I can’t help but notice she never really did answer my question.
“All this because you found our ropes and toys in our luggage?” she says.
Is she pretending not to know the actual significance of my questions in relationship to the ropes and Mariah’s murder or does she really not know?
“Just being thorough,” I say.
“Well, you’re not asking about the other things in our luggage,” she says.
“Different investigators are focusing on different aspects of the case.”
“And you got my sex life,” she says.
“I got ropes.”
“Okay,” she says. “Just seems a little . . . I don’t know . . . off subject. How’s this going to help you find who did this to Mariah?”
“That’s the thing about an investigation,” I say. “You never know what is and isn’t on or off subject. We have to gather mountains of information, sift through it, and see what, if any, patterns or connections emerge.”
“Well, Trace says you know what you’re doing—at least according to Merrill, but . . . it seems . . . I don’t know. Just want Mariah’s killer found. Not that it will bring her back or anything, but . . .”
I nod.
“Seems like more and more cases don’t get solved,” she says. “Is that true?”
“It is.”
“I hope Mariah’s won’t be one of them. Bad enough to lose a child, but to not know who took them from you or why . . . I’m not sure Trace is going to survive this. Not sure we are.”
Before I can respond, Brett drifts into the room, his head down, his attention focused on the handheld gaming device he’s gripping.
“Hey baby boy,” Ashley says to Brett, then to me, “I don’t see how he doesn’t walk into things trying to walk and play that thing at the same time, but he never does.”
As if on cue, he bumps into the coffee table.
“You just made Mommy a liar,” she says.
“Sorry.”
He joins her on the couch, sitting right up against and leaning on her, never looking up from his game.
“You missing Mariah?” she says.
He shrugs.
“Bored without someone to play with?”
“Glad . . . I don’t have . . . to share anymore.”
Every word comes between the pressing and tapping of buttons.
“But you loved Mariah,” she says. “Loved playing with her.”
He doesn’t respond.
“Brett,” she says, “don’t you miss Mariah? Aren’t you sorry she’s gone?”
He shrugs. “I . . . get more now.”
Ashley looks at me, her eyes searching mine for judgement.
“More what?” she asks him.
“I don’t know . . . Everything. She got all the . . . candy and . . . presents . . . and . . . attention.”
“Yeah, but you’re going to miss her, aren’t you?”
He doesn’t respond.
“Brett,” she says, her voice growing stern. “Answer Mommy. You’re going to miss Mariah, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says without conviction or sincerity.
“He will,” she says, looking back at me. “Just hasn’t sunk in yet. You know how kids are. Almost as self-centered as Trace is.”
34
“I was the closest thing to a mother that child ever had,” Nadine says. “I loved her like a daughter. Still can’t believe she’s really gone.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I say.
“World’s a colder, lonelier place now,” she says. “Least for me. Raised her like she was my own.”
Nadine Wade is old enough to be Mariah’s grandmother, but looks like she could be her mother. Her dark skin shows no wrinkles or aging marks, her narrow frame and lean body looking like that of a thirty-something instead of the fifty-something she is. She has no discernible makeup on and is actually wearing what looks to be a gray maid’s uniform. Her closely cropped hairs looks like a style invented for someone who cares far more about convenience than appearance.
I am sitting with her in a sunroom on the side of the house that leads out to the pool. It’s far warmer in the room than is comfortable for me, but Nadine seems to like it.
“Nobody understands,” she says. “Nobody lettin’ me grieve like a mother. Nobody tryin’ to help or comfort me or . . . nothin’. Trace should know better. But I know he’s too torn up inside to be thinkin’ of anyone but himself right now. And that damn dumb white trash nympho . . . actin’ like she cared for the child at all. Makes me so mad, I want to crush her skull.”
I think about all those unsung, unofficial sufferers in the world—secret lovers, caregivers, nannies, hidden friends—who are forced to mourn alone, unacknowledged, uncomforted, unknown to official family members. I think this used to be particularly true in gay relationships, though I hope that is changing.
“That little angel was all I had in this world. All.”
I nod, but don’t say anything.
Like the rest of the house, the sunroom looks to have been professionally decorated by someone with a big budget told that when they think they’ve gone too gaudy and ostentatious, go a little more. Much of what’s in here clashes and though it looks like it cost a lot of money, it looks like that was the only goal.
Nadine notices me looking around the room.
“All this,” she says, stretching her hand out like a gameshow assistant. “Can’t protect you when a thief comes knocking. Grim Reaper don’t care what your address is or how big or small your house is, does he?”
“He does not,” I say.
“I’ve turned in my notice,” she says. “Can’t work here anymore. Not just to keep . . . her kid. Don’t need a nanny for him no way, just a video game.”
“How did he and Mariah get along?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Didn’t interact much. She’d try to get him to play or watch her perform or something, do some typical kid stuff, but all he wanted to do was play that blasted video game. Wasn’t studying nothing but clicking buttons. When he would decide to play with her, they had to do what he wanted to do. She was a pretty good sport.”
