All Her Little Secrets, page 13
“Ellice, if you loved Michael, please help me find out if he was in any kind of trouble. I’d rather hear it from you. Maybe there’s a way to help him, even now after his death, if he was in some sort of trouble. I know Michael wasn’t the perfect man. But he was a good man. Please, help me.”
If I loved Michael. Did I love him? If I did, who loved him more? His feckless mistress who left him dead in his office or the wife he cheated on who was still trying to protect his reputation as an upstanding pillar in the legal community? This woman stood in front of me, asking for my help for her cheating husband.
I closed my eyes for a moment. When I opened them, Anna was still there, eyes pleading, waiting for a reply. “Let me see what I can find out. I’ll dig around a little, but after that . . . Anna, at some point, you need to share this information with the police, okay?”
“Yes, of course. I know I shouldn’t ask you to do this but—”
“Like you said, he wasn’t the perfect man, but he was a good man.”
* * *
I pulled out of Anna’s driveway and headed for the highway, mentally beating myself for ever getting involved with Michael. Now I was being dragged into his murder, too. I should have called the police the day I discovered his body. Whatever demons I struggled with, all the ghosts from my past, the truth remained clear: he deserved better. Maybe helping Anna in this small way was the least I could do to make up for my heinous behavior in leaving his body without calling for help.
Also, I didn’t trust my new colleagues. Maybe I might find the answer to why Libertad kept rearing up in the middle of all this.
Chapter 14
I returned to work and sat at my desk pushing around the contents of a carton of Hunan shrimp. I’d passed on the spread at Anna’s house and still my appetite was MIA. Between this morning’s Executive Committee meeting and Anna’s little bombshell, I was starting to realize I might be better off leaving Houghton. A place where I was promoted to be the general counsel among a group of people who didn’t think they needed one. A place where Michael was murdered in this very office and some mysterious business deal was smack-dab in the middle of it. I needed to call a headhunter and find a new job before I got sucked into this mess any further.
I closed the lid on the food and was just about to pull out the documents Anna had given me when Detective Bradford strolled into my office with enough confidence and bravado that someone could have mistaken her for the general counsel. Now that Michael’s death was ruled a homicide, I noticed more police presence in the building. I’d seen Detective Bradford in the lobby a few days ago talking to some of the security guards. My disdain for the police, and by extension her, was stupid and based on some long-ago events that had nothing to do with the detective. I had no logical reason to make assumptions about her based on the actions of some ignorant small-town deputy sheriff. Still, the last thing I needed now was Bradford in my office throwing around her swagger like Mardi Gras beads on Fat Tuesday.
She stopped short of sitting in one of the guest chairs before she gazed around the room. “So I guess congratulations really are in order,” she said with an easy smile. “This is quite impressive.” The charcoal wool pantsuit she wore wasn’t bad, just about what you’d expect a midlevel civil servant could afford. Every inch of it accentuated her slim figure. I wasn’t jealous. Once she hit forty, all that svelte body would turn on her and give her a midlife wake-up call.
“Good afternoon, Detective,” I said in the cheeriest voice I could muster. “How can I help you?” The faster I answered her questions, the faster I could get her out of my office. I knew she was simply doing her job. But that didn’t quell the overwhelming feeling I had that she was judging me, examining me for some slipup.
“This morning we looked at security footage from the lobby. Perhaps you could take a look at a couple of photos for me.”
Just like Hardy said, no footage from the executive suite. I nodded toward the pricey linen chairs in front of my desk.
Bradford didn’t sit. Instead, she spread two grainy photos on the desk in front of me. The pictures were taken from cameras in the lobby, one from a top angle near the security badge turnstile and another front facing near the elevator bank. The man in the photos was dressed casually. A baseball cap covered a portion of his face, but not enough to make him unrecognizable.
“Do you know this man?” Bradford asked.
I looked at the first photo. The knot in the pit of my stomach was instantaneous. I glanced at the second photo and then back to the first. “Who gave you these pictures?”
Detective Bradford glared at me with a furrowed brow. “Why don’t we try this a different way? I’ll ask the questions and you’ll answer them. Do you know this man, Ms. Littlejohn?”
“It’s hard to tell. These pictures aren’t very clear.” The detective’s stare was unnerving, and I tore my eyes away and focused on the pictures again.
“Look closely.” Bradford’s cool demeanor made me panic inside. How did she know?
“Well . . . with the baseball cap, it’s hard to see his face. How is this man connected to Michael’s death?” I asked.
“You tell me. This man was seen entering Houghton’s lobby the day before your boss was murdered. And he used your ID badge to enter the building. So for the third time, Ms. Littlejohn, do you know this man?”
My eyes riveted on the grainy photos. I tried to slow my breathing, to gather my thoughts, to stay in control of the situation. Breathe in. Breathe out.
“Like I told you the last time you were here, I lost my ID badge a few days ago.”
“Yes, you did mention that, didn’t you?” Bradford said flatly. She shook her head. I could tell my explanation fell on disbelieving ears.
Don’t get rattled. “I guess this guy must have found it and entered the building,” I said coolly.
