Murder in Germantown Page 9

  "Absolutely nothing, but bad tips."

  CHAPTER 28

  I opened the living room door and the sound was so beautiful. Dajuan was masterfully gliding his hands across the piano keys as I kicked off my boots. Hearing him play cut through the air and when he added his soft voice, it was the perfect melody. I went into the bedroom and threw on a college T-shirt and sweatpants. I then gargled mouthwash. I hadn't seen Brandon, so I went to his room to check on him. I knew he would be ecstatic that the Eagles had won. He was not there. He was in my office playing a game on his laptop. Ms. Pearl was snuggled up under him.

  I walked in and Ms. Pearl leaped off the sofa and traipsed toward the door. At the doorway, she said, "Meow!" I translated it for her. "Homo." I cracked up at the bourgeois act. She was a tad conceited. Strange I know, but this cat was special in a bad way.

  "What's funny, Daddy R?" Brandon asked, and didn't take his eyes off the laptop.

  I sat down on the sofa next to him. "Nothing. What do you want for dinner?"

  "Um...Pizza."

  "We had that yesterday."

  "Okay, lasagna."

  "What's with the Italian dishes?"

  "What, Dad?" he asked and looked at me perplexed. "Daddy R, you're crazy. We have Versace dishes."

  I smiled and chuckled lightly. Brandon swore that he knew everything. Calling people crazy was his new thing. He also had an air of cockiness. I caught him bragging about my car once, and I immediately corrected that conceited behavior. It amazed me that toddlers actually compared their parent’s vehicles in first grade. They actually knew that a Benz cost more than a Honda. I stood and told him that I'd figure dinner out.

  "Can I help you cook?"

  "Yup, I'll call you when I am ready," I said and pressed into the living room.

  I found Dajuan still blowing out a new song. At least I had never heard him sing it. I sat on the sofa and listened to my in-house concert. So many women--and men--would have loved to have the sexy, sultry Dajuan sing to them in private. Too bad that they had to wait until the next tour, which was in April, starting the weekend of Easter.

  "Black Face, listen to this. I only have one verse, bridge and chorus. But check it..."

  He began with a hasty, powerful cord, and then slowed down the tempo. The words were:

  Chorus 1

  Here we are once again, I've been out late, girl

  I know you're pissed as ish, and you're probably

  fed up now, girl

  But I had to work till ten, then I had a few drinks, girl

  Bridge

  Please tell me babe why you're packed at the

  door

  When all I do is respect your wishes, girl

  You don't belong out this late in the goddamn

  street

  I'm out working hard for you and this is what

  you put me through

  Chorus

  Girl be real and tell the truth

  If you wanna really be through

  Just be real with me right now

  If you don't wanna be down

  I go all day thinkin' 'bout you

  And this is what you put me through

  Just be real with me right now

  If you're the one out playing around

  "That's all I have thus far."

  I sat for a moment as if in deep concentration. Somehow I believed that I played a pivotal role in the track.

  For the sake of harmony--that of our relationship, not his song--I said, "It definitely tells a story. And you could edit out a few of the girls in the first verse. But I am feeling it."

  "You're not just saying that are you?"

  "We both know if I disliked it, you'd be the first to know. I'd give you constructive criticism the same way that you shred my opening and closing arguments."

  "Yeah. Speaking of trials, do you have a new murder case?"

  "Yes, but don't panic. It involves the poor, so it won't be a media monger."

  "If you and Aramis don't make it one, you mean?"

  "Whatever, wiseass. It may easily be dismissed."

  "How?"

  "Not now. I really don't want to go over the drama. I know I'm hungry as a street person."

  "I don't feel like cooking, so don't go there. It's your Sunday. I am busy Black Face."

  "You're a trip. What you want?"

  "Sautéed boneless chicken breast. Over a bed of romaine lettuce. Thick, creamy dressing..."

  "I got your thick and creamy dressing," I said and smiled. I yelled, “Brandon let’s go. Time to cook.”

  I kissed Dajuan passionately and then went to prepare dinner.

  CHAPTER 29

  Twenty21 in Center City was one of the most fabulous restaurants for singles to mingle during lunch. It wasn’t that way purposely, but the elegant, posh spot was frequented by the Who’s Who in Philadelphia. Bumping into the same echelon of people led to many business and personal relationships being forged. The food may not have been the best, but the wide selection of alcoholic elixir made up for any shortcomings. The in-house floral design was a jewel. Very elegant. The cherrywood bar was topped with glass, and behind the bartenders, all of whom were attractive to the eye, were six shelves of the best liquors. Mr. 357 was perched at the bar nursing a shot (his forth) of Louis XIII, while whispering soothing words into the ears of Ariel Greenland.

