All Her Little Secrets, page 21
“These kids are my business.”
Coogler swiped a hairy arm across his forehead and placed the stick back inside the holster on his belt. He tugged at his ear where I left teeth marks and blood. “Like I said, Miss Vera, this don’t concern you. Now step aside, I’m gon’ take them young’uns in for questioning.”
“Like hell you will. These kids staying right here.”
Vera and Coogler stood facing each other. She looked like she could take him out and never get a single wrinkle in her red dress. But Coogler carried a gun and a billy club to make up for the lost inches. Two giants.
Vera broke the impasse. “Your wife at home, Coogler? Maybe she might like to hear about that young girl you brought over to my place a couple months ago. What was she . . . two, three months pregnant?”
Coogler slowly backed away from Vera. He blinked a few times before he looked over at me and Sam. “You ain’t heard the last of me. I’ll be back and I’ll bring help with me next time.” He shuffled back to his patrol car and threw his weight inside before speeding off on screeching tires.
Chapter 28
I’m a big girl. I can handle this by myself. I left the nursing home, went back to work, and sat in my office behind closed doors, making more false promises to myself. I can handle this. I can handle this. But how? Juice had offered to come by, to help me in any way he could. I thanked him but declined his offer. I didn’t call Grace, either.
I rubbed my temples, trying to massage away the same dull headache I’d had since I’d looked at Sam’s lifeless body earlier that morning. Then I remembered the Libertad deal. Both Michael and Gallagher were concerned about it. No paper trail. No files or emails. The voluminous bank account in Kentucky. The Libertad deal was a fraud and Michael and Gallagher knew it. Did Jonathan kill them, too, to keep them quiet?
“Ellice, we need to talk.” I looked up. Jonathan stood in the doorway of my office, his face flushed and angry. “We need to talk right now.”
My heart seemed to stop, then roar back again with the rush of blood pounding through my ears. Every fiber inside of me wanted to kill him. If I owned a gun, I couldn’t trust myself to show restraint. “Get the hell out of my office! I’m calling the police!” I turned my back and reached for the telephone. I heard the door slam behind me.
I whirled my chair back around to face him. “What are you doing? I said get out!”
“I had a conversation with Detective Bradford. So you told her that I’m working with your brother, that I’ve got him trailing lawyers. Are you sure you want to play this game with me?”
“I know you killed my brother and now the police do, too. Get out of my office. I won’t tell you again!”
Jonathan’s eyes narrowed. Something dark rose up in him and swept across his face. He quietly strolled across the room. Another rush of panic flooded through me. I immediately stood up, trying to think two steps ahead of him. How would I get out of this office if he was blocking the door? Could I get to the phone and call security or 911? Where was Anita? He proceeded around my desk. Slowly. Deliberately. I could feel my heart rise up to meet my throat. I didn’t flinch. We stood face-to-face, so close that I could smell the sharp bite of garlic on his breath.
“Let me make this as plain as I can.” His voice sizzled in my ears like hot grease across a cast-iron skillet. “I didn’t kill your brother, but if I get another visit from the police, I’m going to point them in the direction of a murder they might be more interested in.”
“Excuse me?” I backed up a couple steps, still thinking through my exit from this office if he tried to grab me. “Get out! Now!”
I paced toward the door. Jonathan hung on my heels. We reached the door at the same time. I grabbed the doorknob just as Jonathan placed his weight against the door and grinned at me.
His eyes locked with mine. “You know, I can appreciate you decided to fuck your way into the executive suite. But you need to be more careful now that you’re up here.”
I felt my eyes grow wide with disbelief.
“Come on. You’re a smart gal. You know we can’t go around making such lavish offers of promotion to the executive suite without doing our . . . what do you lawyers call it? Due diligence. I use a little firm out of Savannah. They put together all the glorious highlights of your climb out of that shithole called Chillicothe. They’re pretty good, too. Do you know they even managed to tell me you got a B in high school chemistry? The only B in your entire four years at that swanky boarding school. You’re smart. Very smart.”
My skin prickled. “What did you say?” I stared into Jonathan’s eyes. Two black holes of evil stared back at me.
“That’s right. I know all your dirty little secrets.” He chuckled. “So the police said your brother ran into the wrong end of a gun. I didn’t know you had a brother. Most of the folks around here didn’t know it either. But you know what? My friends down in Savannah knew about him though. You know what else they told me? They said your brother’s not the only black sheep of the family.”
My knees buckled. Jonathan’s words landed like a hard jab to the chest.
“Tell me something. How did you manage to get out unscathed and leave your poor brother behind to waffle in and out of jail?” Jonathan leaned in closer. “You decided to leave all those secrets behind for the big bright lights of Atlanta, huh? By the way, you been back to Chillicothe lately?”
I slowly released my hand from the doorknob.
“Seems you’re not exactly the self-righteous do-gooder you make everyone around here believe you are. All your talk about legal ethics and doing the right thing. Yeah, right! A little piece of advice since you’re new around here. If you want to continue to keep your little family secrets undercover, I suggest you waltz your uppity Black ass into Nate’s office, tell him we talked and you’re good with the Libertad deal and any other deal I bring into this company to make money. And since we’re on the subject of Nate, Willow tells me you have a problem with the way we do things around here. I suggest you keep that little nugget under your hair weave, too.” He laughed again, louder this time.
