by Mike Nappa
“All right. First let’s talk about that street magician.”
“The Raven. What you want to know?”
“Well, I saw him last night. He broke into your warehouse, but he never came out.”
She raised her eyebrows in the direction of Darrent, who shrugged in response. The truth on this one, then, she decided. “We caught him coming in,” she said. “We talked some sense into him. He was just looking for a quick score, I guess. Said something about owing people money.”
“Who does he owe?”
“Samuel, I’m not the boy’s mother. How would I know who he owes? Maybe you should talk to him directly.”
“All right, Mama.”
“Tell you what,” she said, “you can come here to talk to him if you want. He’ll be working the night shift for me until Donnell gets back on his feet.”
“You gave him a job?”
“He don’t seem like a bad kid, Samuel. I figured he could use a second chance. And I suddenly needed a security guard.”
Samuel chuckled. “Always trying to change the world, aren’t you, Mama?”
“Well”—she let a smile appear in her voice—“you can’t do it alone, now, can you, Samuel?”
“All right. What about Nevermore? Have you heard anything new?”
“Nothing, Samuel. I still think it’s just a hoax, but you got to do what you got to do.”
“Funny thing,” he said. “There’s a political fundraiser coming up for Max Roman. And there’s a charity auction as part of the event. Mama, it looks like you donated a rare copy of an antique magazine with that Edgar Allan Poe poem ‘The Raven’ in it.”
“What you trying to say, Samuel?”
“Well, it seems unusual that you’d be involved in politics in the first place, and that you’d be contributing the poem that made Nevermore famous to Max’s campaign. And now you’ve hired a guy who actually goes by the name The Raven. It just feels odd.”
“Samuel. You thinking Mama Bliss is your Nevermore problem?”
“No, Mama. Of course not. Like I said, I’m just trying to rule out things that need to be ruled out.”
Play this right, sis, she told herself, and maybe you can save Samuel Hill’s life. She sighed. “All right, Samuel. As for the street magician, I got no control over what he calls himself. I’m just trying to help a young man stay out of trouble and get his life right.”
“I understand, Mama. What about that Nevermore antique?”
She sighed again. “Well, if I’d known it was going to be used for a political fundraiser, I never would have given up my own personal copy of the 1845 issue of the New York Evening Mirror. I bought it for myself and planned to keep it for myself. But you know I’m on the board of directors for the Atlanta Society for Literary Arts?”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Oh, well now you do. Anyway, Geneva Sims came ’round telling me it was my turn to head up the annual charity auction, and gosh, wouldn’t it be nice if I donated something really special to this year’s auction and blah blah blah. So I gave in and donated the Poe magazine. I thought it might be a treat for somebody, and I’m getting older anyway. What am I going to do with a fragile collectible when I’m dead?”
“So you’re actually heading up the fundraiser?”
“No, Samuel. You’re a detective. Maybe you should listen when I’m talking to you. I’m heading up the charity auction for ASLA this year. That means I coordinated the auction lots and I’m handling the entertainment, mostly. But after we got the auction scheduled and moving, Geneva had this harebrained idea that we should invite Max Roman as our keynote speaker. Well, then Max’s people suggested that we combine our auction with his fundraiser, and next thing you know, I’m outvoted at the board meeting and suddenly my charity auction has become a ‘combination event.’ Now we have this foolish political fundraiser first, with Max Roman speaking, and then my charity auction afterward.”
“That’s a strange combination. How do they keep straight who gets the money?”
Bliss looked at the phone as if Samuel was speaking Chinese. “I’m no accountant, Samuel,” she said with a snort. “I just donated something to the Atlanta Society for Literary Arts. They’ve got suits who figure out money.”
“Right, sure. And the antique magazine?”
“Well, I’d already donated it before the whole political thing was added on. I couldn’t exactly ask for it back, could I?”
“No, Mama, you couldn’t.”
“That answer your questions, Samuel?”
“Yes, Mama. Thanks. Glad to be able to rule out the Secret Stash.”
