by V. M. Burns
I expected anger, indignation, anything but what I got, which was laughter. When they finally got control enough to talk, one of them told me about Taz’s threat. Apparently, in their world, his threat was more frightening than mine. I was even more surprised when Tiny, a three-hundred-pound delinquent who sounded like he had a mouth full of marbles, told me Mama B and her house were declared Switzerland. In St. Joe, declaring someone or something Switzerland meant neutral ground. Mama B was off limits. Anyone touching her would be hit hard from all sides.
Tiny mumbled, “Man, between the T-Devils, the RZs, and all the minor leaguers, plus the cops, Mama B is safer than the president of the United States.”
I wanted to believe I could keep my loved ones safe, but I knew the streets. If these hoods wanted to take her out, they could do it before anyone could dial 911. Looking in their eyes, I saw they cared about Mama B too in their own way. She was the glue that linked us together.
“You still feed all the thugs in St. Joe?” I asked. “For a church-going woman, you hang out with some of the lowest scum in the city.”
“Dem boys ain’t a bit more dangerous than I am. Two of them came over yesterday and fixed my washing machine.”
“Did you check your silverware after they left?”
“Pshaw. They ain’t never stole nothing—not from me, anyway. B’sides, I ain’t got nothin’ worth stealing. They got more gold, silver, and diamonds in their mouths than I ever seen in my life. That cross-eyed boy they call ‘Doc’ came by here one day, and I had my teeth out. He pulled out his plate. That thing had so much gold, it, ’bout blinded me. I think he called it a stove.”
I sputtered. “I believe they call it a ‘grill.’ ”
Mama B continued to rock. “Well, I knew it was something you cooked on.”
She was tickled by kids buying what she considered false teeth. I sat amazed thinking how this sixty-year-old woman hung out with more hoodlums than some of my fellow police officers.
“So you just eat your Cleveland food,” she said. “What you got to do in Cleveland anyway?”
“I’m going to talk to Thomas Warrendale’s wife.”
“I still don’t believe that little fancy pants boy was married. What kind of woman would marry someone like that?”
“There’s someone for everyone, I’m told.”
Mama B smiled and rocked on. After a while she added, “Two weeks ago there was this strange woman that came to church. We’ve had so many new people, I wouldn’t have really noticed, ’cept I saw Fancy Boy look out, and I’d swear he turned white as a sheet.”
“Did you notice anything special about her?”
“She didn’t belong here. Her clothes were too nice, too expensive. She looked too sophisticated. She had on more makeup than a prostitute.”
“How would you know how much makeup prostitutes wear?”
Mama B could not have looked more serious as she said, “Baby, I do have cable.”
It took me a few seconds to get myself together after that one. But eventually, I was able to follow up. “Did you see them talkin’? Warrendale and … the woman?”
“No. But now you mention it, I did think it was strange because he left during the sermon. The choir was supposed to sing one more song during the invitational, but he wasn’t there, so they just sang a congregational hymn instead.”
“Are you sure?”
“I may be old, but I’m still in my right mind, thank you very much.” The gleam in her eye told me she wasn’t really offended. The smirk on her face told me she was pleased to have passed on information I didn’t already know.
“I know you’re sane. But I still have to verify all the facts.”
“So that little namby-pamby mama’s boy was married,” Mama B mused. “Did his wife kill him?”
“Don’t know yet. Maybe. I’ll know more after I talk to her. Speaking of talking … I talked to your hairdresser, Paris Williams. How long have you known her?”
“About three months. Don’t tell me you believed those lies Moe Chapman was spreading. You’re too smart to suspect Paris of killing that little weasel.”
“Harley checked out her alibi. She was in Indianapolis all day Saturday and Sunday. It’s possible she made the three-hour drive back but not likely. The times don’t line up. She’s not off the list yet, but she’s not near the top. I was just wondering how well you know her. I mean, for example is she … uh, well, is she married?”
I was making a real mess of this. During normal circumstances, Mama B could read me like a book. With me stuttering and sweating like a pig, she was reading my mind loud and clear.
“She ain’t married. Shame before God, but she’s single, ’bout your age too.” Mama B had the slightest smile on her face. “Paris is a nice woman, best hairdresser I’ve ever had. Smart too. She’s got two salons.”
“Did she tell you her suspicions about the embezzlement?”
“Not in so many words, but she heard Mrs. Green talking about you being a policeman and asked if I’d see if you could drop by sometime. She didn’t want any rumors until she was sure. She made me swear on my life I wouldn’t mention anything to anyone but you. You think that has something to do with his death?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Is Paris in any danger?”
Mama B was very good at getting to the heart of the situation. She’d made the leap I’d been avoiding ever since I heard about the break-in at Starling and Schuck. Whatever Thomas Warrendale was involved in most likely got him killed. That might mean not only Paris but also Reverend Hamilton might be in danger. I wanted to lie, but I knew she’d see right through me.
“Probably not, but I’ll check up on her anyway.” Did I sound casual enough? From Mama B’s smirk, I’d say that was a no. But she just smiled and kept on rocking.