“Fuck you!”
“Nice. Just about what I expected from someone like you. If I hear you’ve uttered a word to a board member about our little business operation, I’ll destroy you.”
I stood cemented to the floor like Lot’s wife from the Bible, turning into a pillar of fear instead of salt.
“And as for the police, it’s probably not a good idea to direct them to me again. You might not like what I have to tell them.” He placed an index finger to his lips. “Remember . . . shhh. All this is our little secret. If you don’t tell, I won’t tell.” He glanced down at his watch and gave a sly grin before he opened the door and strolled out of my office.
And for the first time in my entire professional life I did something I’d never done. I cried in my office.
Chapter 29
Every lie you tell, every secret you keep, is a fragile little thing that must be protected and accounted for. One misstep, one miscalculation, and your safe little treasures can topple the perfect life you’ve built around them. This became all too real to me after Jonathan’s threat. Everything I had worked so hard to protect—my career, my reputation, my secrets—were on the brink of being exposed. I hated Jonathan. I finally understood why Michael was consulting a white-collar defense attorney. He knew Jonathan was laundering dirty money. But if Jonathan thought he could kill my brother and threaten me without paying for it, he was sadly mistaken.
Killing Sam would be the worst mistake he ever made.
Jonathan left. A few minutes later, my landline rang. I jumped. I didn’t recognize the number, so I decided to let it roll over. Anita could answer and take a message. Moments later, Anita eased in the door of my office, her face sad and filled with concern. I dabbed at the corner of my eyes, trying to wipe away the tears without her seeing.
“What is it, Anita?”
“Ellice?”
I spun my chair away from her, talking to her over my shoulder. “Now is not a good time. What do you need?”
“Detective Bradford is on the line for you. I tried to take a message, but she said it had something to do with your brother?” I spun back around. Anita stood in front of me, wringing her hands. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, thanks. Close the door behind you.” Shit! Why the hell did Bradford say that? Now it would be all over the office that I had a brother no one knew about.
I took a deep breath and picked up the receiver. “Detective, you talked to Jonathan. Are you going to arrest him for killing my brother?”
“That’s why I’m calling. We’ve spoken to Mr. Everett. It would really help me out if you could come down to the station to give me some additional information. Just a few questions.”
“Of course.” I hung up the phone, slightly relieved that the police might finally be doing their job.
* * *
I was surprised when I walked into the Atlanta Police Department. I’d foolishly imagined the place would look like it did on the television show Law & Order—a large open room buzzing with police officers going to and fro, handing off files containing all sorts of incriminating evidence, telephones ringing off the hook with callers in distress. Instead, I found a typical-looking open space with half-wall cubicles, most of them empty.
I stepped up to a sleepy-looking gentleman reading a newspaper at his desk—sixties, threadbare corduroy jacket, and ill-fitting brown pants. I could tell he hadn’t put any real effort into his appearance since the Clinton administration. His whole drab demeanor made me think he was simply biding his time until the paperwork approvals for his retirement came in.
He peered over the top of his newspaper with a couple of jaundiced eyes. “May I help you?”
“Yes. I’m looking for Detective Shelly Bradford.”
“And you are?”
“I’m Ellice Littlejohn from Houghton Transportation.”
The officer raised his eyebrows before he folded the newspaper and stood. I wasn’t surprised by his reaction. Everyone in here probably buzzed about the hotshot detective investigating the murderous enclave at Houghton Transportation. My showing up was likely the highlight of this guy’s day.
“Why don’t you have a seat?” He pointed to a row of dingy upholstered chairs against the wall and then disappeared down a hallway.
I didn’t budge. God only knows what had sat in those stained and ratty old chairs over the years. He couldn’t make me sit there, even under threat of arrest. I canvassed the room again. This whole place made my skin crawl. I scanned the old man’s desk. Aside from his folded newspaper and a half-eaten cheese Danish, nothing was particularly enlightening. I was bored just looking around this station.
“Hello, Ms. Littlejohn. Thanks for coming in to speak with us,” Detective Bradford said as she approached. “You remember my partner, Detective Burke.” My stomach did a somersault. I’d forgotten about her partner. I fought mightily against the panic creeping in.
Detective Burke was casually dressed in a blue button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and slacks. His brown bald head glistened. Detective Bradford, in a break with her usual formality, had removed her suit jacket to reveal a silk white blouse and wool pants.
She led our little trio into a small box posing as an “interview room.” The fluorescent lights and the government-green walls produced a dull yellowish tint to the space, giving all three of us a sickly, unnatural appearance. A narrow window in the corner tendered a sliver of light that reflected off the metal table in the center of the room, but hardly enough to invigorate the tight space. Bradford and Burke took the two chairs that sat side by side, leaving me the lone chair across from them.
“Can I get you something? Water, Coke?” Bradford asked.
“I’m fine.”
