“I’m doing her psychological autopsy.”
“Why is that? Wayne County hasn’t sent anyone here for that. Why would Washtenaw?”
“I’m on my own, Ms. Webber.”
“Call me Chris.”
“Okay, Chris. I’m looking into Kate’s death privately. I happened to be on the scene at her death investigation.”
“Why is that?” Chris kept her expression even. “She wasn’t found in Washtenaw County. You’re a little far from home, aren’t you?”
“The DI on call asked me to attend. I’d worked with her on another case.”
She stared at me but didn’t question me on it.
I tried to sound like I actually had a reason to interview her. “Someone brutally murdered your partner. I want to know who would do that to her, and I’m committed to trying to find him.”
“Or her?”
Interesting. A guilty person would take every imaginable opportunity to draw attention to someone——anyone——else. As a former homicide detective, she’d know that. What was she doing? “I’m not a police officer, Chris. It’s not my job to interrogate you.”
“I’m not sure why you’re here at all. I’m hoping you’ll tell me.”
I cleared my throat, a nervous gesture I should have been conscious enough to avoid letting her see. “I’m a behaviorist. I look at people. Watch what they do. I find patterns in behavior. I believe my work can help me discover who’s responsible for her death.”
A tight smile spread across her lips. “I do the same thing.” She paused. “I’m not implying that I’m still a homicide detective, but I still take care of people.”
Interesting choice of words:I still take care of people.
“If you’d be kind enough to answer some questions, I’d like to get a clear picture of who Kate was, how she spent her days, and who she spent them with.”
Chris cocked her head and sized me up again. “Why are you investigating on your own?”
“The woman you love is dead. She needs all the help she can get.”
“What’s in this for you?”
“I saw her, Chris. No one deserves to die that way.”
She shook her head slowly, closed her eyes, then turned her head and gazed to the right. Her expression collapsed to a flat, disengaged affect. Christine had gone to some terrible inner place.
Wait.Her eyes had shifted right. In memory. Had she seen the crime-scene photos? Would Bobby Maguire have told her what Kate looked like? About the pose? Or was she just imagining Kate as she looked now, at the funeral home? Either image would be horrible enough, but I’d seen something in the way she’d shaken her head.
Chris asked a question. I’d been so deep in my own thoughts that I didn’t hear her. “Excuse me?” I said.
“I said what’s your name?”
“I’m Dr. Amanda…”
God, can I just borrow my mother’s maiden name for a minute? It’s really not convenient to be a Brown right now.
Of course, Chris in no way possessed the unflappable mien of Bobby Maguire. She wouldn’t let me get away with just Dr. Amanda.
“Your last name, please.” She commanded it. She must have been fierce in homicide.
“Brown. I’m Dr. Amanda Brown.”
“Brown?”
I nodded.
She grunted. Shook her head in disgust. “Amanda Brown, also known as Bell. I should have seen it. You look just like her.”
I didn’t want to ask, but how could I not? “Who areyou speaking of?” I asked, not so much feigning innocence but giving her the opportunity to tell me whom she thought I looked like. At least that’s what I hoped she would do.
Chris’s regal posture stiffened considerably. Tension seemed to gather in her shoulders and arms. She clenched her sting-like-a-bee fists. “You’re here for Jazz.” A statement, not a question.
“I’m here for Kate.”
She didn’t raise her voice, but she inclined toward me with a venom-dipped whisper. “I know exactly who you are. You look just like your sister, Carly Brown. You’re Jazz’s woman, and you’re not here for my Katie. You’re at the wrong house, girlfriend. I suggest you leave now, or things may get ugly.”
Dideverybodyknow about Jazz and me? And when did I become his woman? Not to mention she just said I need to leave and could start reciting Mohammed Ali quotes any minute——and not about floating butterflies!
“This isn’t what you think, Chris. Yes, I want to help Jazz, but I don’t think he did it.”
“Why would you? You’re his woman.”
“There are others who don’t think he did it, either.”
I watched her reaction. One carefully sculpted brow subtly lifted. My theory had surprised her. “Keep talking,” she said. She unfurled her stingers.
“Kalaya Naylor met with me this morning. Do you know who she is?”
“She’s that reporter for theBeat. Kate met with her a few a times.”
“I’d gone to see Bobby Maguire, and Ms. Naylor wanted information. She approached me. She told me about Kate’s story. Did you know what she was trying to do?”
Chris sighed, pushed the mound of coats to the side, and lay against them. “Kate always had some crazy hustle going on. She drove me absolutely nuts with her schemes. I knew about it and told her she needed to drop it. She could upset a lot of people with that mess. She could make a lot of enemies.”
“Do you think she told anyone else she planned on getting Kalaya to do an exposé?”
“No. As indiscreet as Katie was, she wanted the story to be a surprise. She didn’t advertise it to the people she planned to call out.”
“And you’re sure of this.”
Chris nodded. “Reasonably.” She paused and fiddled with one of her dreadlocks.
