A Dead Man Speaks

by Lisa Jones Johnson

  I lay back on my bed, trying to forget, trying to get back to me, but the same face kept coming up before me. This woman Laurel. The woman who screwed him on his wedding night.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Yo, Bobby Greene, you figerred the shit out yet?”

  A white bright light reflected off the Captain’s shiny black face. He was chomping on an old cigarette. Guys, cops I’d known for years, glared at me. In the corner of my eye, I could see the hookers being lined up and booked. Petty thieves, yelling for their lawyers as if they had a pot to piss in or a lawyer to call. The phones continually rang. Before you could hang up one, another started.

  “Yeah, I’m gettin there, but I need your help on somethin’.”

  “So what the fuck else is new. Like when didn’t you need my help on one of your cases?”

  “Fuck you, Captain, just gimme a second.”

  “Ok, you got five, starting now.”

  I leaned back in my chair, thinking how I was going to put this to get the least questions from Captain. Him being a stickler for knowing sources and all. “I heard there’s somebody he was screwin’ named Laurel, don’t have a last name, but I heard they knew each other, from way back.”

  “And who the hell you ‘hear’ this from? Boogie joe grinder, the sweet spot finder, the blank who sat by the woodpile? I’d fill in the blank, but I don’t like to use the ‘N’ word in front of you white boys.”

  I rolled my eyes, thinking that for once I wished that the captain could just answer my damn question without the bullshit. “Well I heard it from his wife.”

  “His wife told you the name of the bitch he was fuckin’! Now that’s the kind of wife I need! Knows I’m gettin’ some on the side and don’t gives a damn. That’s a good woman.”

  “Yeah right, but anyway. I wanted to know if you had this Laurel’s name on the list of witnesses the Long Island cops saw before I got on the case.”

  “Man, do you ever look at the paper work before you get on something, or do you just figure you can ask me all the questions, and then you trot around and do the fun shit, talking to witnesses and going to funerals and shit. ’Cause believe it or not, Greene, this ain’t the only case I’m worried about. So go do your own damn work. Go on over there to the file room.” He smiled one of those shit eating grins he did when he thought he got you. “I think you know who’s working there now.”

  That knot had started to grow in my stomach. So everybody knew my business. ’cause if the captain was onto it, you can bet that every cop in the place knew my ex who’d dumped me was working in my face every damn day.

  “And I want a report from you by the end of the week of exactly where you are on the January case. People have been asking about it, and I intend to have somethin’ to tell him. So get your ass in gear.” He waddled off, biting down hard on the unlit cigarette.

  Shit, the last thing I wanted to do was to have to go back to the file room on this one. The Long Island cops did such a piss poor job of the investigation before I got there, I’d figured or actually hoped that there wouldn’t be any reason for me to get any of their crap.

  There she was in front of me. Margie. Looking good, I had to admit, in her cop uniform, standing behind the file room desk with her back to me, leaning over, digging through some boxes. That cute butt stuck up in my face. I could almost see the outline of her panties through the thick cop’s pants. I wondered what color they were. Margie never wore white panties, always colors, said it made her feel sexy. I got that jump again. Only this time it wasn’t in my throat. It’d been months since I’d been with a woman. The last time was a damn joke. I picked up this chick in a bar, got to her place, and then I didn’t even feel like it no more. So I just left, while she was yelling and screamin’ at me, who the fuck did I think I was…yeah…yeah…blah, blah, blah. I didn’t owe her no explanation. But now seein’ Margie again, her cute little bod in that cop’s uniform, made me think about that time, the first time…I didn’t know it was gonna happen then, I figured I’d have to wait a little longer, but somehow, it just…happened.

  She turned and smiled as if she’d been expecting me. “Come for the January file?” Shit I had to shake myself back to the present. It was over, but damn it still seemed so real. I could swear I was probably sweating. I tried to pull myself together and managed to squeak out, “Right, how did you know?”

  “C’mon, Bob, I’m not stupid. Even you can’t do a murder investigation without eventually pulling all the files on it.”

  Had to get back in control, couldn’t let her know what I’d been thinking, wouldn’t give her that satisfaction. “Yeah well I came damn close, didn’t I?”

  “Not from what I hear.”

  “Oh yeah, and what does a rookie cop who don’t know dog shit about being a cop, know what it takes to solve a murder?”

  She just pulled out a thin file from under the desk and handed it to me. “Well, aren’t we in a good mood today? What’s wrong, Bob, can’t find anybody to take my place?”

  I grabbed the file from her, didn’t want her to see my hands shaking. They always shook when she got me. I went back to my desk to find comfort in the bedlam around me. Away from Margie. I had to get Margie’s face outta my head. I have to concentrate on this case. It’s over between us. She’d moved on. I had to.

  I pulled out a notebook. But then again, not much was on that list. The maid, the wife, a couple of neighbors, none named Laurel, or even close to it. Laurel…friend, worked with him? Laurel…the best fuck he ever had…the first one…? Laurel…remembering the vision…her words in his head… neighbor…lover?

