfortable. She avoided looking at me with what she’d described as her cow eyes.
“So what are you doing with yourself now?” I asked.
She took a deep breath. Shrugged. “I did the college thing: journalism. Now I’m doing the career thing: journalism. It’s dope, but I work too hard. No man. No life. I have a student loan I’ll be paying until I’m fifty, wireless Internet, and a cat named Patron Saint of All Things Literary.”
“Must be a challenge to call him in for dinner. But who am I to talk? You don’t want to know about my pet. What church do you go to now?”
Her body language said none. “Bell, I know what you want.”
Her avoidance of my question gave me the answer. But she was right. I wanted to know why a sweet kid like Kalaya, who had loved the Lord so much, had given Him up. Though a righteous man falls seven times, he rises again. I wanted her to be safe in the arms of Jesus. His blood would cover her fall, no matter what it was. I could testify to that.
But that wasn’t all I wanted. After that I wanted her height and her purse. I’d go with the jewelry next.
“I want you to make your way back to Jesus. How ’bout that!” I said.
She smirked. “Maybe. Someday.” She put a hand on her hip. “You don’t waste any time do you?” She cocked her head. “But neither do I.” She leaned toward me. “Like I said, I know what you want.”
“Do tell.”
She stepped closer. “I heard your conversation with Maguire. I can put you in contact with Christine.”
Okay. She did know what I wanted. Kalaya wasn’t a little kid anymore. She was a tough negotiator.
“Shall we take a walk, Kalaya?”
She raised her eyebrows as if to say “What are you waiting for?” But what came out was “Yes.”
I stuffed my notepad and pen back in my Birkin knockoff. Kalaya pulled a business card from her fabulous tote. She stuck it in front of me. “I’m a crime reporter for theCity Beat. Ever hear of it?”
I took her card. Kalaya Naylor. How could I be so obtuse? How many Kalaya Naylors could there be? She was an ace reporter. And here I was thinking I’d just coincidentally stumbled upon my lost sheep.
“Who doesn’t read theBeat ?” I said. TheCity Beat, a funky Detroit tabloid, had wide distribution in the suburbs. You could find a copy, even in Ann Arbor, at any good bookstore or newspaper stand. It boasted the best news coverage of all the local rags put together. I’d read many of Kalaya’s riveting articles, most of which specialized in corrupt politicians. I would have recognized her name ages ago if I had been prayerfully paying attention. “I’m a fan. I should have known that was you.”
“It was a long time ago. Let’s keep moving.” She looked over her shoulder.
We navigated our way through the maze of desks. Officers glared at us saltily. Whispers swept behind us.
Kalaya spoke softly. “You may not have made the paper yet, but you’re famous. You’re the sistah who’s got all thatJazz. ”
“You don’t have your facts straight. I’m currently unattached, and Jazz and I have never officially been a couple.”
“Word is he’s diggin’ you like a grave.” She leaned in to me with a conspiratorial whisper. “The scuttlebutt has it that you and he were an item until you dissed him.”
“You don’t think I’m going to discuss my personal life with a reporter, do you?”
She waved away my concern. “Don’t think of me as a reporter. Think of me as an old friend.” Then, with a wicked grin, “So, Jazz has issues, huh?”
It was my turn to incline toward her and whisper, “He doesnow .”
A delighted whoop exploded from her mouth. “I always liked you, Bell Brown. Of course you must have known that, seeing the way I followed you around like a puppy.”
Her eyes betrayed the longing in her soul. I knew what was behind that look. I’d lived with it far too long, until people like Mason and Rocky and a few others refused to let loneliness swallow me whole. Kalaya missed being loved.
I stopped. I touched her wrist but let her go so she wouldn’t freak out on me. “Who else is in your life besides the Patron Saint of All Things Literary? A girl needs more than a cat with a long name.”
“I have a boyfriend. I see him once or twice a week.” Her eyes shifted away. She frowned.She’s not happy with the boyfriend. I didn’t even think she realized it.
She drummed her fingers on her thigh. I read her body language like the Psalms inThe Message. Not long into a conversation, most people forget they’re talking to a psychologist. Guards go down and they unwittingly give me all kinds of information.
“I know Christine,” Kalaya said, shifting to her current comfort zone——business. “I’ve got all her information, including her phone number and where she lives. I’ll take you there myself if need be.”
“I’ve got a feeling there’s a big ‘but’ involved.”
“A ‘but’ as big as my mother’s, and my mama’s got a big ol’ butt.”
I chuckled at her analogy. My own mother did not have a big butt, but I wished she did, if only for a day. It would be sweet revenge for all the poor wide-loaded women she viciously slandered. Including me. “What do you want, Kalaya?”
“I need a girl Columbo,” Kalaya said.
“I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”
Kalaya’s gaze bored into me. “Isn’t that who you told Maguire you wanted to be?”
I’d been had.