“You folks are awfully lax on security around here.” She eyed me, waiting for a response. Another familiar pregnant pause between us. “So you’re telling me you don’t know who this man is?”
“No.” It disturbed me just how easily the lie rolled off my tongue. I knew almost as soon as I said it that I’d made a huge mistake. Lying to the police was not a good look, especially as a lawyer. I glanced toward the door, hoping an interrupting colleague might stop by, or maybe I just wanted to run.
“Let me get this straight. You didn’t meet with your boss as you normally do on the same day he’s brutally murdered, and a man you claim you don’t know used your security badge to enter the building.” The detective shook her head slowly. “That is quite a coincidence, don’t you think?” Bradford gave me a suspicious stare.
I glanced at the photos again and released a long, deep breath. “I’m sorry, Detective. I wish I could help you.”
“I wish you could too. I’d be happy if anyone in this company would help me with this investigation. Michael Sayles was killed right here in this very office and no one knows a thing.” Bradford said, scooping up the photos. “I showed these pictures to a few people around here and no one seems to know who he is. Not even the person whose badge he used.”
I gave a weak shrug. She glared at me again. I knew she didn’t believe me, but that was her problem since she couldn’t prove I was lying.
She did a 360-degree turn and surveyed the room, sizing up my office again. “So how do you like being the new general counsel?” Bradford said.
“It’s fine.” If I was curt, maybe she would finally get the message and leave instead of standing around trying to trip me up in a lie.
“So now you work directly for the CEO, huh?”
“Yes.”
“From the looks of things around here, it must be a pretty sweet gig.” Bradford stroked a finger across the top of one of the linen guest chairs in front of my desk. “Beautiful view, expensive furniture, fresh flowers. Fine indeed. And how do you like working with your new colleagues?”
“They’re fine.”
“Your promotion happened pretty quickly, too.” She leaned across the back of the guest chair in front of my desk and gave me a slight smile. “I’ve transferred departments before. In my experience, it always takes a little time for my new colleagues to get used to working with someone like us, the new woman in their midst. How’s it going for you so far?”
I tried to tamp down my anxiety. Bradford was smart. Maybe even smarter than me. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Detective?” I asked calmly.
“You should probably replace that security badge, huh?”
“I will.”
She cast another suspicious glance around the room and then stared at me for a beat before leaving. I watched her float out of my office for the second time, and for the second time, I had lied to her.
Shit. I tried to think. Why the hell didn’t Hardy tell me he’d released the lobby footage to the police? I’d have to deal with Hardy later. I had more pressing problems now.
I gave the detective what I imagined was enough time to get off the twentieth floor before I grabbed my purse and coat and bolted through the office door.
“Anita,” I blurted. “I have to leave.”
“Okay, is everything all ri—”
“I may not be back today!” I yelled over my shoulder.
I knew exactly who the man in the photos was and I’d need the rest of the day to figure out why my brother was roaming the halls of Houghton with my security badge the day before Michael was murdered.
Chapter 15
I rolled up to the front of Geno’s Convenience Mart, a small shabby-looking store located in a strip mall in the West End section of Atlanta. Sam was likely to be here in the middle of the day. This was the slice of town Atlanta’s prosperity boom had forgotten. The area was littered with an array of storefronts offering nail salons, soul food restaurants, twenty-five-dollar hair weave bundles, and all things in between. It was only a matter of time before gentrification gurus and developers would find this gem in the raw.
The store’s windows were cocooned in black iron security bars and bright neon signs advertising everything from Budweiser to the Georgia lottery. For every attempt I made to rise above Chillicothe and put places like this behind me, Sam’s antics always dragged me back. And every time I had to chase after Sam into a place like this, I vowed it would be my last. It always reminded me of the times I had to go into the Blackjack Tavern to pull Martha out when Sam and I were hungry and there was no food in the house. It made me feel guilty for having gone off to boarding school and leaving that awful task to him.
Whatever Sam was into, whatever the reason he showed up at my job, he had stepped too close to the line I drew between my personal and professional lives.
I parked my BMW next to a dingy white pickup truck at the front of the store. Two guys leaning against the building stared at me before they looked at each other and grinned. My shoulders tightened. I carefully placed the strap of my purse over my head and across my body. I hoped they were still watching. I wanted them to know that whatever they had planned, I wasn’t giving up without a fight. I stepped out of the car.
“Hey, gorgeous,” the heavier one said as I paced briskly toward the door.
“Gentlemen,” I said without stopping. I learned a long time ago, with some men, it was better to respond and keep moving, lest I face being called a stuck-up bitch or come back later and find my car keyed or tires slashed.
Inside, the place barely resembled anything close to a convenience store. The shelves were nearly bare, but the beer and wine refrigerator cases held ample selections. Otherwise, this place was hardly a convenient stop for anything else. The store was empty except for the cashier, a slovenly guy with a long unkempt beard who sat behind bulletproof glass.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“I’m looking for someone. I need to get in the back.”
