“Violet? I’m going to be tied up for a bit. Hold all my calls, all right?” Pause. Long seconds while his brain shifted gears, processed, finally gained traction. “Yes, cancel it. In fact, cancel everything for today. Uh-huh, I know, I know. Tell him it’s a personal emergency and I’ll speak with him first thing tomorrow. Oh, and call Donovan, tell him to call me the minute he breaks for lunch. Thanks.” The handset clattered into its base. Reluctantly, he turned his attention back to us.
“Naomi... Good god.”
“I know this must come as a shock, Mr. Langley, but I’m hoping maybe you could help us out.” I watched his eyes. They glistened with repressed tears.
“Anything...everything. Whatever you want, just ask.”
“Ms. Weaver was at work on Friday?” He nodded.
“We had a meeting around ten, maybe ten-thirty. I was running late. She wasn’t, of course.” A sad smile formed. “She was one of a kind, Naomi was. I have no idea what we’re going to do without her. Not a goddamned clue...”
“How long did the meeting last?”
“Maybe half an hour. We were ironing out some wrinkles with a client account. Routine stuff. She had a conference call scheduled for four o’clock, I remember that, and we wanted to put our ducks in a row. That was the last I spoke to her.” The realization that their final conversation had been about something as banal as routine client business pained him. One fat tear threatened to fall. He blinked it away.
“How was Ms. Weaver’s relationship with her coworkers? Did she have any problems here? Or with a client, perhaps?”
Langley snorted. “Naomi? No, nothing like that. She got along with everybody. Plus, she wasn’t a cutthroat. Trust me, we have our share of cutthroats, every successful agency does. But Naomi couldn’t care less. She built long-term, profitable relationships with clients and never worried about turf. She was the one person other associates could count on for advice because Naomi never asked for credit. That’s rare in this business, guys, trust me.”
“She was doing all right financially?” Again, Langley nodded.
“Nay was pulling down one-fifty-five, before bonuses. We—Donovan and me—we were going to boost her again at Christmas. We didn’t want her testing the market.”
“Had she expressed interest in that? Going free agent?”
“Not that I knew of. She seemed happy.”
The rest of the interview didn’t produce much. No, Langley didn’t think Naomi was currently seeing anyone. He remembered a boyfriend coming to take her to lunch the previous fall, but she’d attended the company Christmas party alone. Langley was aware that Weaver had attended a program for what he termed a ‘personal issue,’ but it hadn’t affected her performance, and she hadn’t requested time off from work, choosing instead to use vacation days. When I brought up the names Terri and Jen, he didn’t hesitate.
“Terri Newcomb and Jennifer Mojena. They’re thick as thieves those three, they’re always, er, I mean, were always...oh, shit.” He turned away. Burton and I sat patiently while he composed himself. When he faced us again, there was no mistaking the tear tracks.
“They’re great friends. This is going to devastate them. They’ve all been here for years. They go out for coffee together, every other Friday, I think. It’s a ritual with them.” Another deep breath, followed by a sniffle. “I...suppose you’re going to want to talk to them, too.”
“Yes, as soon as possible. Separately, of course. We’ll try not to take up too much—“ Langley held up his hand.
“No, whatever you need. I meant it. Hold on.” Langley again took up the phone. I could hear the same female voice on the other end. “Vi? Listen, can you buzz Terri Newcomb and ask her to come up to Conference room A. Yes, A. The gentlemen who I’ve been speaking with would like to have a few words with her. No, no, just tell her I need to see her. When she’s done, I want you to get her a cab and instruct her not to come in tomorrow, either. Tell her to take the day and not to worry, I’m approving it. Whatever she has on her desk, screw it, it can wait. After that, one of the gentlemen will ask you to have Jennifer Mojena come up. The same applies. I’ll come down in five minutes and fill you in. Then get Paul in HR and Dave from payroll up to my office. We’re going to have some stuff to sort out.”
Having regained his bearings, Langley rose. Now that he’d found a way to be proactive, the responsibility steadied him.
