"No, it's not. They're having some kind of teachers' workshop tomorrow, so there's no school."

"How come I didn't know about this?"

"Mom, I gave you the notice! Don't you remember?" He pointed to a xeroxed sheet taped on the refrigerator door. I remembered then that he'd mentioned something about it earlier in the week. I'd been so preoccupied with Celia and her boy, I hadn't half heard him.

"Okay, but I think you should restrict dates to the weekend."

"Date!" He looked alarmed. "Who said anything about a date. I'm just kind of meeting some friends across town for a movie."

'And one of these friends is female?"

He shrugged with a bashful grin.

"So I guess you don't feel like going out to Red Lobster with your tired old mom for some fried shrimp tonight, huh?"

He hesitated, but just for a moment. "No, Mom. Not tonight."

I smiled despite my disappointment. "Be home by midnight. Don't forget your cell, and if you need a ride home, don't be too proud to call me."

"Okay. Love you, Mom," he said, as he headed out the door.

I sat down at my kitchen table, poured myself a gla.s.s of chardon-nay then called the Chinese restaurant down the street for some egg foo young and spring rolls, which I polished off in record time. My body was feeling sore from the trip to the sidewalk, so I decided that a warm bath might do me some good. I was just about to climb into the tub when my cell phone rang. I had to dig through my bag to find it. The woman was crying so hard, I didn't recognize her voice.

"Tamara Hayle?"

"Yes, who is this?"

"It's Annette. Annette Sampson. Pik is dead. Drew Junior's best friend Pik is dead. That boy who Drew hung out with. Pik! He's dead! Somebody stabbed him through his heart just like they did Celia's boy. Somebody stabbed him right through the heart."

"What! When did it happen?"

"Pik is dead!" she said again. "My boy is next. Drew is next. Whoever killed Pik is coming after Drew, too. I know it in my heart. I know it in my heart! I'm being punished for Celia. I know the Lord is punishing me for Celia!"

I sat down on the bed, my own heart thumping. "Do the police have any idea who did it?"

"No!"

"Where is your son now?"

"I don't know. I don't know! Please help me!"

'Are you at home?"

"Yes."

"Do you want me to come over there?"

She waited so long before she answered me I thought something had happened to her. But when she finally spoke, her voice was calm. "No, that's okay."

Somebody was with her; I was sure of that. 'Are you there alone?"

There was silence, and then a m.u.f.fled sound, as if she'd put her hand over the receiver. "I can't talk now."

'Are you afraid? Do you want me to call the police?"

"No. Please don't call the police. Definitely don't call the police!"

"Okay. I won't. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine now," she said and did sound better. "Ms. Hayle, are you still there?" she said after a moment.

"Yes, I am."

"What we talked about before, you know when you came to my house, you made me remember something that Celia showed me that might make a difference. I don't think it's important enough to go to the police about, and I couldn't do that even if I wanted to, but I need to talk to you about it. Is that okay?"

"Sure. What is it?"

She hesitated. "I don't want to go into it now. I can't."

'Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes. I'm fine now. Can we meet tomorrow afternoon?"

"No, I can't tomorrow afternoon," I said, remembering my appointment with Griffin. "How about early tomorrow morning?"

"No, I have another engagement, but Friday afternoon is okay. I'm fine now, really," she added as if she sensed my apprehension.

She did sound better, so we agreed on Friday afternoon at three. But I had a nagging feeling that things weren't right with her, and I couldn't get what she said about the Lord punishing her for Celia out of my mind.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

The room was depressing as h.e.l.l. The walls were a sad blend of inst.i.tutional gray and brown, and the furnishings a variation on the same tired theme. The air stank of the sweat that comes from hard work, fear, and rage mixed with the smell of overboiled coffee, last night's KFC, and cheap aftershave lotion. In short, this room filled with narrow cubicles and fluorescent lights was like every other squad room I'd ever been in. The walls were a sad blend of inst.i.tutional gray and brown, and the furnishings a variation on the same tired theme. The air stank of the sweat that comes from hard work, fear, and rage mixed with the smell of overboiled coffee, last night's KFC, and cheap aftershave lotion. In short, this room filled with narrow cubicles and fluorescent lights was like every other squad room I'd ever been in.