  I picked up the phone. “Yeah, it’s Greene, send the police artist up here. I got a description of a suspect in a murder case. I wanna send an APB out on it as soon as it’s done…Yeah right away.”

  If I could remember the vision good enough, I could get a sketch of it. ’cause one thing was for sure, she was in the shit deep. Laurel…somebody…lover…lover. Work? I kept getting back to his work. Somebody would know there. They always know your shit at work. The secretary probably set up the “secret” rendezvous, paid the Amex bills you couldn’t send home.

  I grabbed a number from the January file and punched it out on the phone.

  “January and Associates, good morning.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “Andrew Haven.”

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Haven is away on business until Tuesday. Would you like to leave a message?”

  “Naw, I’ll call back.”

  I hung up. Good. Cause while the cat’s away, the mice will play.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Detective Bob

  Black people in suits scurried around the office. Barely two or three white faces were around. I shook my head again. In the ten days I’d been on this case, I’d seen more blacks with money than I had in my whole fuckin’ life. That’s why a white man can’t get ahead, too many blacks sucking up all the cash with their affirmative action bullshit. I could almost understand what my dad had meant when he said give ’em an inch, they’ll take a mile. We let ’em get ahead in the sixties, and now look, they got the fancy jobs and me, I was still living in a one bedroom in Brooklyn. Go figure. The white man ended up on the bottom of the shit pile.

  “May I help you?”

  I flashed my badge. “Detective Bob Greene, NYPD, I need to ask Andrew Haven some questions.”

  The woman suddenly looked scared. “Uh, Mr. Haven’s out of town.”

  I pretended to be surprised. “Okay, then I need to speak to Mr. January’s secretary.”

  She looked away nervously, punching out some numbers. Her voice was low as she whispered something into the headset. After a moment, she looked up again. “I’m sorry, Detective, but she’s out to lunch.”

  “At ten a.m.? Pretty early eater.”

  “Well, I uh…”

  I leaned on the desk in front of her, giving her my best TV Detective look, right down to the Kojak walk. Hell, she didn’t know it was
all an act.

  “Look, lady, I’m here to talk to everybody in this whole got damned office, and if you can’t cooperate, then I’ll just have to get a subpoena and haul all your asses to the station. Now I know you’d much rather talk to me nicely here, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, I mean, I’m really sorry, Detective. Really, I’m sorry, but I guess I should have told you before. Mr. January’s secretary doesn’t work here anymore. She left right after he died. It’s just that Mr. Haven told us that if anybody asked to say that she’d just stepped away from her desk.”

  “And why did he tell you to say that?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t. I’m sorry, Detective, but when Mr. Haven comes back you can talk to him. I’m sure he can be more helpful. I really haven’t worked here that long, really, just a few months.”

  I smiled at her now. She’d been more helpful than she’d known. It was starting to get crystal clear that Andrew Haven, the man who barely waited till his partner’s dick was cold to change the business cards, was in the shit. Way into the shit. Greed and envy spilt out from every pore in his body.

  “Oh yeah, well how long did Mr. January’s secretary work for him before he was killed?”

  “I don’t know, really, I don’t. I mean, I think a long time, but please, Detective, I really don’t know anything. Mr. Haven’s the one to talk to…I promise I’ll have him call you just as soon as he gets back.”

  I turned away from her, didn’t want her to see the slow smile creeping across my face. “You do that okay?”

  “Oh yes, sir, I promise.”

  I pushed open the glass doors, my eyes resting on the name on the door for a moment: JANUARY & ASSOCIATES. Hmm. No more. I walked down the escalator, thinking what the next move was, when I heard somebody behind me. I can always tell when somebody’s running after me, even when they try to be slick, like this person was trying to be.

  So I just slowed up to let ’em catch up with me. I merged into the stream of people leaving the building, turned the corner. I knew they were still behind me. I could see a woman in the store window, trying not to look conspicuous, definitely not a pro at this. She was about to say something. I could feel it. So I made it easy on her. I stopped and turned around. I was facing a youngish looking black woman, short hair, earrings, kinda dumpy but not a bad looking face. I think I scared her stopping like that ’cause she looked like she could barely get the words out.

  “Detective?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m Yolanda Calloway. I used to work for Mr. January.”

  Now this was getting interesting. “The receptionist told me you’d quit.”

  “I had to leave…for personal reasons…”

  “Was he that much of an SOB to work for?”

  I smiled at my own joke. But she didn’t seem to think it funny. In fact, she looked about ready to break down and cry at any moment. I took her by the arm.

  “Let’s go in there where we can talk.” I sat across from this woman, knowing I’m about to get a load dumped on me.

  She nervously sipped coffee from the cracked cup. “He knows who did it.”

  Well that was a change from a reluctant witnesses.

  “Who knows?”

  She whispered shakily, “Andrew Haven…He knows. I know he knows.”

  My sentiments exactly. I was starting to like this lady. But I had to play it cool, play into her hands, let her spill as much as she wanted to.

  “Now Miss…Calloway, is it? Tell me why you think he knows who killed your boss?”