“Let me say first, I am very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
She nodded. “Were you and your brother close?”
I stared at the detective for a beat. “Yes. Why?”
“I’m just wondering if you knew any of his friends or enemies. Anyone you could think of that might want to kill him.”
“I thought you said you spoke to Jonathan. He’s involved in Sam’s death, right?”
Bradford glanced at her partner. “We’re narrowing in on a suspect. We’re just trying to gather more information. When was the last time you spoke to your brother?”
“I told you, last night.”
“And what did the two of you talk about?”
“I told you. He said Jonathan hired him to trail Gallagher. But he didn’t kill him. Jonathan set him up.”
Detective Bradford nodded as if she understood.
“What did your brother do for a living?”
“As of yesterday, he was doing surveillance work for Jonathan Everett. We’ve covered all this.” I stared at the window, a small ration of sunlight forcing its way through the slim frame. I knew the police had already collected the highlights of Sam’s long and sordid criminal record. They didn’t need me for that information. “Who is this suspect you’re narrowing in on?”
Detective Burke cleared his throat and opened a folder in front of him. He scrutinized the papers inside. “Let’s go back to the day Mr. Sayles was murdered. You said you arrived around seven A.M., but not to meet with Mr. Sayles. Is that correct?”
I clasped my hands together underneath the table. “Yes.”
Burke cleared his throat again, but the rasp was still there. “His assistant told us you and Mr. Sayles typically met around seven A.M. His wife also told us you usually had early morning meetings with her husband. Were you in Mr. Sayles’s office the morning he was murdered?”
I could feel the air leave my lungs like a balloon slowly deflating and shrinking. The lights in this small box of a room seemed to dim around me. It finally dawned on me who they were closing in on as a suspect and it wasn’t Jonathan. I started calculating the damage I’d done by lying to Bradford previously and now, coming in to speak with the police without a lawyer. I couldn’t leave now without looking like I had something to hide.
Bradford and Burke continued to stare across the table at me; neither of them blinked.
“Look, I did go to Michael’s office that morning but when I arrived, he was already dead. I got scared and just left.”
The two of them gazed at each other. Bradford shook her head in her typical judgmental way. “Let me understand this. You discovered Mr. Sayles dead and you didn’t call for help?” she stressed.
I sat silent. They could think whatever they wanted. I’d spent the better part of a week kicking myself over my atrocious behavior.
“Why not?” she said.
“I told you. I was in shock. I was scared. Leaving a dead body is not a crime.”
The two of them stared at me for a beat before glancing at each other again. Doubt and skepticism loomed across their faces.
“So how long have you known Mr. Sayles?” Detective Burke said, leaning forward into the table.
“Almost ten years.”
“And you’ve always worked for him during those years?”
“Mostly.”
“First at the law firm Dillon & Beck and then at Houghton?” Burke said.
“Yes. But what does that have to do with my brother’s death?”
“How would you describe your relationship with Mr. Sayles?” Burke asked.
I gave a deep sigh but no answer as I looked across the table at him. I gazed at his gold wedding band before I lowered my eyes to the table.
They knew.
“What happened at the law firm, Ms. Littlejohn?” Burke asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Why did you both leave the firm?”
“I don’t see what this has to do with anything.” But I was a lawyer. I knew this line of questioning was all fair game.
“We talked to Mrs. Sayles. She said you were sleeping with her husband. She told us your affair had become a distraction at the law firm where you worked. You two were asked to leave the law firm and you followed him over to Houghton.”
“It wasn’t like that . . .” I began, my eyes still glued to Detective Burke. What did he think of me? Now I was ashamed and embarrassed. They were making it sound so sordid and one-sided.
Detective Bradford perked up. “Were you two still sleeping together before he was murdered?”
I turned away from their prying eyes. They’d delved into my personal life and came out swinging. They were trying to force me to discuss an area of my life that was painful and stupid, but it had nothing to do with Sam’s or Michael’s murders. I didn’t utter a word.
Detective Burke stepped in again. “Ms. Littlejohn, we recovered your brother’s cell phone. It appears you left several voice mails for your brother. You sounded rather irritated. Why is that?”
“What are you talking about?”
“There was an iPhone on your brother’s body. We were able to open it using his thumbprint. You left him several voice mails over the past few days,” he said.
“I hadn’t heard from him . . . I was just worried, I guess.” I tried to remember all the messages I left for Sam. The night I broke into his house, the day after, when I discovered who Geoffrey Gallagher was, the day Sam’s and Gallagher’s bodies were discovered. On every single message I left for him, I must have sounded like some shrieking banshee bellowing for him to return my calls.
“How about the message you left a few days ago? You said: ‘What the hell’s going on? The police have footage of you in the lobby of my job and what’s the deal with Geoffrey Gallagher?’ That’s the message you left for your brother.”
I sat still as a stone.
Detective Burke continued, “Early this morning, you left the following voice mail, ‘Sam, where are you? The police found the lawyer’s body.’ Let me ask you, Ms. Littlejohn, would that lawyer have been Geoffrey Gallagher?”
I felt faint, like the lights were dimming around me. I didn’t say a word.