I felt a vague sense of discomfort as I gave the young officer at the reception desk my name and waited for him to take me to Detective Griffin. Being in this s.p.a.ce brought back both a tragic day in my life along with my memories of the racism and s.e.xism that eventually drove me from the force in Belvington Heights. Those memories were bitter, and I tried hard not to think about them. There was no sense in going to my meeting with Griffin clouded by angry memories of a bunch of evil b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Griffin was a good man, I knew that. Most cops I knew were good men, and I couldn't let the memory of a few rotten apples distort my feelings for the whole bunch. Yet I was always uneasy in police precincts; I just couldn't shake it.

Griffin and I spotted each other at the same moment, and his face broke into a grin as the young cop led me to his cubicle. It was one of the largest in the room, which told me he'd achieved some rank since I'd last seen him. Griffin hadn't changed much, although age had taken its toll like it does on everybody. There was just a hint of the reddish-brown hair that once covered his head, and his stocky frame carried more pounds than it should. The deference the younger cop displayed indicated he'd won the respect of those under him, which is no small thing to gain. Citations from half a dozen community groups and photographs of him receiving awards from various city dignitaries decorated the wall behind him as did his diploma from the police academy. He'd been in the cla.s.s under my brother Johnny, and I recalled how much that fact had comforted me the first time I met him. Always a gentleman, he rose as I entered his cubicle and took my hand.

"Tamara Hayle, it's good to see you again. I'm glad the circ.u.mstances are different this time."

"Thank you so much for giving me this time, Detective," I said, settling into the rocky chair across from him.

"How's that son of yours? Jamal, isn't it?"

I eagerly filled him in on what Jamal was doing, and how much I would miss him when he went off to school. Griffin smiled at that, and we both chuckled about how quickly time pa.s.ses and children grow up. I was touched by his interest in my son and reminded again of how kind he'd been to us on the day that Jamal's half brother was murdered. After a few more moments of niceties, he discreetly glanced at his watch, a subtle indication that it was time to explain why I'd come.

The mention of Celia Jones brought a sad nod that made me wonder if they were any closer to solving her case than he'd been a month ago. Cecil's name, however, brought a different response.

"We're reasonably sure we've identified the person who killed the boy," he said with a self-satisfied smile. 'As a matter of fact, we were on the verge of making an arrest when, shall we say, fate stepped in and took charge of the situation."

"Fate? What do you mean?"

"Well, let's leave it at that for now." He was a good cop, and knew better than to compromise an investigation by sharing information that shouldn't be shared. His eyes softened momentarily and he added, "It's a sad thing what's happening in our neighborhoods. Kids with guns. Kids with knives. Well, in my day, well, I won't even go into that, but the kid who murdered young Cecil-"

"Kid? Are you sure it was a kid?" His response surprised and disturbed me.

"We're very sure," he said. 'As for Celia Jones? There, we're not so sure, but we have a couple of good leads. Could I ask you what your interest is in these cases?"

"Someone hired me to find out who killed Celia Jones."

"So they didn't like the progress we were making, eh?" he said with a self-deprecating chuckle that let me know I was stepping into his territory.

"It was her son."

He looked skeptical. "The kid who was stabbed?"

"Yes, Cecil Jones. He came by my office a few days before he was murdered, and said that he wanted to talk to me about finding his mother's killer. He dropped off some things. A journal she was keeping, a few knickknacks, a-"

I could hear the annoyance in Griffin's voice when he interrupted me. "Journal? What kind of journal? Why didn't you bring these things in? And what were these knickknacks?"

"There was a piece of jewelry that I didn't think had anything to do with the murder, and the journal was the property of her son. I didn't feel I should turn it over to anybody without his permission."