  His slick, sea-green contacts were inviting with the kind of deliciousness that could trick a devout nun into debasement. His smile was easy, and he seemed happy to be in her presence again. He was clad in a charcoal gray power suit, white button down, and a snazzy tie. Ariel had actually told him that he was to cool to be a native Philadelphian. She had no idea how right she was. His shoulder length hair was pulled into a ponytail and was salt and pepper, with more salt than pepper. He told her that it was, “killer gray,” when she complimented the color.

  Ariel carried a conversation covering a wide range of topics about her city, Philadelphia. She had a new tan that was obviously paid for. Her plucked brows were pinched into a frown every time she put a lot of thought into a topic. Little maroon painted lip stick stains were around the rim of her goblet filled with port. She sat very parochial at a perfect ninety degrees and had a habit of holding her glass up at eye level and peeking over it while talking. She excessively re-crossed her legs, which peeked beneath a navy wool skirt. This was no cheap wool, either. It was the good stuff, a facsimile of what the Germany military used to combat winter winds during the Cold War.

  “You’re on your way,” he told her after she ran down a list of auditions she had been on and roles that she was cast in.

  She had even bragged of having a Jaguar XJ8. He was on his fifth shot of Louis treize, so he added, “Beautiful, too.”

  “Yeah, I do not get out of LA much,” she replied. “But, I have a score to settle in Philadelphia.”

  The rude heifer didn’t even thank him for the compliment. He was at an Irish pub in LA dressed as a Spanish man and he had chatted with Ariel Greenland then, so he knew that she was interested in killing her husband.

  “That’s why I am a single lady,” she added purring.

  He ordered another cocktail.

  “Sir, you’re on your sixth. I am going to need you to take it easy,” the bartender admonished him.

  “Yeah! Really.” Mr. 357 warbled.

  He then turned to Ariel and continued his conversation as if the tender had not spoken.

  “So, what’s a gal like you doing single and free?”

  “Well, I had a husband, but he left me for a man with a dick the size of Russia,” she said, giggling.

  The alcohol was beginning to betray her, or so, he thought. He had not slipped her GHB, either. Mr. 357 knew that she was going to reveal her most intimate secrets by the next round.

  “I was busy working, while he was busy working on his oral skills, adding up how many men he could boink in a week.”

  “Boink? That was an interesting synonym.”

&nbs
p; “Would you have preferred screw?”

  “No, fuck!”

  She leaned in close to him and he could smell the mixture of True Star and wine drifting from her.

  She whispered into his ear, “Your place or mine,” she asked. “Matter of fact, mine happens to be a hotel,” she claimed smiling. “I want to see your crib.”

  “I wanna see my crib, too,” he said. “It’s still being built.”

  “Oh, that’s just too bad.”

  “I know,” she said, gleefully.

  Neither of them knew that they were flirting with death.

  Monday, January 8, 2007

  CHAPTER 30

  Monday morning, I blew into the elevator in the garage level of the Prudential Building and rode it to the 8th floor. I exited and made my way along the red carpet--in place to give employees that celebrity feel--and greeted Marsha. I was smiling at her as I entered my office. That was appropriate, but until I had a cappuccino, I would hang upside down in my bat cave.

  Slapping my briefcase on the desk, I plopped into my burgundy, studded executive chair and rolled to the cappuccino machine. It was already brewing. Thank God for the genius who created a timer. I poured some in a mug with Brandon’s face plastered on it and rolled to my floor to ceiling window. I was privileged to a very panoramic view of the sixth largest city. The buildings were mostly lined shoulder to shoulder with varying peaks and shapes; a picturesque skyline. The latest edition was the Amtrak train station office building, an expansive glass structure that I tried to convince the big wigs that we should relocate there. They looked at me as if I was crazy.

  I revved my computer and checked my quotidian report for that day. I had a parole hearing at eleven, and the rest of my day was supposed to be clear. But I had taken on a new client not even 24-hours earlier, and preparation for his preliminary hearing was of the essence. I pulled out a composition book and labeled it, Wydell James. I always kept a daily account of what transpired with my new cases. I recorded everything from court appearances to phone calls and tucked news clipping inside, if there were any. I did that daily, and I wrote in it with a personal tone, not professional. It was for my eyes only. Never knew when some archaic note may have driven a case into a new direction.

  I snatched up my phone and contacted the detective handling Wydell’s case and informed him that I wanted the crime scene preserved for the defense. Prayerfully, he did not give me a problem, forcing me to produce a motion. I have enough paralegals at my disposal to flood the DA’s office like Hurricane Katrina. I mean beastly motions that would have taken half their office to dismantle. They would respond, but the 180 days that they had to try my client would be ticking.

  Tick.

  Tock.

  I sent Jonathan Rude, my favorite of the Savino and Martir investigators an inter-office E-mail. Marked it urgent and then buzzed Marsha.

  Marsha White bounced into my office with a lovely smile on her face. She was a stout, tough woman and was very protective of her boss.

  Me.