“I’ll show you to Conference Room A. It’s even more private than my office.”
“Thank you, Mr. Langley, that’s appreciated.”
“This isn’t going to go easy,” Langley said, his eyes meeting mine. “I’d suggest you sit on the right side of the table.”
“Why’s that?” Burton asked.
“This is my personal conference room. It’s where I meet face to face with our biggest clients. The right side? It’s where you’ll find the wet bar.”
Langley was prophetic. It took a two finger snifter of brandy to quell Newcomb’s shakes after we’d delivered the news. She’d wailed in agony. She had shot to her feet and bitten her fist so hard that Burton and I saw the blood even before we could stand to comfort her. Luckily, the conference room had its own bathroom, where Burton found a box of tissues while I had sought out the brandy.
We ran through the basics. Newcomb established Weaver’s time of departure from Starbucks, where she’d eaten half a slice of crumb cake. Score another bulls eye for Doc Loscalzo. Newcomb hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. No strangers paying undue attention to them. Nobody had approached them while they ate. According to Newcomb, Weaver hadn’t mentioned anything to merit concern. No strange messages in her mailbox. No mouth-breather phone calls. No persistent suitor refusing to take a hint.
“Do you know why Ms. Weaver wasn’t seeing anybody?” Burton asked. “I would think that an attractive, successful woman her age would have lots of men interested in her.”
Newcomb agreed.
“She hasn’t seen anybody since breaking up with Brendan. There were guys interested, no question. But Nay’s turned them all down. The thing with Brendan took a lot out of her. She wasn’t ready to wade back into the dating swamp.”
“Brendan? That’s her ex?”
“Yeah, Brendan Daughtry. They split up last Fall, around the beginning of October.”
“Amicable split?” Burton asked.
Newcomb hesitated. “Not ugly, but not ‘Hey, I’ll call you sometime,’ either.”
“Who broke it off?”
“She did. Things had been, I dunno, rocky between them for a while, then one night Nay calls me and tells me it’s over. Just like that.”
“Did she tell you what had happened to end it?”
“Not really. I think it came down to Naomi wanting to take the next step. Talk about moving in together, you know, the C word.”
“Commitment?” Burton guessed. Newcomb plucked a tissue from the box. Blew her nose.
“She was ready, I guess he wasn’t. Nay was 32 last year, and I think right around her birthday she started to think about where their relationship was going.”
“And Brendan wasn’t interested in going in that direction?” my turn.
“That’s the impression I got. Nay didn’t come right out and say it, but that’s how it felt to me. You know, Nay didn’t even cry over it. I thought we’d spend all night watching Steel Magnolias and getting drunk and bitching about our man troubles. But she didn’t. That was Naomi. She was too damned strong to let him get to her.”
We stuck with it a little longer. To the best of her knowledge, Lorna, a sister, was Naomi’s only living relative. On Daughtry, she had only sketchy information. Not surprising. A friend’s ex-boyfriend a year removed didn’t tend to remain on the Christmas card list. We thanked her, and walked her to the door. She hesitated before going through it, though.
“When you catch him,” she said softly, forcing her voice to stay calm. “I would like a phone call. If you can, I would like you to tell me that you f
ound this monster...that you found him and made him pay for taking Naomi away from us. Will you do that, detectives?”
I don’t know what she expected to hear. Burton and I weren’t about to promise her vigilante justice, though if any killer deserved it, it was the man we were now hunting. Burton relieved me of the responsibility.
“We’ll call. When we catch him, you’ll know. I promise.”
We watched her shuffle off. She was only 36, but could’ve passed for 80. Frail and birdlike and hunched beneath the weight of loss. Langley had been right. It hadn’t gone easy.