Inside, she felt relieved. Time for the misdirection, she thought.
“Samuel, here’s one little thing,” she said casually. “I don’t expect that it means anything, but I thought you’d want to know about it. The Edgar Awards are coming to Georgia on April 28.”
“What’s that?”
“Book awards named after Edgar Allan Poe. Usually in New York City, but this year they’re having them in Athens. Probably nothing, but I’ll send over the ad I saw so you can check it out.”
Now, the final step.
“Hold on just a minute,” she said, interrupting herself. She pretended to speak to the door. “What is it?” Then, “One second. Samuel, Darrent just walked into my office, and he says he’s got something for you. Want me to put him on?”
“Sure, Mama. Thanks.”
Darrent strode over to the desk, leaning toward the speakerphone and playing along. “He’s on the phone right now?” he said as if Mama had just told him. “Hello, Detective Hill?”
“Hi, Darrent. And, as always, you can call me Samuel.”
“Thanks, Detective. I think I may have good news for you.”
One Week Ago . . .
33
Trudi
Atlanta, GA
Downtown
Friday, April 7, 11:04 a.m.
7 days to Nevermore
“Not another one.”
If not for the constant interruptions, Trudi Coffey would’ve almost liked seeing the way her ex-husband squirmed with every new “contestant” that came by. But this was supposed to be business, and they probably had better things to do than sit in the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton hotel sipping espresso and waiting for a gang member to walk by.
She barely listened while the latest crooner tried to impress her ex-husband with his shaky rendition of a Sinatra ballad and watched with disinterest as Samuel nodded politely and then sent him away. This was starting to get old.
Trudi and Samuel had arrived at the Ritz-Carlton in time for brunch. Samuel had led her directly to Jittery Joe’s Coffee Bar in the lobby, where he’d been greeted like an old friend by the perky brunette barista behind the counter. “The usual?” the brunette had said, and in response Samuel had gone ahead and ordered for Trudi, as well.
“Two today,” he said, smiling.
Trudi thought the girl might have blushed a little, and Trudi grudgingly admitted it was kind of cute on her. For once, she wasn’t jealous of a random beauty flirting with her ex-husband. That was progress, she decided. She smiled at the barista, as well, and was pleased to see the favor returned.
By ten-fifteen she and Samuel were seated on plush chairs atop a marble floor, sipping Jittery Joe’s signature coffee drink. The White Orchid was an iced espresso made with cold half-and-half cream and a hint of vanilla syrup, shaken and then poured over ice. Trudi had to admit it was pretty good. She could get used to this kind of life.
The first contestant had shown up around a quarter to eleven, sliding in conspiratorially to greet them. She was a local girl dressed in a Jamaican style that didn’t quite match her deeply southern accent. Boy, was she glad to happen across Mr. Hill today, she said. Then, without much more by way of introduction, she swept herself into a soulful rendition of a classic Beyoncé hit. Samuel took it in stride, but Trudi could tell he was obviously confused by the impromptu concert.
&n
bsp; “Here’s my name and number,” the girl had said, handing over a napkin. “Now I’ll let you get back to yourselves. Thanks for the opportunity!”
“Well,” Trudi had said, “that’s an interesting way to hit on a handsome man.”
“I don’t think she was hitting on me,” Samuel said, turning over the slip of paper. It did indeed have the girl’s name—Crystal Jones—and her phone number, as well as an email address, but it also included a little note that read, I just love America’s Favorite Artist!
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he’d asked.
Trudi shrugged.
Samuel had tried to talk the next two girls out of singing, but no matter what he said, they didn’t believe him. “They said you’d say that.” The contestants would wink conspiratorially. “And that you’re just testing to see how much we really want it.”
Then they’d broken into song, despite his protests. After the fifth audition—that time it was an aspiring young comedian just getting off from working the morning shift as a bellman in the lobby—Samuel had started to go with it, nodding, pretending to listen. Trudi had to stifle a laugh when she heard him tell one would-be vocalist, “That was a little pitchy but had some good moments. We’ll be in touch.”