“I have two thoughts about this story she wanted to do. One: maybe whoever hurt her didn’t want his wife or significant other to know what he’d done, even if he wasn’t a person who could sell newspapers. Two: Kalaya and I suspect she’d snagged someone who wasn’t a cop. Maybe a politician. Someone who’d want to keep a low profile to keep from hurting his career.”
“What makes you so sure it was a man?”
That question again? “Look, I’m not saying that I’m an expert profiler, but I am seeing patterns emerge.”
Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly, but I noticed. Was that a flicker of fear I saw? “What patterns?”
“She had something done to her that a woman wouldn’t do.” I watched her carefully for any sign of reaction.
An unmistakable flash of recognition showed in her eyes. “And what was that, Dr. Brown?”
Dr. Brown? The first time she’s used a name for me. She’s letting me know I’ve touched a nerve while acknowledging my expertise. Very interesting.
My mind whirred like a hard drive trying to process what was happening here. I went back to the scene. In my mind, I saw Carly pulling back the sheet on Kate’s body, a sheet that had no business being there if she’d been purposely posed. What murderer covers a body?
One that’s ashamed. One trying to hide his crime. Or…someone who feels empathy. Someone who loves her?
“Where were you on the night Kate was murdered?”
Chris stood. “You’d better go,” she said, obviously seething.
I stood. “Did you see her at the scene?”
“No.”Delayed timing. Stiff posture. No facial affect. She’s lying. “I was at my mama’s house.”
Now she’d mentioned an alibi, a bad one——who wouldn’t name her mother as an alibi?
I’d lost ground with her, and I couldn’t afford that. There was no way I’d build rapport now. I went for the gusto and let her know she was off the hook for now. “I believe the person responsible knew her intimately and yet had a profound dislike, even hatred, of her. Perhaps hated himself for being with her.”
“That sounds like me most days.”
More confessions. “Did Kate have some kind of diary, Chris?”
<
br /> “You need to leave. I have a funeral tomorrow.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? Because I don’t. I don’t understand why I’m putting a beautiful, vibrant, thirty-year-old woman who had her whole life ahead of her in the ground tomorrow.”
“Are you getting grief counseling?”
“That’s for herreal family. All I get are the whispers. I don’t even get to sit with her family at the front of the church.”
“Talk to someone about your feelings, Chris. It’ll help you.”
“I just might do that. I might even need to talk to a professional. Do you understand what I’m saying, Dr. Brown?”
An invitation?
“May I speak with you after the funeral?”
“Perhaps,” she said. “I’ll see how I feel.”
chapter thirteen
AS SOONas I got home that afternoon, I kicked off my cowboy boots, slipped out of my coat, and went to Amos’s cage. My poor neglected sugar glider.
I opened the door to his cage, guarded yet optimistic. He must have missed human contact since I’d seen him last on Tuesday. This time he didn’t hiss like the spawn of Satan merely because I’d come within three feet of him. I stuck my hand in the cage, praying,God, please don’t let Amos try to kill me, and breathed a sigh of relief when the animal didn’t rip into my wrists.
He came willingly into my hand, and I spoke to him in the low, soothing tones I used when an inmate at the jail was about to have an unfortunate psychotic episode that would not be beneficial to my person. Amos seemed pacified by my efforts, and I made the mistake of rubbing just behind his ear.
He hated it.
“Haaaaaach” emanated from his mouth, and it sounded so profoundly creepy that I could have sworn I’d seen a menacing green mist pour out with it. “Jesus,” I whispered, “there’s something wrong with Amos. I think he’s possessed.”
I didn’t think Amos appreciated my diagnosis. That thing went after the mound of my thumb with gusto.
“Whatever!” I yelled like a teenage girl. I’d had just about enough of Amos’s incursions into my tender flesh. I set him on the end table where his cage rested, not even bothering to put him safely back inside. “You’re on your own, you little beast. And I hope a vicious mouse gets you.”
Amos hates me. And I’m stuck here with him. Can my life get any more depressing?
I shouldn’t have wondered. As soon as I did, the telephone rang. I picked up the phone and heard the voice of Dr. McLogan, a friend of Mason May and the fertility specialist I’d seen about my endometriosis. The kindly silver-haired Irishman had seen me for the last few years, and I considered him almost as much of a friend as Mason did.
“Bell, my dear.”
“Hi, Dr. McLogan.”
“I’d like to see you as soon as possible. Can you come into my office in the morning?”
I worked at the jail on Thursdays, but my caseload happened to be light right now, and I didn’t have any testing scheduled. I supposed the county could get along without me one more day. I still had a glut of personal days I hadn’t taken. “Sure, what time would you like me to be there?”
“How about ten o’clock?”
“I’ll see you then.” A pause, more pregnant than I wanted it to be, followed. “Dr. McLogan?” I asked fearfully.
“It’s not the best news, dear one.”
Uh-oh. He’d gone from “my dear” to “dear one,” and there was a difference. “Is it really bad news?”
“It could be. Bring your friend with you.” He meant Rocky. I’d taken him with me the last time, and we’d actually discussed him being a donor for me.
“Okay,” I said. The doctor rang off, and I found myself standing in the living room, listening to the buzz of the dial tone in my ear.
