I rushed back to my office for a late meeting with a little old lady who wanted a will done. Before she arrived, I phoned Reed Duvall, a private eye I’d befriended while working opposite sides of a recent case.
“Got some work for you,” I said.
“And I’ve got a problem with you.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not looking for a handout. This is paying business I’m offering.” Duvall knew I usually did my own case research and investigation, since most of my clients couldn’t afford him.
“That’s my problem,” Duvall chided me. “All you ever call me about is business.”
I blushed and felt slightly heady. Thoughts of Ray brought me down to earth with a thud. The last thing you need is to get involved with someone else you work with. Duvall wasn’t married, but still . . . what if it didn’t work out? I didn’t want to ruin a perfectly good friendship. So I ignored his comment.
Affecting a breezy voice, I said, “You’ll be happy to know, this is for a case I’m handling with Walt Shapiro. I’ve got his blessing and budget to back me.”
I gave him a thumbnail sketch of the situation with Brad Higgins and asked for a background check on him, Darrell Cooper and Vince Marzetti. I wanted to know if any of them had made huge bank deposits or bought high-ticket items recently. I also asked him to track down the missing Darrell Cooper and see what he could find on ITN Consultants.
“When did Cooper quit?” Duvall asked.
“Week and a half ago.”
“If he’s moved, his new address won’t show up in any databases for at least a couple of months. You need this information sooner than that, I guess.”
“The sooner, the better. This guy may have ripped off the company and left our client twisting in the wind.”
“I’ll come up with something. I’m sure there’s a creative way to get at this.”
We both knew I didn’t want to hear what that was. “Thanks, Duvall. I’d have a go at finding him myself, but no one wants to talk to a lawyer. Plus, I’d be violating ethical rules if I pretended to be anything else.”
“If you can’t figure out a way around those rules, you must not be doing your job.” I heard suppressed laughter.
“Ha ha. Anyhow, you’re my way around the rules.”
“Thank God for dirty work. Keeps me in business.”
“Keeps us all in business. Makes the world go ’round.”
“Do I detect a note of cynicism?”
I sighed. “Cynicism? Or resignation that we’re all swimming in the same cesspool?”
“Listen to you. You need a vacation.”
A vacation. The concept seemed as bizarre as a pole dancer at a ballroom competition. When was the last time I’d had a real vacation? There was the two weeks I’d taken off before leaving the PD’s office. I did the math. Four years? Had it really been four years? With the workload building and the new case with Walt—it didn’t look like I’d be vacationing again any time soon.
His voice interrupted my mental pity party. “I’ll have something for you by tomorrow. After that, I’m out of town for a week.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“Family business down in North Carolina. Talk to you soon. And cheer up, okay?”
We hung up. I pondered my gloomy mood. The day’s irritations left me feeling sour and out of sorts.
When I got to the office the following morning, I had a voice mail message from Jon Fielding at Kozmik Games. I returned the call, only to have him insist on calling me back in ten minutes. I used the time to bang out a demand letter I’d been meaning to write for days. The slip-and-fall case involved a dancer named Daria Lewellin who thought she could claim her bruised knee as a career-ending disability and settle for millions. Not gonna happen, I thought as I requested a dollar amount with as many zeros as I could muster without laughing out loud.
The phone rang as I printed the letter.
“Sorry,” Fielding said. “I had to find a private place to talk. I don’t want Ana or anyone else listening in.”
“What’s the big secret?”
“I don’t know. I just know this Brad situation has made everyone paranoid.” Fielding spoke in a low, clipped voice. I could visualize his eyes darting around. “We’ve been ordered not to discuss Brad or the embezzlement with anyone. People here are even afraid to talk about it with each other.”
“Why?”
“I can’t talk much longer.” His words came out in a rush. “Just ask Vince Marzetti. I think he knew about that account before he left the company.”
“So you’re saying the account existed before Brad began working there?”
“I think so. Ask Vince. He’ll know.” The line went dead.