Every time it seemed like it was over, someone new would come trotting up, ready to launch into an a cappella version of the latest pop hit or classic Broadway song or, occasionally, a stand-up comedy routine. Trudi had finally provided a yellow legal pad, and people started leaving their names and contact information with Samuel there, as well.
Fortunately, there were breaks in the auditions, and it was during those breaks that Trudi and Samuel had tried to get some business done.
“Tell me again why we’re here,” she said to Samuel.
“Because I want Andrew Carr to see me watching him. I want him to know I’ve got eyes on him, and if he tries to disappear again, I will find him.”
“But why wait here? Why not wait back by the workers’ entrance?”
“Because I like it out here.” Samuel smiled and spread his arms wide. “It’s nice. Civilized. Makes me feel happy, and like there’s still hope for an old, washed-up spy like me.” He sipped his espresso contentedly. “So I told Mr. Carr I expected to see him walk through this lobby every day at eleven o’clock in the morning on his way to work in the catering kitchen, and if I didn’t, he’d find himself on the wrong end of an APB with my signature at the bottom.”
“Is that all you threatened him with?”
Samuel shrugged and gave her a look that reminded her of a teen caught stealing the keys to his dad’s sports car.
“Right. So you’ve been here every day this week?”
“Yep.”
Trudi let that ruminate. According to Samuel, Mama Bliss had been the one to find Andrew Carr for him. After Carr and a few other Kipo gang members had been arrested in a gun-smuggling raid, Carr had been the informant to first bring the Nevermore plot to light. Then someone had unexpectedly posted bail for him—but not the others. They said it was an uncle, or some other relative, who put up the money, but after Carr had left the penitentiary, he had disappeared. No one had thought to notify Samuel that his prime informant was being released, something that had infuriated her ex-husband. He’d turned to Mama Bliss for help, and she’d gotten involved, doing her old friend a favor by working her network to find the lost gang member.
A week ago, they’d found him.
Well, Mama’s right-hand man, Darrent Hayes, had found him.
Apparently Carr had gone to visit an aunt somewhere in rural north Georgia while his family in Atlanta pulled some strings to try and get him a job working in the catering kitchen at the Ritz. He’d come back last week to take the new job, to turn over a new leaf, he said, and start a new life. He was done with gangs and guns and all that, he said. By all measures, he was cooperating with authorities in the gun-smuggling bust—except that he’d now changed his tune about Nevermore. That also was a frustration for Samuel, and it was a problem he was determined to solve. Samuel’s voice interrupted her train of thought.
“Mr. Carr, surprisingly, has been as good as his word. In fact”—he nodded toward a handsome young man with dark skin and hair braided into stylish, neat cornrows—“there he is now.”
Samuel lifted his espresso and motioned toward the young man, who nodded grimly in return. After getting Samuel’s acknowledgment, Andrew Carr turned and sped through the lobby toward the catering kitchen of the hotel. Apparently he was running late today.
“So that’s your informant for the Nevermore case. And he says Nevermore is just a joke he made up to get out of jail, is that right?”
“He’s lying.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I think he might be lying.”
“Samuel, you’re not a mind reader.”
“No, I’m not. Apparently I’m a talent agent and TV producer, secretly hunting for contestants to appear on the next season of my hit show.” He sat up straighter as a new contestant approached.
He’s actually enjoying this, she thought.
This contestant was a little older than some of the others, which Trudi appreciated. She also liked that this girl was here to sing, not to flirt with Samuel in hopes of somehow improving her chances of making AFA.
“Somewhere over the rainbow . . .”
Nice, Trudi thought in spite of herself. Clear, rich vocal tone. She’d do great on national TV. Too bad Samuel can’t give that to her.
“You have a lovely voice,” Samuel said to the current singer.
“Thank you.” The girl had a shyness about her that was appealing. Humble. Trudi liked that too.
“Leave your name and contact information here,” Samuel said, pointing to the yellow legal pad. “If a spot opens up, I’ll be sure to mention your name. But the competition is fierce. You understand very few people actually make the show, right?”