Chapter Six
St. Joe’s airport was the size of a large shopping mall but serviced the Greater St. Joseph Metropolitan Area. The biggest usage was from the University. St. Joe was the home of the prestigious Saint Mary Catholic University, or SMACU, as the locals called it. So, unless it was the beginning or the end of term, parking and check-in were not even close to the harried, stressful experiences one had in large urban areas.
Harley had just stepped up to the counter when I arrived. To the dismay of those standing in line, I joined him. We showed our shields to the ticket agent, who cut his spiel short and moved us right on through to screening. Our shields got us around rather than through the metal detectors. Two armed men setting off the metal detector would frighten the passengers. However, after September eleventh, airlines (and passengers too) have appreciated armed police on airplanes.
The trip from St. Joe to Cleveland took less than an hour. Detective Carl Hastings met us at Hopkins airport. Bald, and maybe five feet tall, Detective Hastings was just about as wide. His girth took up a substantial portion of the front seat, while paper, receipts, pop cans, and miscellaneous debris covered most of the backseat of a bright orange 1970s Volkswagen Beetle. With Hastings’ girth and Harley’s and my height, it was a tight ride. When we pulled up in front of the Warren house, I found it difficult not to think of circus clowns piling out of a trick car.
“I was one of the detectives who told Mrs. Warren about her husband’s death,” Detective Hastings told us as we walked up the drive to the front door. “She’s one cold fish. No tears. No hysterics. Just wanted to know when his belongings would be shipped back. If she didn’t have an iron-clad alibi, I’d think she had something to do with the murder.”
Harley beat me to the punch. “You checked?”
“She was lying on an operating table having her appendix removed.”
“That is a good alibi,” Harley said.
“They let her go the next day—”
“That’s pretty quick, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Doc said they normally keep people twenty-four to forty-eight hours, but she insisted on going home. Irregardless, he assured me there wa
s no way she would have been in any shape to make the trip to St. Joe, kill her husband, and get back in less than twenty-four hours.”
I stopped listening after he said irregardless. It’s one of my pet peeves. The word is regardless. Like fingernails on a chalkboard, it made me grind my teeth. When I spoke, I was a little shorter with Hastings than he deserved. “True, but the lack of an alibi is only part of what we need. Motive and means are a lot more important than opportunity.” I shook my head to shake off the mood.
Mrs. Warren lived in one of the new subdivisions that had cropped up all over suburbia. I’ve seen neighborhoods like this throughout St. Joe. The houses were all large, with a builder’s standard landscaping. A brick front and three sides of vinyl were now the norm. I’m sure it saved a lot of money not to brick all sides on a house, but it looked as if they’d run out of money.
We rang the bell and were admitted without really seeing who was behind the door.
Inside, the house looked like it had been taken from the pages of a magazine. White carpet, white furniture, and glass and mirrors made the room feel cold and uninviting.
“Mrs. Warren, I’m—”
“Would you mind taking off your shoes?”
We all promptly took off our shoes. Detective Hastings struggled to hide a small hole in a pair of dingy socks, and for the first time in my life, I was thankful for a mother who stressed the importance of clean socks and underwear. I always thought her rationale that I’d need them in case I got hurt and ended up in the hospital was ridiculous. The one time I had been in the hospital after my accident, my socks and underwear were the last things on my mind. But standing in Mrs. Warren’s fancy foyer in clean socks certainly added a lot more strength to my mother’s argument.
Settled into the austere living room, Mrs. Warren seemed more of an actress than a grieving widow. She was in her early forties and had a light complexion that seemed overly made up, as if she were about to enter a beauty contest. Suddenly, I understood Mama B’s remark about more makeup than a prostitute. Like a queen on a throne, Mrs. Warren condescended to receive us.
“Mrs. Warren, I’m sorry for your loss. Do you know anyone who wanted Thomas dead?”
“Who’s Thomas?” Mrs. Warren tilted her head and brought her hand up to her throat.
“I meant Tyrone. Mrs. Warren, why was your husband using another name?”
“I have no idea.” Mrs. Warren looked at the wall, the floor, and down at her hands in her lap as though the answer must be written somewhere.
She was lying. It wasn’t just the little telling signs that gave her away, like her failure to make eye contact or the way she touched her throat. There was something in her eyes that gave her away before she opened her mouth.
I tried again. “Why was he in St. Joe?”
“I have no idea.” Leaning forward, Mrs. Warren adjusted a vase on the coffee table so that it was now directly in between us rather than slightly to the side.
Another lie. Liars often try to place objects in between themselves and the people they are lying to.
Third time’s a charm, so I asked, “Mrs. Warren, your husband had been living in St. Joe, Indiana, for the past nine months. Yet you never filed a missing person’s report. Why?”
“Why should I? You only file a report if you want the missing person found. I didn’t.”
That wasn’t what I expected. “So, you and Thomas—I mean, Tyrone—weren’t happily married?”
“That’s not a crime, is it?” she said softly, with a little less defiance in her voice.
“No, but someone murdered your husband, which is a crime. So … back to my original question. Do you know anyone who was so unhappy with your husband they wanted him dead?”