  We had met under very unorthodox circumstances. She was in the 1801 Vine Street Juvenile Court with her delinquent son, having taken off work for the sixth time. All of her 120 pounds were on the courthouse steps. Her pouty lips attempted to explain to her boss that she would not be able to make it in late, as she had planned. He fired her. Yes, I was ear hustling that day. Come on, I am an attorney. We had a conversation, and I hired her.

  “You came strolling into the office with a bubbly, new smile. I’m ten, I mean, three years your senior. I know that smile, buddy.”

  “Enchanting mother.”

  “So?”

  “Yes. We kissed and made up.”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Fifty bucks.”

  “I don’t owe you any money. The Eagles won.”

  “Karen in the tax wing does.”

  “And, you’re thanking me because...”

  “We bet. I told her that you were a family man.”

  “Oh!” I was shocked by the assessment. “Thanks.”

  “He better not act a fool again. But on to other news. This just came from the rivals,” she said and handed me the package.

  I opened it and found the paperwork produced on the Wydell James case that far. Two days was a record. They must really believe that Wydell was toast. The DA’s office had never produced preliminary discovery material that quickly. They had even forwarded them without filing a motion to get them. There was a body warrant, police reports, a few crime scene photos (that could not convict a pencil for stabbing a sharpener), and even a prelim autopsy report. No search warrant, though. I had just found an excuse to barge into the DA’s office and shake things up a bit. And I thought I’d be bored that day.

  I told Marsha what I needed, grabbed a file from my desk and stuffed it into my briefcase. I grabbed my coat and shrugged it on.

  “Going so soon?”

  “I’m going to the Fort, and who knows what traffic is doing. It may take me a month to make the trip. I’ll read what was passed along to me today while I wait, if I am early. I am curious as to what those assholes have up their sleeves. Sending me this stuff so quickly is new and interesting.”

  “You seem upset about it.”

  “No,just shocked at the sudden proficiency.”

  “Wanna do lunch with your admin. assist. It’s on me, considering you were the catalyst to me winning the bet.”

  “Suuurrrreeee. Make a reservation for about twelve thirty.”

  She chuckled. “McDonald’s takes reservations now?”

  CHAPTER 31

  Rhonesia Cosby awoke in the late morning elated that she did not have a class until 11 a.m. That was the way she had planned it for the last four semesters at the LaSalle University School of Journalism. Her body refused to function before nine, and for that reason she’d become an investigative reporter. A nine to five was not an option. Suddenly, she was forced to recall a very boring night of passion with a running back from the football team. He was a NFL hopeful, and that made up for his anatomy shortcoming.

  She sat up in his bed and listened to his heavy breathing. The sheets were all wrapped around him, explaining why she had been cold most of the night. Selfish, little dick bastard, she thought. January in Philadelphia was disastrously cold and draped in complimentary snow. The chilly air snaked through the cracked window which overlooked the busy Olney Avenue. It brought with it a message: cover your soft, cafe au lait-colored nakedness. She followed the directive and covered herself in a silk robe. She did not like terry cloth. Like most mornings she slipped to her dorm room in the co-ed building.

  In her room, Rhonesia brewed a pot of green tea. The stove-top clock read: 9:45. She had a Survey of Current Politics class at 11. It was a class that she decided to take just in case she decided to move to Washington, DC to report White House rumors acquired stealthily. She had become a drinker, as college life required being inebriated to get through it day by day. Her two favorite drinks, mimosa and screw driver, both included orange juice. She was not being looked at by any of the major newspapers, so no job awaited her after her May graduation, although, she would graduate in the top 15% of her class. She did not attribute alcohol to her class rank, either. She was a light drinker who indulged solely to stay serene. It made her feel feminine. It also made her work out. She wanted no parts of a beer belly. Hell, no belly. She didn’t plan to be pregnant until after 30 and married.

  After she did her morning bathroom ritual, she nursed an unsweetened mug of tea. She sat on her twin bed and looked at her pathetic roommate, a senior probably on her way to flunking out. She flicked the remote control into her hand, and turned on the TV. There was Cathy Regal, a Fox-29 anchor. Fox carried the ghetto news that the other politically driven stations didn’t. Cathy was re-capping the big stories for the hundredth time since six a.m.

  “Tiffany!” Rhonesia yelled and hit her roommates headboard. The girl didn’t budge. Damn shame, Rho
nesia thought. “Tiff! Get up!” She tuned the volume up and let the TV blast. “Tiffany Koch!” Rhonesia stood in front of the TV as if she was blind.

  News anchor, Cathy Regal, soprano voice and bright smile that exuded confidence. Too much for Rhonesia. Rhonesia was the school’s head cheerleader for the basketball team and had the alluring face and impeccable smile to be in front of the camera. As a black woman from the ghetto, she had what it took to pull an Oprah, but she liked to write her own masterpieces and not read from a teleprompter.