“Right, yes, sir,” she said. “Thank you for the opportunity. Hopefully I’ll hear from you next season.” She smiled and shook his hand and walked away with a bounce in her step.
He shook his head. “That one deserves it,” he said.
“How would you know?” Trudi laughed. “You’re not really a producer for America’s Favorite Artist. You have nothing to do with auditions for that TV show.”
“I know. Of course I know that,” he said. “But we’ve had, what, a dozen or so people come up and tell us they want to audition, right? Somebody in this hotel keeps telling them that I’m a producer, here to secretly pick new contestants for AFA. A practical joker is out there, I get it. Hotel staffs have warped senses of humor. Someone has probably seen me here all week and decided to have a little fun at my expense. Regardless, of all the people we’ve heard today, that girl is the best. It doesn’t take a music producer to notice that.”
“Point taken,” Trudi said. When he was right, he was right.
“And besides, I know people. And people I know also know people. Maybe I can get”—he paused to glance at the yellow pad—“Miyasa Nichols an audition for America’s Favorite Artist, after all. You never know, right?”
Trudi laughed in spite of herself. “Samuel Hill,” she said, “if anybody can do that, you can.”
He grinned and held up his empty cup. “Want another?”
“No, thanks.” Trudi already felt the caffeine tickling her nervous system. “You go ahead.”
“Maybe I’ll wait a little bit,” he said.
There was something about the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton, she decided, that did look good on him. He was relaxed, open. A lot like the guy who’d swept her off her feet back in those halcyon college days when they first started dating. She liked that guy. Loved him, really. She wondered why she could never stop loving him.
“Anyway,” he was saying, “it just feels like Andrew Carr is lying to me now. My gut says he was telling the truth then and is lying now.”
“Hunches can be wrong, you know.”
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“My hunches are never wrong. Well, almost never. Mostly never.” He sighed.
Trudi didn’t know how to argue that point.
“Plus,” he said, “is it just a coincidence that Mr. Carr suddenly has a ‘rehabilitation’ job at the same location as Max Roman’s upcoming fundraiser on April 14?”
“Honestly? It could be. The Ritz does run a second-chance program to help kids get out of gangs by giving them jobs.”
“You just want to go on a Hawaiian vacation tomorrow,” he teased.
“An island vacation does sound wonderful,” she said slowly. To herself she added, A Hawaiian getaway with you, just the two of us, actually sounds great. Like good times we should’ve had but didn’t. But she refused to say that out loud. Of course, the fact that they even had a Hawaiian diversion as an option lent some credence to Samuel’s theory that Andrew Carr might be lying. Still . . .
“Samuel,” she said, “have you considered that maybe you think Andrew Carr is lying because you want him to be lying? Eulalie would call that a reality distortion to fit your personal narrative.”
“You and your assistant should do more detective work and less psychology homework.”
Yeah, that’s probably true. “Let’s look at the facts, Samuel. Just the facts. What do they tell us?”
He sighed again.
“Okay, maybe you’re right,” he said at last. “And maybe Mama Bliss is right. At this point, all facts seem to indicate that Nevermore is just a myth. If I tried to convince my captain to station SWAT at the fundraiser based on the circumstantial evidence I’ve got right now, he’d probably kick me out of his office. I just can’t seem to shake the feeling that I’m missing something, though.”
“Well, the Hawaii trip is suspicious.” Why am I trying to encourage him?
“Yeah. The thing is, this Hawaiian vacation could be legit too. I’ve made some enemies in my life, sure. But there are some folks out there who love me as much as my enemies hate me, some folks who are grateful I’ve got enemies. Grateful people are sometimes extravagant.”
Trudi had to admit that was a possibility. She started thinking out loud. “So Mama Bliss, she’s all cleared as far as you’re concerned?” she said. Samuel had told Trudi of his conversation with Mama about The Raven and the antique edition of the New York Evening Mirror. It all made sense, but it also left them back at square one.