That did it. The ice queen finally started to thaw. She knew that if she didn’t give us someone else who wanted her husband dead, we would be looking at her. I expected her to be nervous. Her husband was murdered, and she was a suspect. I expected her to squirm. What I wasn’t expecting was the look of outright terror that flashed across her face.
“Tye was murdered? I thought he,” she motioned to Detective Hastings, “said he was killed in a fire?”
“We have reason to believe the fire was set deliberately in an attempt to hide the murder,” Harley said.
“But that’s … that’s not possible. I mean, it was an accident. It had to be an accident.”
“Why does it have to be accident?”
Mrs. Warren winced when she got up. Holding a pillow to her abdomen, she paced. She walked with a hesitation that showed she was still recovering from her surgery. Hastings was right. There was no way she murdered her husband, unless she paid someone else to do it. And based on the look of surprise at realizing her husband had been murdered, I was willing to risk my reputation she hadn’t planned his death. So, why was she lying?
“Mrs. Warren, I’m sorry to have to tell you your husband was murdered. I thought you already knew.”
Hastings shifted uneasily in his seat. “We told her about his death right after we received the call, but we hadn’t gotten the information about it being murder until this morning.”
I waved him off. Under normal circumstances we like to share the information with the family of the deceased as soon as possible. However, I was glad I was here to see Mrs. Warren’s reaction in person. She hadn’t known he was murdered. I was certain of that. But she was terrified of something.
“I don’t feel very well.”
I was sure this was a desperate attempt to buy time, but to be honest, she wasn’t looking very good either. I haven’t seen very many African-Americans turn pale, but Mrs. Warren did. She looked like she was going to pass out, and if Harley hadn’t jumped to assist her, she just might have.
“Would you like us to call an ambulance?” I motioned for Hastings to go to the phone, but he was already dialing.
“I just need to lie down. Can you help me?”
Mrs. Warren pointed toward the back, and Harley helped her to the family room, which was off the kitchen. It was decorated in a safari theme with faux animal skins, African masks, and a plethora of giraffe and elephant statues. There was a large plasma television and a leather recliner, which was apparently where Mrs. Warren wanted to be led.
“Since the surgery, I’ve been sleeping in the recliner. It’s a lot easier on my stomach and back muscles. If you can just help me into the chair, I’ll be fine.”
I felt her wrist. “Mrs. Warren, I really think you should let us call an ambulance. You’ve had a big shock.”
“No. I’ll be fine. I just need to … to rest.”
We tried a little longer to convince her to let us call a doctor but eventually gave up and decided to leave and come back a little later. You couldn’t force her to accept medical treatment. She looked pale and her pulse was racing. Either she was a first-class actress or she was really ill. But there was something else. Mrs. Warren’s eyes darted around like a frightened rabbit’s. The signs were there. Mrs. Warren was terrified of something or someone.
At a table in a nearby restaurant, we regrouped. Harley and I had coffee while Detective Hastings munched on a mid-morning snack of pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, fried potatoes, and oatmeal.
“Are you two sure you don’t want to try this?” Hastings said with a mouthful of food. “It’s really good.”
I could feel my arteries harden just looking at it.
“No thanks,” Harley and I said simultaneously. With Detective Hastings engrossed in his food, we continued our discussion.
“Where do we go from here?” Harley asked.
“We’ve got to figure out why she’s so scared. The answer might help us find out what led Warrendale to St. Joe.”
“Running away. Hiding.” Harley tapped his fingers on the table.
I turned to Detective Hastings. “What else do you have on Tye Warren?”
He gulped down the potatoes he’d just shoveled into his mouth. “You saw the report. He had some petty stu
ff in his jacket from years back but nothing recent. For the last ten years, he’s been clean as a whistle. Although ….”
Hastings squirmed and looked uncomfortable. I doubted his discomfort was related to the large quantity of food he had managed to consume. He was definitely an experienced eater. There had to be more to this.
We waited.
“I don’t know if there’s any connection to your homicide, but the CPA firm Warren worked for was under investigation a while back.” Hastings reached down under the table, which was a bit of a tight maneuver with his stomach wedged under the table, but he pulled a folder out of a backpack he had lugged around with him. “Two years ago, the accounting firm Warren worked for came up in an investigation into gambling and drugs. Evidence disappeared. We had an internal investigation.”
“What kind of investigation?” It was hard to believe an investigation from two years ago could be linked to this murder, but I wasn’t ruling anything out.
“There was suspicion of money laundering, but each one of the companies Warren worked on came out squeaky clean. The forensic accountants thought there was something unusual about the way he transferred funds, but they couldn’t find anything concrete.”
Harley and I mulled over this new information and tried to figure out if this could have any bearing on our case. It seemed like a long shot.
Harley asked, “So what happened?”
“Nothing. The firm, including Warren, were off the hook. Like the three Hebrew boys in the Bible, they came out of the fire and their clothes didn’t even smell like smoke.”
Detective Hastings belched and then excused himself from the table. He squeezed his rotund frame out of the booth, sliding the folder closer to my hand as he vacated the seat. He walked to the men’s room without glancing back. Harley and I reviewed the case file. Nothing in the folder seemed related to our murder investigation, but I looked for anything that might in any way help us find our killer.