He gave me a deadpan stare. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What’s your name? Rolly?” I could tell by the quick jerk of his eyebrows that he was surprised I knew his name. “I know you’re a friend of Sam’s. I need to find him. Just let me take a quick look. I’ll be in and out in two minutes.”
“I don’t know any Sam. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He peered over my shoulder like there might be another customer walking up behind me at any minute.
To hell with him. I didn’t have time for his games. “Listen, I’m looking for Sam Littlejohn and so are the police.” I nodded toward the door at the side of the cash register. “I suggest you unlock the door and let me back there before the police come up in here looking for him. They might not be as polite as I am.”
“He’s not here.” He took a sip from a bottle of Peach Snapple.
“So let me see that for myself.” I wasn’t scared of him even though Sam once told me the owner kept a sawed-off shotgun behind the counter for would-be robbers. But I also knew the police posed a bigger threat to him than I did. “Look, just open the door. I’ll be in and out. You never saw me.”
The guy rubbed the end of his beard, calculating how much trouble Sam might bring to his doorstep. He lifted the bottle to his lips and took another sip. He stared at me for a beat before he hit the buzzer under the counter. I heard the lock click and I headed through the door.
I stepped inside what was supposed to be the stock room of the store—if they’d had any stock to sell. It was a pretty good size–room, dimly lit and humming with the low cha-ching of about a dozen slot machines. Every machine was occupied by some poor soul hoping to make a big win. Under state law, Georgia permits what they call “coin-operated skill redemption games”—slot machines where people can insert cash but can’t get cash out. Instead, they can earn lottery tickets or store merchandise. But backroom gambling joints like this one offered real slot machines that were illegally slipped into the state and actually paid out cash. What the people slumped over these machines didn’t realize was that the games were rigged to pay out wins small enough to keep them in the chair plugging more money in than they could ever recoup. Old Rolly out front and his partners were making a small fortune off the poor souls who made this place a regular stop, all without the knowledge of the Georgia state tax commissioner.
I strolled through the first row of machines looking for Sam. I kept an eye on the door, not sure what Rolly might pull now that I had forced him to let me in the back. No one flinched or even bothered to look up as I passed by. They all sat like zombies from some old black-and-white TV show staring, eyes glued to the screens. A young woman sat at one of the machines holding a baby and playing something called “Hold ’Em or Fold ’Em.” For a nanosecond I wanted to snatch the child from her arms and drag them both out of this place.
The first time I pulled Sam away from this type of den was a few years ago, the night Martha died. Vera had called to tell me we needed to come back to Chillicothe right away because Martha had died in a fire. The authorities believed she fell asleep on the sofa while smoking. We drove out to Chillicothe that night, both of us crying the entire drive—Sam crying for Martha, and me crying for Sam because he had lost someone he loved.
I walked through the room twice, but Sam wasn’t there. I paced back to the front of the store.
“Find what you were looking for?” Rolly asked with a snarky grin.
I ignored him.
Outside, thankfully, the two men were gone and my car was intact. I opened the car door and heard my name.
“Ellice!”
I spun around. Sam’s friend “Juice,” as he was known around the neighborhood, trotted up to me. Juice was the only friend of Sam’s I knew. He was tall, the color of mahogany wood, and handsome to boot. His short locs framed his face like dancing little wands of soft brown hair. If he had a real job and less baggage, he might make some woman happy.
“Hey, beautiful. What are you doing over here?” His voice had a deep sultry quality, and I got irritated at myself for the butterflies that floated in my stomach whenever I saw him.
“Juice, I’m looking for Sam. Have you seen him? I need to find him. It’s urgent.”
“Is everything okay?”
He didn’t need details. “He hasn’t answered my calls in a few days.”
“You know Sam. He’s probably met some pretty little thing and he doesn’t want to be interrupted with his sister nagging him about whether he ate lunch.” Juice laughed at his joke, but I wasn’t amused. “Hang on,” he said.
Juice pulled his cell phone from his back pocket and dialed. He leaned against my car, holding the phone and gazing at me. “Woman, when are you gonna stop breaking my heart and marry me?”
I rolled my eyes. “I don’t date my little brother’s friends.”
“Ouch! You know, age ain’t nothing but a number,” he said with a wide grin. “Hmph.” He looked down at his phone. “No answer. Just rings over to voice mail.”
“Yeah, that’s the same thing I got.”
“For what it’s worth, Sam don’t hang around here no more. My boy is on the come up.”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw him a couple days ago. He said he’s done with these side hustles and places like Geno’s. He’s going legit.”
“He told me you had a buddy who was going to give him a job. Where is he working?”
“Not sure. I referred him to a friend of a friend. But it’s all legit. I’m not trying to send my brothers back in the joint. That’s not what I do.”
“Look, if you see him, tell him to call me. It’s really important.”
“I will.” Juice grinned at me again. “Hey, give me your number just in case . . . you know, if I see him.”
“Nice try. Give me yours instead.” Juice laughed and called out his number as I tapped it into my phone. I climbed inside my car and started the engine.
“On the serious tip, if you don’t find Sam, let me know. He’s like a brother to me.”