I went through my mail, searching for answers to interrogatories I’d sent weeks ago in a messy, slow-moving divorce—one of those cases you regret taking the moment you find out who the other attorney is. Steve Woodrow, aka “Slippery Steve,” was living down to his reputation. I’d called Steve several times about the answers he owed, only to end up in voice mail. He had never returned my calls. I dialed, got his voice mail again, and left another message. It took all my self-control not to pepper the message with expletives.
I didn’t see a cashier’s check or money order from Shanae Jackson for her child support case. No tickee, no laundry. It was Thursday—only two days since we’d met. I’d give her until Monday. After that, we’d have to talk. Maybe her brother wasn’t as obliging about paying my retainer as she’d expected.
I was wrapping up for the day when the phone rang. Could it be Slippery Steve returning a message? Dream on, I thought, picking up the phone.
“Ms. McRae?” The voice was deep and unfamiliar. “My name is William Jackson. I’m Shanae Jackson’s brother.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Jackson?” I steeled myself to give a polite, but firm, “no” to any hard-luck story.
“My sister . . . ” His voice broke. “My sister is dead.”
I was too stunned to speak. “D-d-dead? What happened?”
“She was murdered. Someone beat her to death with a softball bat las’ night.” His words slurred. I wondered if he’d been drinking. “A neighbor found her this mornin’. Her back door was open and she jus’ walked in and found her on the kitchen floor.” He took a deep breath and sighed. “I drove down here from New York right after I heard.”
“Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. Was it a break-in?”
“I don’t know. Cops didn’t tell me nuthin’. They did say they couldn’t find a purse or identification. The neighbor knew her from her clothes and a cross she wore on a chain. Her face . . . ” Again, his voice cut off. I could hear the pain in it—and in his silence. “Her face was smashed in. I could barely recognize her myself,” he sobbed.
I took a moment to absorb the horror of the situation. How would Tina deal with her mother’s murder? If Shanae had been found that morning, she must have been killed sometime after Tina left for school. I hoped the police had contacted Tina’s school or her father before the girl came home.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Jackson. Is Tina all right? Where will she stay?” Concern aside, I needed to note the change of address in her file.
“She supposed to stay with her father. So, she’s all right—kinda.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the man may say she’s stayin’ there, but half the time, she ain’t gonna be there.”
“Where else would she be?”
“Who knows? She might stay with friends, but that don’t mean much. I don’t know these friends. I don’t know how far to trust ’em.” He paused. I could hear his labored breathing. “I think Tina’s fallen in with a bad crowd, Ms. McRae. I told Shanae it was just a matter of time before she got into trouble. And Rodney ain’t gonna lif’ a finger to stop her.”
“Hold it, hold it.” I tried to stem the flow of his words with a question. “Why do you think he’s the one to blame for Tina’s behavior?”
“Tina's problems started after Shanae went into the drug program, you know. When she was livin’ with Rodney.”
I thought about that. “According to someone familiar with Shanae’s history, she was abusing Tina. That in itself could have contributed—”
“I’m telling you it started with Rodney!” He wasn’t going to hear otherwise, regardless of the facts. “I told Shanae, what with her working two jobs, taking care of Tina was too much for her. I even offered to take the child in with me, cause she knows her Uncle Bill won’t take any of her grief. But Shanae wouldn’t hear it. Maybe she weren’t much of a mother, but she loved that girl.”
I took notes for my file, the cynic in me wondering if Shanae held onto Tina for love or money. Fisher had paid some child support, even if it wasn’t all that he owed. Shanae had been getting some financial benefit from having custody of Tina. She might not have wanted to give it up.
“So what’s her dad’s number? In case I need to reach Tina.”
He gave me Fisher’s home and work phone. “But you’d be better off calling her cell phone,” he added.
I hadn’t thought to get her cell phone number when we met. I forgot that every kid has one. Uncle Bill gave me the number.
“If Tina listens to you,” I said, “you should encourage her to stay home and out of trouble.” At least, until we get her current situation resolved, my inner cynic interjected.
“I’ll do what I can. And now I need you to do something for me.”
“What’s that?”
