by Camryn King
“Leave.”
“Okay.”
Mallory held her composure until back in her car and on the way to Brooklyn. Once on the highway she let out a scream of victory and relief. Back home she uploaded the pictures from the phone to her laptop, where they could be enlarged and read quickly. Her eyes stayed glued to the screen as some of the answers she’d searched for slapped her in the face.
Leigh was pregnant at the time she died.
19
The mystery consumed her. Who fathered Leigh’s baby? Who ended her life? Early on Mallory had honed in on Christian, but the more she got to know him the less likely he seemed. In Philadelphia, she’d watched his easy interaction with friends and fans, making them feel special just by being around him. His passion for the foundation and the communities it served seemed genuine. Why would a man who obviously loved children not want one of his own? Was it Isaac Bankole, the shady accountant with a record, named as a person of interest in another murder case? Randall DuBois, the ambitious politician who seemed to have the most to lose? The musician, whom she now knew was named Josh Weir? The last guy on the list who continued to elude them? What if the answer was none of the above?
Mallory spent the weekend at home, online, revisiting websites, reviewing the information she’d compiled for the umpteenth time. That’s when she saw it—Anthony Wang.
The only officer who wasn’t convinced Leigh’s death was suicide.
The force of the memory stood Mallory straight up. She raced to her file cabinet and the accordion folder filled with every business card she’d received for the past few years. Her fingers flew across the tabs and came to rest on W. Collecting the cards scattered haphazardly in the pocket, Mallory remembered the short, intense man who’d approached her on the sidewalk outside Leigh’s apartment, moments after she’d seen her best friend naked and dead.
“Detective Wang,” he’d said, almost brusquely while handing her his card. “Call me.”
Mallory had been in shock then, but a month or so later, she’d called the number on the card. It went to voicemail. She’d left a message. He’d never called back. Mallory immediately called the number. She got voicemail again.
“Hi, Detective Wang, this is Mallory Knight. We met a while ago at a crime scene. You gave me your card. The victim was Leigh Jackson. Her death was ruled a suicide. I think she was murdered. Maybe you do, too. Either way, please call me.” Mallory left her cell number. Now she’d have to wait.
Meanwhile, she put Bankole’s name in the search engine, learned that he’d been questioned and cleared. Sam was on mommy duty, but Mallory called Ava, who joined her to commiserate. They believed that if they figured out who Leigh was seeing and who fathered the baby, they’d know who killed her.
Mallory rose on Monday with the dawn, determined to gather enough evidence to turn over to police and force them to reopen the case they’d closed. To add pressure, she planned to present the same evidence to Charlie and do a column on Leigh—the beautiful woman, loyal friend, excellent reporter—and her untimely demise, to keep her name in the news, her face in the public eye. For any of that to happen, she needed facts. So she donned latex gloves, removed the water bottle from the freezer, and carefully cut it in half. She trusted Johnny, her Baltimore connection with access to DNA labs and more, but she didn’t want to take any chances on losing the only potential link she had between Leigh and Christian. She left for work, but before going to the office she stopped to have the package overnighted, then walked the four blocks to her office in order to make some calls. The first one was to Baltimore.
“Hey, Johnny. Mallory. Remember what I asked you awhile back about having something tested for DNA? Well, I just overnighted you a package. How quickly can you get it back to me?”
Mallory winced at the answer. “A month? Why so long?”
She smiled at Johnny’s answer. A month was a very quick turnaround. Testing routinely took six months or more. Further, unless the DNA belonged to someone already in the system, there was no way the identity of said person could be confirmed. This wasn’t news to Mallory. She already knew that without probable cause one could not be made to submit their DNA to the authorities. With Christian’s money he likely had the MVP of law firms already. Getting him to provide a sample in connection with a pregnancy terminated by murder would be no easy feat. But nothing about this situation had been easy. So far, somehow, Mallory had made a way.
It was hard to focus on work, so after two unproductive hours and being annoyed by the presence of the other two reporters who shared the office, Mallory gathered her things, hit the street, and called Charlie. She got voicemail and left a message.
“Hey, boss. I have an appointment at Christian’s Kids for the last column in this series. Headed out to Harlem, and after that I would like to work from home. If that’s a problem, please call me back. Also have ideas for the coming months that I’d like to run past you. Will be back in tomorrow. Thanks.”
Mallory hopped down the subway stairs and took the train to Harlem. For the fourth and final column on Christian’s Kids she wanted to interview Brandon’s sister, Harmony. As she neared the stairs to exit the subway, a lone figure with a familiar face traipsed down them.
“Harmony?”
The girl looked up but said nothing. She didn’t smile, either.
“You’re Harmony, right?”
“Who are you?” Harmony continued down the stairs.
Mallory followed. She reached for her business card in the side pocket of her purse. “I’m Mallory Knight, with New York News. I’ve been writing articles about the center and interviewing people who work there and students like you in their after-school and summer programs. Last week’s article was about the math and science component of the program. I interviewed Justin. You know him?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s a whiz at math and science, which I think is really cool. Not what you always think of when you see a young man like him.”