“Look, I’ve got some information that might be important. I want to write a story that’ll have everybody from here to Ohio talking.” She lowered her voice. Didn’t even lean in toward me. She was a master at this. “Just hear me out. Kate Townsend was murdered. Lieutenant Jazz Brown was fingered for it. That’s all I know.”
I glanced around the station. I was standing in a roomful of Detroit’s finest and not so finest. I could very well be in the same room as Kate’s killer. Who could hear us? We were in plain sight. Was it wise to let people see me with a reporter? And what about Kalaya? Had God sent her to help me? Or me to help her? Or both?
“We’d better get out of here,” I said. I walked swiftly, and though Kalaya had the long, gorgeous gams, she struggled to keep up. Adrenaline shot me out of the station house like a rocket. Finally, we reached the corridor and continued down the hall, our heels clicking in time.
Kalaya chattered behind me. “Maguire said they’re going to issue a statement tomorrow afternoon, but I think you know something that won’t be in that statement. Give me some Dr. Carly Brown insider information. Help a sistah out.”
“If you heard most of my conversation with Maguire, you know I’m scrambling for information myself.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
I looked at her. Young, ambitious, quirky, even, with her own spin on classic style. Not a conventional beauty but striking. Kalaya knew how to work with what she had. At theBeat, she’d proved herself to be a writer to watch. I didn’t have any idea what measures she took to get her fantastic stories, and I didn’t know if I wanted to find out. Jazz had enough trouble in his life without me talking to the press, especially when I didn’t know a thing. Not really. “I’d be reluctant to help you at all, especially if it meant hurting
someone I lo——someone I know.”
Kalaya regarded me with a thoughtful gaze. Kindness reflected in her eyes. “You’ve still got a love jones for him, don’t you?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Would it help if I told you I don’t think Lieutenant Brown had anything to do with this?”
“It may.”
“I don’t think he killed her. And I’ve got very compelling reasons.” She drummed her fingers on her thighs again, telling me without telling me that she wasn’t sure I’d help her. “I need a little more information.”
I still didn’t know if I could trust her.Okay, Lord, what am I supposed to do?
Feed my sheep.
Can you be a little more specific, Lord?
Kalaya fished in her purse again and pulled out another card. She shook it as if small flames threatened to engulf it and she had to diffuse the fire. “Christine Webber. She does private security now for a company called First Watch. And I’ll bet she could use a very kind psychologist right now. She may reveal all sorts of things in that discussion.” She held the card out until I took it.
She’d put in my hand exactly what I’d come for. The card looked legit. I said a silent “thank you” to Jesus and took it from her. Now what would she require me to give?
She grinned victoriously. “Can I buy you breakfast?”
Feed my sheep.
I nodded.I guess I’ll be buying the breakfast. I hoped in agreeing to go, I hadn’t agreed to sell a piece of my soul or, worse, Jazz’s. But I only wanted to help him. Talking with Christine could yield some useful information.
What are you doing, Bell?
“We’ll have to make it fast,” I said. “I have work to do. And I’m buying.” Not just because God had said so, either. I needed to feel like I’d have some power in this relationship, whatever it was.
And, God, show me what this is.
Kalaya led me to a coffee bar and café called Motown’s Java Jive. With the exception of the framed and mounted Motown 45s and classic autographed photos of artists such as Stevie Wonder, the Jackson Five, and the Supremes, it looked like any other coffee bar that served overpriced food.
I hadn’t eaten since the crab cakes at Jazz’s parents’ house, but in the last three days, I’d had enough java to hold me until Jesus offered me a cup in His kingdom. However, Kalaya’s clipped tone and air of quiet desperation for fuel hinted at her growing a Medusa head if the barista didn’t get her a fix soon.
We got our orders——Kalaya recommended an amazing-sounding sweet-potato-and-pecan-pancake confection——and we sat down at one of those ridiculously tiny tables common in coffee joints. Kalaya had a cup the size of a stockpot full of steaming brew and the pancakes. I opted for a modest-sized cup of cinnamon tea to go with my pancakes. As good as those sweet-potato pancakes looked——with candied pecan syrup spilling over the edges——the lingering image of Maguire’s sandwich haunted me, killing my appetite. The few bites I managed were magnificent, but not enough to stave off the imprinted image.
I still wanted to know what Kalaya wanted, and I didn’t know altogether if I could trust her, but I had certainly felt the Holy Spirit leading me to feed her, and feed her, body and spirit, I would.
Now caffeinated, Kalaya became charming and chatty again. The Motown theme of the coffeehouse provided fodder for her to tell me all kinds of ancient gossip about the artists, most likely gleaned from the owners, who treated her like she had stock in the place. Once the chatty flow ebbed, she relaxed against the hard metal chair, sated and ready to get down to business. “I met with Kate twice last week,” she said.
“What for?”
“She contacted me about a month ago. Said she read my work and loved it. She wanted me to do an exposé on”——she paused——“how can I put this delicately? Some of her friends.”