  She leaned back, twisting her napkin around her fingers. “Detective, I’m scared. If I tell you what I know, you won’t tell him where you heard it from, promise, please…”

  “I promise. It’s just between us.”

  “So you won’t use my name?”

  “I won’t have to, because we both know that’s not your real name, is it?”

  She let the coffee cup slip out of her hands, luckily it was only half full. A few drops of inky black liquid rolled off the plastic table cloth. “How did you?”

  “It don’t matter. Just relax, and tell me everything.”

  Truth is, it was just a lucky guess, but my cop’s nose was usually right about these things.

  “Well, I worked for Mr. January for almost ten years, right from the beginning when he started his company. Mr. January helped a lot of people. Most people didn’t know that because he didn’t talk about it like most other folks would’ve. I remember especially this one young man, Albert was his name. He’d been coming to the office for years, selling candy, you know for field trips and extra money. I think he was around twelve then. He was such a hard worker, always hustling. Mr. January would talk to him a lot and ask him what he wanted to do with his life. That boy had real dreams, but no money, you know. I think he reminded Mr. January of himself when he was young. The young man was so determined to make something of himself.”

  At this point, she leaned forward seriously. “You know, Mr. January paid for that boy’s college. Yep, all four years. I know because I wrote out the checks from Mr. January’s special account, and every semester we’d send a check to Miner’s College in Pennsylvania where the young man went.”

  I’d only been half listening to the story about the kid, but when she mentioned writing the checks for his special account, I wondered if she’d written out any checks to Laurel. I made a mental note to myself to go back to that point. But for right now, I’d just let her ramble on, no telling what else she’d spill.

  “I saw a lot, lots of people coming and going. Mr. January could be hard to work for, but he had to. He was trying to build something, something that was different than any other firm on the Street. He was trying to show that black folks could really play in the big leagues with the other firms.

  “But a lot of people he brought in didn’t think like that. They didn’t have his dream, so they’d last a few months. Then one day I’d come to work and they’d just be gone. That’s how Mr. January was. He didn’t take any stuff from anybody. And if you didn’t agree with him, he’d just let you go. Most of the time it was because the person didn’t work hard enough. I think that’s why he approached Mr. Haven from the beginning. Because he’d heard that he worked hard.”

  She stopped to take a breath. “Work was Mr. Haven’s life. He had nothing else.”

  “I thought he had a wife and kids, a real family man from everything I’ve heard.”

  She sniffed in disapproval. “Family man! Please. It’s all a front.”

  I was about to ask her more, but I didn’t have to.

  “He’s as gay as Christmas.”

  “Hmm…So Haven has a little cake in his pocket. Didn’t surprise me. It’s always the straight as an arrow ones. Did anybody else know?”

  “No way. He kept it real undercover, with his image and everything, perfect father, perfect husband. It was all a lie. But Mr. January knew. He used to make fun of him, say little things, not so obvious that anybody else would know what he was really saying, but enough so Mr. Haven knew.”

  She stopped for a minute. Looking around at the other patrons. “He didn’t want Mr. January to sell the firm. I know that. I heard him talking.”

  “What was he saying?”

  “Trying to convince Mr. January not to sell. He kept talking about some accounts.”

  “Client accounts?”

  “I think so, but it was some new client. Somebody I hadn’t heard of.”

  “Do you remember the name of the client?”

  “No…they never mentioned a name They just said the account.”

  She was quiet for a moment. I could prod her more, but I figured now would be the right time to change gears on her.

  “Did Mr. January know anyone named Laurel?”

  She thought for a moment. “Laurel?”

  “Yeah.” She fidgeted. I knew she knew exactly who I was talking about, but I wasn’t sure she was going to spill it. “That woman.”

 
; She looked down, avoiding my eyes. Then she took out a small address book. Scribbled down a name and an address. “Go over there. They’ll know her.”

  “Who was she, his lover, girlfriend?”

  She hesitated, then softly, slowly said, “She was…” She closed up. Something went over her eyes, and I knew that I wasn’t getting anything else out of her. “I…I don’t know.”

  I cursed to myself silently. Shit, just when I was beginning to get it all in place. But I’d been a cop long enough to know when to push a witness and when to just let ’em go and come back another time when they’re fresh.

  “Miss Calloway, is there someplace I can get a hold of you? I may need to ask you more questions.”

  “I’m moving, but you can call my brother. I’m staying there until I find a new place.” She wrote down a number. And then gave me a look that was so desperate, so sincere, that I wanted to take her into my arms and tell her everything was gonna be all right.

  I handed her my card, scribbling my home phone on the back. “Call me if you want to talk, again.”

  She took the card and carefully tucked it in her purse. “Find out who did it, Detective. He was a good person underneath everything. He didn’t deserve to die like that.”

  I squeezed her hand. I liked this lady. She was honest, in spite of her lying about her name. True blue. The kind of friend I’d like to have. I looked down at the paper where Yolanda had scribbled the address, and I wondered where Laurel was now. One thing I was damn sure of—she was on the run and as far away from this place as she could get.

  * * *