Harmony looked as though she couldn’t have cared less.
Mallory looked at her watch. “Why aren’t you in school?”
“I wasn’t feeling well.”
“So you were headed home?” Harmony nodded. “That’s a shame. I was headed to the center to ask where I could find you.”
“Me? Why?”
“Because Emma told me you were into horticulture, and that you were really good at it.”
A sparkle of interest, at least direct eye contact. Good. Progress!
“I bought a planter for my windowsill one time. The only thing I grew was mud.”
A smile. Mallory had an idea she knew how Christian felt when he scored a three-pointer.
“So I was hoping to interview you, maybe even get you to help me grow something. Would you like that?”
“I guess.”
“Perhaps I can take the train with you and speak with your mother, see if it would be okay to interview you, maybe go grab a burger and talk.”
“Mama’s at work.”
“And you’re not feeling well.”
“I feel okay. Just bored at school.”
Not a good reason to lie, but Mallory chose not to die on that hill. She stayed focused on what mattered the most to her right now.
“Do you think she’d mind you speaking with me?” Harmony shrugged. “Do you want to talk with me? Look, I’d really like to find out your secrets for planting a seed and actually having something come up, but I don’t want to force it. There are other kids that I can talk to, so . . .”
“I can help you.”
“Are you sure?” Another nod. “Great, but first I need to get your mom’s permission. What’s her name?”
“Karen.”
“Can you call her?”
Karen was obviously busy. The conversation was brief, but she gave Mallory the okay to interview Harmony.
“I know a great burger place. A hole in the wall that is one of Harlem’s most well-kept secrets.”
Twenty
minutes later, Mallory and Harmony sat in a booth at an old-school diner with burgers served on paper placed in red plastic bowls. A large order of fries sat on the table between them with separate miniature ketchup cups for dipping beside each plate.
“You ever eaten here before?”
Harmony shook her head as she took a big bite.
“Was I kidding about it being the best burger ever?”
“No.” Harmony licked her fingers before reaching toward a silver holder for a couple of napkins. “It’s really good.”
“It’s my favorite. I’m glad you like it.” Mallory pulled out her recorder. “Instead of asking you a series of questions, we can just keep talking like this, natural, and I’ll pull out the good stuff. Okay?”
Harmony nodded.
“You don’t talk much, huh?”
“I talk, but . . . not a lot, I guess.”
“Probably doesn’t help that I’m a stranger. I promise, I don’t bite. I can’t imagine there are a lot of gardens in your neighborhood, so how did you become interested in growing your own food?”
“I saw this show on TV where they used an egg carton as a planter to grow stuff. They put a couple seeds in each of the pockets, you know, where the eggs go?” Mallory nodded. “And then they showed the results from a month or so later and the seeds had sprouted. I ran to my mom and asked if I could do it and she said yes.”
Mallory had no problems getting Harmony to talk after that. Immersed in her world of germination and harvest, the girl’s personality came through. There was pride mixed with awe as she spoke of the rooftop garden she’d started in her building and the plans for others. She became animated and lively, and gave Mallory more than enough to put together a great article likening the children to those seeds. When planted in good soil, they will grow.
A great article, however, wasn’t her main reason for speaking with Harmony. Mallory wanted to know more about Brandon. But she had to be careful and let a conversation about him unfold organically. To do that, Mallory needed more time. As they finished their meal and headed back to the subway, she moved on to part two of her plan.
“You’ve got me ready to try my windowsill garden again. But I don’t have a green thumb like you.”
“Anybody can plant a garden.”
“Girl, the last plant I had was plastic and I killed it, okay? I’m really bad.” The comments got the laughter Mallory hoped for. “Perhaps we could visit a garden store together. You could help me choose the right materials for making my windowsill garden grow.”
“Sure.”
“What about this Saturday? Or will you be at the center?”
“I can go.”
“Tell you what. To make it easier, I’ll pick you up at your home and take you back. If you give me a phone number I’ll also clear this with your mom.”
“Okay.”
Mallory woke up on Saturday and dubbed it “Leigh’s Day.” It began in Queens at the Bankole’s office. Something about him rubbed her the wrong way immediately. His small, beady eyes and inflated ego. The comment he made when she mentioned Leigh’s death. “A shame all of that beauty is now covered with dirt.” Not that Mallory would dismiss the possibility that she was being overly sensitive. When it came to those around her at the time of her death, and who hastened her to it, their status was guilty until proven innocent.
Rather than respond to his tasteless comment she asked, “How long was she your client?”
“I don’t discuss client business. That’s confidential.”
“Of course. I wasn’t asking for specifics, just curious. She mentioned you a time or two.”
His eyes narrowed. Mallory held her breath. The comment was totally bogus, an attempt to try and get him to open up.
“She is the reason why I called your office.”
“Then let’s discuss your financial planning needs and how I can help.”
The visit was totally fruitless, not even a cup in sight that she could pilfer to check DNA. Mallory left his office without any evidence to either confirm or eliminate the financial consultant in Leigh’s murder. But if first impressions meant anything, Bankole looked like a man who could kill or at the very least, order the hit.