We got little additional information from Mojena, though just as many tears. She was fairly certain she had a telephone number for Daughtry, if not at her desk, in her personal address book. It was her impression, too, that the reason behind Weaver and Daughtry’s split had to do with Weaver’s interest in something more than a casual, albeit monogamous, relationship. To the best of her knowledge, Brendan had never cheated on Weaver, nor she on Daughtry. They simply wanted different things, and that had eventually led to the split. Mojena didn’t believe Naomi had spoken to Daughtry in nearly a year, and she didn’t recall Weaver mentioning any attempts by Daughtry to contact her. Having learned all we could, we wrapped things up. Mojena, who’d scoffed at the brandy offer and pointed straight at the Glenlivet, absentmindedly ran her finger around the lip of the tumbler.
“Who would do this?” she asked with pleading eyes. “Who would want to hurt Naomi?”
From what we’d learned from Langley, Newcomb and Mojena, we were no closer to an answer. We promised her our best, and after she’d gone, settled back in to ponder our next move. Neither Burton nor I were scotch men, but we got out of there when we caught each other staring at the Glenlivet.
We settled for a couple of Snapples from the deli on the corner and walked toward First, where we’d left the unmarked. Running down Daughtry had made it onto our To Do list, but neither Burton nor I felt any heat there. A long time had passed since their breakup, and by all accounts it was Daughtry who hadn’t been interested in sticking around. Still, he was a former flame, which meant he warranted looking into.
“You got any vibes ‘bout the ex?” Burton asked, sliding into the passenger seat.
“Nope,” I answered honestly. I was about to say something else when his cell phone chirped.
“Carver,” he grumbled. After several more grunts and a, “Got it,” he closed the phone.
“Got something?”
“Nothing you’re gonna like,” he said, as I edged the unmarked into traffic.
CHAPTER 5
Harlem Hospital Center was located on the 500 block of Lenox Avenue. I swung around back, using the lane reserved for emergency vehicles, and pulled into a spot at the rear of the ambulance and EMS lot. The guard, a beefy Hispanic with a walrus moustache, stood to challenge us, then saw Burton and thought better of it.
We badged our way through the doors and a harried nurse with saline bags draped over both arms gestured with her chin towards our party, a large, matronly black woman holding a clipboard.
“Ms. Simms?” I said. She turned, eyeing first Burton, then me.
“Who did what, and what rules do you want me to break to help you out?”
Burton raised one eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth ticked upward.
“We’re just here to ask a few questions. No rule-breaking necessary,” I promised. Simms was unconvinced.
“You guys show up here askin’ for Helen Simms, it’s always ‘cause you need something.” Burton handed Simms the sheet he’d torn from his notepad. Simms studied it for a moment, then went behind the Information desk. She pulled a directory from a stack of binders and ran her finger down a list of telephone numbers.
“Room 207. Now, can you please tell me why?” If anything, she seemed even more suspicious.
“It’s a death notification, Ma’am,” I said. Simms blew out a sigh.
“You boys don’t ever come out to notify nobody of anythin’ good, do you.”
“Not usually, Ma’am.”
“Take your first right. Elevator’s at the end of the hall.”
We thanked her and followed her directions, riding up in silence. Weaver hadn’t subscribed to caller ID, so Burton had gotten a contact at the phone company to shortcut us the numbers for the last ten incoming calls to her land line. The call in question had come Friday evening, lasting too long to have been a phone message. Burton was right. I hadn’t liked the news. At first, having the number track back to a hospital in Harlem still sounded promising. If Weaver had fallen off the wagon and onto the pharmaceutical train, what better place to score prescription meds than through a hospital hookup? But the number tracked not to a department, but instead to a patient’s room. Neither of us believed a patient had snuck out of the hospital, gone downtown, murdered Weaver, then returned to their adjustable bed.
The man occupying room 207 was staring up at a small color television bolted into the ceiling, sipping from a can of Diet ginger ale. His left leg was suspended in a traction harness, his foot swathed in bandages. He grabbed the remote and muted the volume when we entered.
“Help you fellas?”
“Ike Littleton?”
“That’s me,” he said, guarded. His eyes did a slow inventory. Before I had the badge out, he was sitting up.
“Winnie?” he asked, his voice startled and panicky. “Is this about Winnie? The boys?” Burton stepped closer, shaking his head in an attempt to assuage the man’s concerns.