Tears begin streaming from her eyes and she wipes them with small, crumpled tissues.
“I just can’t believe . . .”
“Who could’ve done something like this?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Can’t fathom it. No earthly idea how any human being could do that to a precious child. Nobody I know. Nobody human.”
“Nobody you know?” I ask. “Nobody who was on vacation with y’all?”
“No way. Them folks got their issues like anybody else—more than most maybe, but . . . do something like that . . . no way.”
“So you think somehow somebody got in the house and . . .”
“A sure enough monster of a man got in that house,” she says. “No other explanation.”
“How about an accident?” I say. “Then a cover-up?”
She shakes her head emphatically. “Accident, sure” she says. “Accident can happen, but not all that other stuff. Ransom note and tying the poor thing up and shoving her under her bed like that. None of them could’ve done all that. Accident happens, we call an ambulance. Simple as that.”
I nod.
We are quiet a beat.
“Did Mariah take her iPod with her on this trip?”
She lets out a little laugh. “She didn’t go to the next room without it. Was like the thing was surgically attached to her hand. Always tap-tap-tappin’ on it. Her daddy wouldn’t let her have a phone, but might as well have. She talked to everybody. Tap, tap, tap.”
“Did something happen to it while y’all were there?” I ask. “It wasn’t with her things?”
She shakes her head. “She had it when I put her to bed . . . that . . .night.”
“Can you think of what might have happened to it?”
“Well . . . Brett wanted one. Was always after his mama to get him
one, but she said that game device was enough. Said if she ever got him a second device he’d never ever look up. He was always askin’ her to borrow it. What they fought over mostly. He could’ve . . . If he didn’t take it . . . suppose her killer could have, but . . . why would he steal her iPod? Did he take anything else?”
“Not that we know of.”
“Hmm,” she says, and narrows her eyes and twists her lips in thought.
“Anything happen out of the ordinary during the vacation?” I ask.
“Not especially, no.”
“Anybody at the party act suspicious or—”
“Not that I saw, but I wasn’t around much. Took the kids upstairs pretty early and let them play.”
“Caden Stevens was there too, right?”
She nods. “He and Mariah were sweet on each other,” she says. “He hadn’t seen her video. Didn’t know or care who her daddy was. Just liked her for her. She liked him too. Made Master Brett jeal-ous. Decided he wanted to play with her then, but it was too late.”
“Did he do anything, act out in any way?”
She shakes her head. “Nah. And I kept a pretty close eye on all them. Caught Caden and Mariah kissin’. Wanted to make sure they didn’t do anything else. Kept going in her room, made ’em keep the door open. Every time I checked on them, Brett wasn’t even in there with them. He was in his room playin’ that damn computer game thing.”
“Any adults come up there that night?” I ask. “Wander up from the party?”
“A few. Say they want to check out the house. Can’t remember all of them. Some of Trace’s Atlanta friends and Ashley’s obnoxious family I think. And Irvin and Justin. I thought that was odd, ’cause they both been up and was very familiar with the house. Justin especially. He rents it, you know. Made me think he was checking up on us, making sure we were treating his property properly. But I don’t know. He talked to the kids a little while. Mostly stayed in Brett’s room with him. Probably thought the poor fella was being left out and felt sorry for him. Like I say, it was strange.”
“Did you hear anything the night of the . . . the night Mariah was killed? Anything out of the ordinary?”
“No. Would’ve gotten up and checked on it if I had.”
“Did you hear the elevator being used that night?”
She shrugs. “Think so, but can’t be sure.”
“Do you know about what time?”
“No idea. And maybe I didn’t. Don’t know for sure. Tell you what I do know . . . I think maybe I was drugged.”
“Why’s that?”
“I can’t recall a single night in my entire adult life where I slept all the way through the night. And I don’t even remember stirring. I fell asleep early, slept in later than usual, and slept hard as I can ever remember. Was like I was in coma. No tellin’ what all went on in that house that night. Whatever it was, I wasn’t conscious for it.”
35
“I’ll answer all the questions you have,” Trace says, “but just answer one for me first.”
“Okay.”
“Are you really looking for my little girl’s killer or are you just trying to build a case against me?”
We are in his music room in the back of the house.
The enormous room is filled with comfortable, expensive furniture and musical instruments, the walls covered with album cover art work, framed newspaper clippings, TV, film, and concert posters, framed publicity and live action photographs—the latter from concert stages and recording studios.
“I’m looking as hard as I can,” I say. “Gathering evidence and information. Not building a case. Not yet. Not against you or anyone else. Just searching for the truth, looking for the killer, whoever he or she may be.”
“Merrill says you’re a prison chaplain too.”
I nod.
“Can you tell me why God let this happen to my little girl?”
I shake my head. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“Hope you’re a better cop than a chaplain.”
I nod.
He studies me for a long moment. “You got no words of comfort for me?”
“Do you think any words exist that could be of comfort for what you’re going through?”
“No. Guess not.”
He seems to think about that for a long moment.