“I want to be Tina’s guardian. I want you to handle it.”
“How does her father feel about this?” I had a funny feeling that the father was clueless.
“Father?” Jackson bellowed. “Since when has that man been a father? Was he there for her when she was sick? When she needed advice? Did he give her gifts at Christmas? Or even a birthday card?” Jackson continued to recite a laundry list of Rodney Fisher’s various malfeasances. His speech was rushed, his words garbled. He paused to catch his breath. “What has the man done, ’cept not be there for her?”
“He took her in when her mother was in rehab. And he is her father. Unless he’s willing to give up his parental rights, to become Tina’s guardian, you’ll have to show that he’s unfit.”
He grumbled. “He’s unfit, all right. I tole’ that court not to let him have her. And what happened? She grew up wild, that’s what. He never gave her no ground rules, no guidance. How fit a parent can a man like that be?”
It seemed to me Shanae had fallen short in that regard, too. Now was not the time to bring it up. William Jackson had already made up his mind.
“Have you spoken to Tina’s father about this?”
“Yes, I’ve spoken to him.” His voice grew stronger. “And the son of a bitch told me to go to hell.”
“Bad news, Mr. Jackson. The burden is on you to prove he’s an unfit parent.”
“Well, how hard could that be? With Tina running wild every night and him not lifting a finger to stop her.”
“You might be able to prove it. Trying to do it now might hurt Tina’s defense in the purse-snatching incident. I intend to emphasize the good things about Tina. I need to steer clear of the issue of her ‘bad friends,’ if at all possible.”
He was silent a moment. “What does that mean?”
“It means the cases present a conflict of interest. One I’m not sure I can work around.”
“I see.” Except for his breathing, he fell silent. “Then I suppose that ends our business.”
“It would help me a lot if we could keep in touch. I’m concerned about Tina’s welfare. If what you’re saying is true—”
“Thank you, anyway, Ms. McRae.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help to you. I appreciate . . . Hello?”
Uncle Bill had already hung up.
I left a message for Tina to call me. After I hung up, I thought about Ellen Martinez’s comment about Tina going “off the rails.” Maybe she was. Maybe being raised by an angry, overworked mother had spurred her to deviant behavior. With her mother dead, Tina was left with a poor excuse for a father who allegedly forgot her birthdays.
I strained to remember what it was like to be 13. When I entered my teen years, my parents had been four years dead. Although my life with them in Bed-Stuy had been far from idyllic, loneliness overcame me, as I recalled the void left by their deaths. I shivered and redirected my thoughts elsewhere.
The memory of my cousin took its place. Addie stepping in like a deus ex machina and whisking me off to live with her in Takoma Park, Maryland, saving me from the tender mercies of life in a New York City foster home. Not that Addie was perfect. Her idea of cooking was adding hot water to Ramen noodles or heating a frozen pizza. And her financial situation was precarious at best. Yet for reasons known only to her, she’d taken charge of me when other relatives hadn’t bothered.
One of the biggest mysteries of my life concerned my grandparents. Why had they cut and run after my parents died? How come they hadn’t stepped up and taken me in?
I recall asking Addie. She simply laughed and said, “Your grandparents are assholes. You want to live with assholes?”
I hadn’t wanted to live with them. I’d never met them, but would have appreciated their occasional attention. I never came to terms with their behavior, why they never bothered to get know me.
Again, I wrested my attention from the memory. It didn’t matter now. None of it mattered. I had learned how to fend for myself thanks to their negligence. Tina, on the other hand . . . .
Would juvenile detention help Tina? Would community service or talking to a counselor make a difference? Maybe. One thing I did know: I would fight to get Tina the best deal possible. If I could only figure out what that was.
*****
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More stories to come! Coming next, The Circular Staircase, which may or may not be modified to suit modern tastes. We’ll see. It could provide a basis for discussion of racial stereotypes in literature.
Perhaps, I’ll insert rewritten paragraphs near the originals. Or publish two versions. Not really sure at this point. :)
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Least Wanted - Chapter Five