“No, Mr. Littleton, this isn’t about them. But I’m afraid we do have bad news.”
“You swear? This ain’t about Winnie or the boys?” Littleton’s jaw muscles clenched. He was girding himself for the blow, certain that Burton was lying.
“Mr. Littleton, do you know a woman by the name of Naomi Weaver?” I asked. Littleton blinked. For a moment, confusion took hold. The news that this didn’t concern Winnie and the boys—whoever they were—had thrown him.
“Naomi? Sure, I know Naomi. Why? Why are you here? What is it? What’s happened?”
“I’m afraid Miss Weaver is dead,” Burton said gently. Littleton’s hands began to shake. Ginger ale bubbled up out of the can.
“Mr. Littleton?” A full minute passed before the old man could speak.
“How? What happened?”
I suspected our presence was answer enough, but Burton gave it to him straight.
“Homicide. We believe she was murdered sometime Friday night.” Littleton put down the ginger ale and held his head in his hands
“You called Miss Weaver on Friday evening?”
“Around nine thirty, I think. I couldn’t go down and see her in person, on account of this damned foot ulcer.” Littleton waved dismissively at his bandaged leg. “Doctor says he doesn’t want me goin’ nowhere until its completely healed. Doesn’t want to be having to chop it off. So I was stuck here.” Littleton’s misery was etched into his face. He didn’t bother trying to forestall his tears. We knew what he was thinking. If only he hadn’t been laid up, maybe things would have been different. But instead, Naomi Weaver had been alone, and now we were here.
“What did you talk about, if you don’t mind me asking?” Burton continued, treading lightly.
Littleton barked out a laugh that held no joy. “What’d we talk about? Nothing. Just bullshit. Stuff that don’t mean a goddamned thing.”
“Miss Weaver obviously thought so,” Burton told him. “She wrote it down in her planner. She wrote everything down that was important, and that included your call Friday night.” That brought a weak smile. We couldn’t read the memories, but could tell Littleton was revisiting them now, staring off into space.
“I called to congratulate her,” Littleton resumed. “I called because Friday was six months for her.”
“Six months without a drink, you mean?”
Littleton’s head ticked up, and he eyed Burton.
“You already know?”
The big man
nodded.
“Naomi was six months sober Friday, and that’s a big damned deal, let me tell you. I hit six months three times ‘fore it stuck and I got any farther along. I’m eleven years three months now. Trust me when I say , that first year? Every damned day is hard. Every goddamned day...”
“Is that how you knew Miss Weaver? Through the program?”
“You could say that. I met Naomi there, but that wasn’t how I really knew her. I was still playing then. Plan to go back to it, too, if these fool doctors ever let me out’a here. Downtown. The Blue Note, Pete’s, The Wallflower. Naomi started coming out to see me play. Or so she said.”
“What do you mean?”
“You gotta understand something about Naomi. That woman was strong. I mean real strong. Most of us? We get on the wagon? We don’t trust ourselves to walk down the same block as a liquor store or gin mill. But Naomi? She’d strut in there and take up a seat right near the bar and order club soda all night long. Took me three years stayin’ away from the clubs ‘fore I could go back. I think Naomi took it as a challenge. She came out to prove to herself that she could do it. I gave her a convenient excuse.”
“Was that all you spoke about? Her reaching six months?”
“Oh, we jawboned about this and that. Me getting out of here, how my foot is healing. The kind of nonsense you talk about. You know…with a friend.”
“Do you know if she was planning to go out again that evening or if she was expecting any visitors?”
“Nope. She told me it was the usual Friday night. Her and Matt and Orville.”
“Matt and Orville?”
“Matt Damon and Orville Redenbacher. The two men in her life, she liked to call ‘em.”
I flashed back to the component cabinet in Weaver’s apartment. The top shelf was filled with the actors’ films. Littleton’s words echoed. The two men in her life. If Weaver had secretly been seeing somebody, he was as much a mystery to Littleton as Mojena and Newcomb. I had a hard time believing she could have kept such a relationship hidden from all of them.
Dead Meat Page 28