In addition to his own career memorabilia, autographed pictures and album covers of other rappers hang around the room—rappers so a part of the general, wider popular culture that I recognize many of them.
“Huh,” he says. “You’re right. They ain’t invented words for shit like this. Might as well go ahead and ask your questions. You can’t comfort me, least you can do is find the fuck who took my daughter from me.”
“How did you sleep the night Mariah was killed?”
He shakes his head. “Wish I hadn’t. Wish to God I hadn’t. But . . . the best I have in years.”
“Why do you think?”
“Didn’t sleep much the night before. Too much liquor. Too much sun and beach and shit, I guess. Why?”
“Could you have been drugged?”
Tears fill his eyes. “I hope to Christ I was. Would make me feel a hell of a lot better if . . . if I wasn’t just enjoying a nice night’s sleep when my little girl was being strangled and assaulted and murdered.”
His use of the word strangled stands out to me. Does he really not know how she died or is he being intentionally obtuse to appear innocent?
“I know this is extremely difficult, but . . . what do you remember about Mariah when you found her and pulled her out from beneath the bed?”
He blinks back tears and gets a hard look on his face. Fixing his eyes on something I can’t see, he says, “How cold her skin was. How stiff her body was.”
“What else?”
He narrows his eyes and furrows his brow in thought, them grimaces, as if the thoughts seem to cause him physical pain.
“Her eyes were open,” he says. “I think she was tied up . . . but . . . a blanket was covering her.”
“How did she look before you pulled her out?” I ask.
“Like she was sleeping under her bed the way she did when she was little.”
“What about the blanket?”
“What about it?”
“Was it laid over her? Was she wrapped in it?”
“Completely wrapped. Like when she was a baby. Used to call her my little burrito.”
“Was her face covered?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure? You said it looked like she was sleeping.”
“No, wait. You’re right. She . . . It wasn’t.”
“Did you write any songs while you were at the Cape?”
He seems to think about it, then shakes his head. “Intended to, but . . . didn’t get around to it before . . .”
“Where did you keep your song journal?” I ask.
“Beside my bed like always. Why?”
“Did you move it at any time? Open it?”
“No,” he says. “Why?”
“Just trying to—”
“You’ve got a reason for asking,” he says. “What is it?”
“I know it’s frustrating,” I say, “but I can’t answer any more questions right now. I can only ask them. Please believe me. All I’m trying to do is find who killed Mariah. I have no other agenda.”
He nods and frowns.
“Someone said they read online that you always carry a quarter of a million dollars in cash,” I say. “Is that true?”
He nods. “It’s true, but I don’t think it’s online. Figured that’s why the ransom note requested that amount.”
“If it’s not online, how many people would know about it?”
His eyes widen. “Not many. Ashley. Irvin. Nadine. Maybe a few close friends. Security. Not many. Unless it got online somehow, but . . . if it did . . . it’d have to be one of them to put in on there. But I don’t think it’s there. Who said it was?”
“Do you mind if I
attend the funeral tomorrow?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Not at all. Figured that’s why you were in town.”
“How about Mariah’s grandparents and her aunt on her mother’s side? Do you have any objections to them being there?”
“Not as long as they don’t cause a scene. Tomorrow’s too important for them to make it about them. I don’t want to hear any talk about me killin’ their daughter or granddaughter ’cause I didn’t do either. I mean it. I don’t want them to ruin our last chance to honor Mariah. Can you have police or security with them to shut that shit down if they start it? If you can assure me they won’t cause a scene . . . I’ve got no problem with it.”
I nod. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’m assuming you’ve already talked to them if they told you they want to come to the funeral. That because you’re trying to gather dirt on me?”
I shake my head.
“You tryin’ to set me up?” he says “Why else talk to them? Thought you were running a real investigation, not a witch hunt.”
36
“Wonder what he’s playing at?” Deidra says.
I’ve just told her Trace said she and her parents could attend the funeral if she could assure me no one would cause a scene.
“It’s so funny he’d talk about us causing a scene—that’s what I mean about him. He often says the opposite of what’s really true. It’s surreal. He’s confronted us, yelled at us, caused any number of scenes in some very public and inappropriate places, but we never have and never would. Our family is not the make-a-scene kind of people. My parents are very reserved. Just makes me wonder what he’s up to. Guess it doesn’t matter as long as we get to be there for Mariah—unless he plans to use it to hurt or injure my folks in some way. I know. I know. It sounds paranoid, but I promise it’s not. Anyway, thank you. Thank you so much for making this possible. I feel like I need to do something for you.”
“Not at all. I just asked.”
“At least let me take you to dinner tonight,” she says. “Once a week, I take a different one of the Myra House women out to dinner. Try to get them out of the house, back used to living a little. . . some sense of normalcy. That sort of thing. Sandy, the young woman I’m taking tonight requested we go for a late dinner at Landmark Diner. She wants a juicy cheeseburger and the biggest slice of coconut cake in the metro area. Do you have plans? Would you like you join us?”
Blood Ties (John Jordan Mysteries Book 16) Page 13