Harmony’s family lived in Jamaica, Queens, about fifteen minutes by car from his office. Mallory pulled up in front of a brick high-rise that took up the block. Not sure where Harmony would exit, Malory pulled up to an entrance with a number and texted it to her. More than ten minutes passed before Harmony strolled up to where Mallory sat parked and surfing the web. The animated Harmony that she’d left at the subway platform was gone. The quieter, more introspective child had returned.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah.”
Mallory wasn’t sure about that. She eased into a line of questions to find out more. “Was your mom home?”
“No.”
“I was hoping to meet her. I’d imagine she works a lot. New York is expensive, especially if she is a single mother.”
Harmony looked out the window.
So much for finding out if there was a dad in the house. “Do you have brothers and sisters, or is it just you?”
“A brother.”
“Older or younger?”
“Younger.”
“Does he attend the center also? I may have talked with him.”
“He does but . . . not lately.”
“Oh, okay.”
Mallory knew from the carefully crafted answers that there’d be no getting information about Brandon from Harmony. So for the next two hours she took off her investigative journalist hat and put on the big sister role. They arrived at a large home and garden store. The livelier kid returned, and among other tidbits Mallory learned that Harmony’s favorite celebrity was Rihanna, her favorite color was blue, and Mallory’s first offering, the hamburger, was her favorite food. After a gentle inquiry about Brandon, Harmony revealed that her brother had been sick, but was better. When asked about her father Harmony became quiet, then said simply, “He’s out of town.”
It was just after five o’clock when they pulled back up in front of Harmony’s building.
“Harmony, I’ve got a big favor to ask you.”
“What?”
“Can I use your restroom? I don’t know why I didn’t before leaving the house, and I’m not sure I can make it back.”
“Um, yeah, okay.”
“Thank you!”
Mallory pulled into a space about a half a block down. Though early evening it was almost dark, and the streets were fairly empty. As she looked around, the block reminded her of the one Christian’s satellite building was on in North Philly. The people had the same energy, too. Head aimed downward. Eyes alert but no eye contact. Everyone minding their business, alone in a city of millions.
They entered the building and took an elevator to the fifth floor. Harmony pulled out a key as they neared a door midway down the hall.
“Our house is a little dirty, but . . .”
“It’s okay. As long as you have a toilet, I’m good!”
They went inside. Mallory had hoped to see Brandon, and she was not disappointed. He half sat, half lay on a couch in the living room watching TV.
“Hi, Brandon.”
His mumbled response was barely audible. Having come in on the ruse of having to pee, she let it be and turned to Harmony.
“Where’s your bathroom?”
“I’ll show you.”
They headed down a short hallway. The bathroom was to the left. Mallory made quick work of a forced pee, wiped her hands on her jeans with no hand towel present, and headed out of the bathroom for a second attempt with Brandon. What she saw in the room across the hall from the bathroom pushed that thought right out of her mind. Hanging on the wall was a gold metal sculpture in the shape of a jigsaw puzzle . . . with one missing piece.
20
The vision knocked Mallory against the wall and then pulled her forward like a magnet. Am I really seeing what I think I�
�m seeing? Her eyes never left the sculpture as she walked forward. It was the only thing she saw in the room. She stood before it, staring at the space for the missing piece and tried to visualize the one on her fireplace mantel. There’s no way that piece fit into this puzzle. Was there? She took a step closer, placed a finger on the gold metal, and traced the empty space. Smooth. Cool. Just like the piece that belonged to Leigh.
Take a picture.
She hurriedly pulled out her cell phone and snapped several pictures from different angles. Leaning in, she worked to get as clear a picture as she could of the space where a missing piece would go. Just a little more to the left.
“What are you doing?”
If she hadn’t already gone only moments before, Mallory would have peed her pants. Instead she jumped, almost out of her skin. Her phone fell out of her hand and skidded across the carpet, stopping at the feet of a woman who looked none too pleased.
She picked up Mallory’s phone and marched over. “Who the hell are you, and why are you in my room?”
“I’m so sorry.” Mallory struggled to pull out her business card holder. “You must be Karen. I’m Mallory Knight with New York News.” Karen took the card, but her eyes remained on Mallory. “We talked, earlier this week. I’m doing the piece on Harmony and her urban gardens.”
“Ain’t no damn garden in here, in my Got damn bedroom!”
“I had to use the bathroom, and Harmony was kind enough to let me come in. I was headed out when I saw this piece.” She motioned toward the sculpture. “I love unique stuff like that and . . . I wasn’t even thinking. It just drew me in. I took a couple pictures of it to try and find one for myself online. You can check my phone. The only pictures I took are of the sculpture.” For the first time, Mallory glanced around the room and saw the disarray. Clothing, jewelry, magazines, and more were strewn across an unmade catchall bed. Opened closet doors revealed clothes haphazardly placed on hangers, piled in overflowing baskets and across the floor. The nightstand beside the bed was equally overloaded, with a partially opened pizza box perched between it and the bed. Mallory was suddenly embarrassed to have entered the woman’s bedroom. She had totally overstepped her bounds.