“I assume you mean her many lovers?”
“Exactly. So you know she was kinda stank?”
“I don’t know if that’s the word I’d use, but yes, I’d heard she could live fast and loose——playing both sides of the gender game.”
“What do you think that was about?”
“I’m still working on that,” I said. “But I suspect she had some vulnerabilities from her early childhood. She needed power to compensate for her powerless childhood. If she could gain sexual power over both women and men, she could lessen her chances of being a victim.”
Kalaya looked like she was trying to decide whether to reveal her next card. “What if her lovers were all powerful people?”
“Politicians? Cops?”
“Yeah.”
“She may have viewed them in an ambivalent way: as powerful people who could both reassure her of her own power and be her protectors. The problem would be if she sexualized her need for power and security until they became unhealthy obsessions.”
“Why, if she viewed them as protectors, did she seem so eager to hurt them?”
“Like I said, I’m still working on what I think about Kate’s personality. Even if I did come up with some theory, it wouldn’t be gospel. People are complicated.” The Scripture slipped to my consciousness again.
The heart is deceitful above all things…
Kalaya took a sip from her enormous coffee cup. “She wanted me to do a kiss-and-tell story about her extracurricular activities.”
“Why you? Don’t you write more about corrupt politicians?”
“Maybe there’s a politician out there who shared her bed and wanted that to be very discreet.”
That hadn’t even come up in the brainstorming game at Jazz’s parents’ house. “You’re saying a lot of maybes. I take it she didn’t tell you any specifics.”
“She told me details. Crazy, salacious details——just enough information to make it easy to guess she was talking about well-known people——but not enough to know exactly who they were.” Kalaya sighed and fiddled with one of her cornrows.
“Did you try to get any names out of her?”
“I wouldn’t have been doing my job if I didn’t. She wouldn’t give anybody up yet.”
“She say why?”
“No, but I have a theory. She had a diary with all the info in it. I think she wanted money for it, but she hadn’t hit me up for any yet.”
“What do you think she was waiting for?”
“I’m not sure. She may have been talking to someone else——a rival paper.”
“Maybe she was protecting someone.”
“Why would she do that if she wanted me to do an exposé?”
“For the same reason she’d meet with you and then not give you anything you could really work with. She could have been conflicted, and from everything I’m learning about Kate Townsend, ‘conflicted’ isn’t a stretch. Did anyone know she’d been talking to you?”
“I have no idea. The thing is, a lot of people in the city know me——people I don’t know. A tip-off could have come from anywhere.”
I shook my head and took a sip of my tea. The cinnamon smell acted as an aromatherapy agent, chasing my low-grade depression to the shadows. “She also could have kept the diary for leverage. To protect herself. And then there’s the revenge, hence the exposé.”
“That could certainly pose a threat to her. How did she die?”
“What makes you think I know that?”
“Dr. Carly Brown is your sister. You can’t tell me she wouldn’t give you a heads-up. C’mon. I’ve got a sister. Iam a sister.”
I chuckled. “Maybe Carly doesn’t cut and tell.”
“What would a little detail hurt?”
“The police don’t release all the details because some could be instrumental in an interrogation later. They could give insight into the case that only the killer could have.”
Kalaya rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, sistah. Throw me a bone here.”
I sat back in my seat and crossed my arms, putting on my emotional armor. She had been generous with me. I could give her a little someth
ing without compromising the case. Couldn’t I? “I can tell you this, and only off the record: her manner of death was personal.”
“Personal like what?”
“You shoot somebody, and you don’t get your hands dirty. You stab somebody, and that’s personal. Do you know what I’m saying, Kalaya?”
“Are you saying she was stabbed to death?”
“Absolutely not. I’m not going to say anything more specific about how she was killed except that it was personal. You’d do well not to print that she was stabbed.”
She nodded. “Why do you want to talk to Christine?”
“I want to check her out.”
“Are you trying to find out if she’s the kind of woman who could, say, stab a sistah to death?”
“You’re a bright woman, Kalaya.”
“I only met her once. I think you’re barking up the wrong tree, but do your thing, girl.”
“I will, thanks to you. Why aren’t you talking to her yourself?”
“Everybody thinks I’ll make them the front-page story.” Kalaya tilted toward me. “Find out if she still has the diary.”
“What if the police already have it?”
“Then find out if they do.”
“I’ll do that. It’s the least I can do for what you’ve given me.”
She dug in her Hamptons business tote again and removed car keys. Once again I considered snatching the bag and running. It had snowed, however, and I decided I’d probably slip on the wet concrete outside and give myself a concussion.
“Call me,” she said.
I nodded.
“We want the same thing,” she said.
I wanted to find a killer. I didn’t know if she wanted that or to break a story that would make her career.
Soon enough, her motives would be clear. Thinking about it, I got a tiny Holy Spirit nudge. I also realized something sobering. Soon enough, so would mine.
Death, Deceit & Some Smooth Jazz Page 14