"But he's dead."

"I know."

"It could have been helpful to us. You should have known better," he said, scolding me like an annoyed parent, and I found myself responding like a naughty child.

"Well, I know, I should have, Detective Griffin, but, well, it belonged to the kid. It was his property after all, and I thought he was coming back."

I didn't bother to add what we both knew, that as a private investigator my first responsibility was to my client and not to the police, thus any property that I received from him should go back to him or his heirs, which in this case might be Cristal's baby son. But I also knew that Griffin was doing me a favor by talking to me about an open investigation. There was no need to rub it in his face; I needed to stay on his good side.

But he didn't back down. "You were a good cop, and you're a good private detective, Ms. Hayle. You should have brought the book in. It might have something in it that would be helpful. You know as well as I do that if clues aren't found, if you don't interview witnesses in the first twenty-four hours after a crime, it's harder than h.e.l.l to solve it. We're lucky-"

"I'm sorry I didn't bring it in, but I've done some research on my own that I think might be helpful," I interrupted him, eager to share what I knew and reinstate myself as a responsible member of the law enforcement establishment.

Griffin moved to the chair beside me, pulling it around to face me so that we were eye to eye. I took it as a good sign; he was ready to listen. "Why don't you tell me what you have, and I'll see what we can do with it," he said, his eyes fixed on mine.

"Well, I mentioned the book," I said, glad to have his attention.

"Which I want to see as soon as possible."

"Yes. Well, she'd written some names in it and telephone numbers."

Griffin picked up a pad and pencil waiting for me to continue. 'Annette Sampson, Aaron Dawson, and Rebecca Donovan," I said.

"Clayton Donovan's wife? Shame about the judge, wasn't it?"

"She introduced Celia to Annette Sampson."

If he was surprised by the names I mentioned he didn't show it. But I'd been trained as a cop, too, and I knew never to show what I really felt. That was one of the rules of the interview, and although I was doing the talking, I realized suddenly that I was the one being interviewed.

"So what else was in the book?"

"Well, there were the telephone numbers, some scribbling, letters from the alphabet that made no sense. I called the telephone numbers and I've done some informal interviews."

"With who?"

For the first time, I detected irritation in his voice. "Well, I spoke to Annette Sampson, Rebecca Donovan, and Larry Walton. I also had an unfortunate run-in with the boy's father. Brent Liston. By the way, did Celia Jones have a restraining order against him?"

Alarm registered on his face. 'Against Brent Liston? Not that I know of. What did he do to you?"

"He threatened me."

"If he does that again, call us immediately, do you understand? You You may have to get a restraining order against him." may have to get a restraining order against him."

"Thank you, but I can take care of myself," I said.

He looked at me uneasily and then continued, "So what do you think Larry Walton has to do with this?"

"He knew Celia Jones."

"Walton's the guy who sells cars, right?"

"Yes."

"My wife bought a car from him last year. Sweetheart of a deal. h.e.l.luva nice guy. So you said you interviewed him because he knew Celia Jones, right?"

"Yes."

"If the number of men in Newark who knew knew Celia Jones were interviewed, we'd have to talk to half the city," he said with an ironic smile. "Did you say that Walton's name was in her book?" Celia Jones were interviewed, we'd have to talk to half the city," he said with an ironic smile. "Did you say that Walton's name was in her book?"

"No, it wasn't. Actually our interview was informal. I ran into Larry Walton when I bought a car from him, and I remembered him from high school, when Celia and I were best friends."

"Wait a minute. So you you were close to Celia Jones?" were close to Celia Jones?"

"Well, I hadn't seen her in a number of years." I knew by the tilt of his head that my objectivity was being questioned. I hoped my answer would dispel his skepticism.

'And you bought a car from Larry Walton, the guy you ended up interviewing?"

"Well, it was a coincidence," I said, uncomfortably aware of the subtle criticism of my professionalism.

"Where did you interview him?"