It’s over. I’m never going to have a baby.
The throbbing pain in my hand snapped me out of my trance. When the tears streamed down my face, I told myself it was because my hand hurt.
After I’d tended to my war wounds——physical and emotional——I called Kalaya Naylor and asked her to meet me at my place. She would be a welcome diversion. I didn’t have time to clean up my apartment much, but was hoping the easy grace Kalaya had exhibited in conversation would extend to her skipping the white-glove test when she entered my humble abode.
When she arrived, she walked into my place with a smirk. It didn’t look like my mother’s smirk; it actually seemed affirmative. She took off her coat without me asking her for it, and she put it in my closet herself. She’d exchanged her earlier outfit for sweats, K-Swiss sneaks, and a Sarah Lawrence sweatshirt.
As her eyes swept the room, I couldn’t help wondering if she was evaluating me. That should have made me uncomfortable, but from Kalaya, it was about as disagreeable as a little sister looking into a big sister’s purse just to see what mysteries it held.
She closed my closet door, and “I love your apartment” nearly burst out of her. “It’s dope.”
“Shabby chic meets Africa, I’ve heard.”
“But heavy on the chic.”
“My mother would say heavy on the shabby.”
“That’s a mother for you.”
I beckoned her into the living room, and she looked around as if she’d never seen flea-market furniture before. In my defense, I said, “I get a little crazy at open markets.”
She shook her head. “But you change everything. You make it hip. This is all so DIY.” I was glad she was into the do-it-yourself movement, too. Maybe I’d find in her a partner to haunt the thrift stores and flea markets with in the spring.
Kalaya fingered an armoire I’d found around Halloween. I’d painted it a color that the paint manufacturer called Ashes of Roses, and I’d added accents with gold leafing. The color and the piece’s whimsical beauty had made me think of the miniseriesThe Thorn Birds ——which I hadn’t seen in years——and had inspired me to buy the series on DVD. One lonely night when I’d ached for Jazz, I’d plopped down on my bed and watched it. When I’d finished, I’d made a little prayer corner by putting a few things I loved on top of the armoire. Candles, the prayer beads Jazz had given me, a little picture of him I’d taken with my cell phone’s camera, and a picture of Ma Brown were all arranged artfully and prayerfully. I’d go to my little sacred space and light a candle, then pray for Jazz and me, thinking of the priest and Meggie and marveling at how simply loving the wrong person can cause so much pain.
“What’s the shrine about?” Kalaya said.
I didn’t detect any sarcasm in her voice. “It’s not really a shrine, just a place I set aside to remember some things in prayer.”
“Do you pray that you two will work things out?”
“I won’t answer on the grounds that I might incriminate myself.”
She chuckled. “What’s up with the sweet-looking old lady?”
“She’s there to give me strength.”
“Who is she?”
“My great-grandmother and namesake. The first Amanda Bell Brown.”
“Maternal or paternal?”
“Paternal, but my mother adored her, and she adored my mother.”
“Is she Native American? Look at those cheekbones.”
“Her father was part Cherokee and part Irish Scot. Her mother was a slave. A real mixed bag, she.”
“Ah, miscegenation.”
“Ah, indeed.”
We headed over to my sofa and sat side by side. I propped my feet up on the coffee table. She looked at me sheepishly. “Go ahead,” I said.
She stretched those long legs out and crossed them on the table. “Girl, you are truly my friend. So, whatcha got?”
“Off the record.”
“Come on, Bell.”
“Off the record, Kalaya. I shouldn’t have even been at the scene of the crime. Telling you anything could compromise the investigation. In fact, you knew Kate. You’d been with her in the last weeks of her life. You could be a suspect yourself.”
&
nbsp; Her mouth dropped. She sputtered, trying to find words that wouldn’t come out.
I cracked up. “Jazz did that to me once. I had the same reaction.”
She gave me a playful shove. “You nearly gave me a heart attack, fool.”
“Ah-ah-ah. In Matthew 5:22, Jesus said, ‘Whosoever shall say, Thou fool, shall be in danger of hell fire.’”
“Girl, I’ve been in danger of hell fire for a long time, and it has nothing to do with me calling you a fool.”
“Jesus can take care of that, you know. Why don’t you go back to Him?”
“Because I’ve strayed way too far. Hey, can you just tell me what you’ve got and proselytize me later?”
“You promise to hear my ‘go back to Jesus’ pitch?”
“Is it a good one? Or are you going to give me some of those J.T.C. tracts that used to terrify me when I was a kid?”
I laughed, remembering the little black-and-white cartoon tracts that Chick Publications had put out for years. “Do they still make those tracts? I may do both.”
“Yes! And any time I see one, I get the willies.”
“I promise my Jesus pitch won’t give you the willies. I’m all about being relational these days. That’s how we do it at the Rock House. I’ll love you back to Jesus in practical ways.”
“I’m gonna hold you to that.” She swept back her long cornrows. “Now, tell me what you’ve got and then give me some snacks. What kind of relational witness are you, anyway?”
Death, Deceit & Some Smooth Jazz Page 16
