My heart pounded. I held my breath.

Was he still here?

"I'm warning you, I've got a gun and I'm licensed to use it!" I made my voice sound tough, threatening, but I had no gun. It was locked in a safe in my bedroom. I was scared, and the tremble in my voice gave me away because I wanted to turn tail and run.

But was I imagining things?

Could Jamal have left the chair pushed out, the tablecloth crooked, the doormat out of place. I had been in a rush to buy the car this morning, maybe I simply hadn't noticed.

Trust your instincts.

That had been drilled into me so often when I'd been a cop, I said it in my sleep. had been drilled into me so often when I'd been a cop, I said it in my sleep.

Always trust your gut.

My place had been violated. I was sure of it now, but by whom? And what was he looking for? Had he known I wouldn't be home? Or had he been looking for me? Was he still here?

I stepped farther into the kitchen, my ears alert for any sound, my eyes searching for any sudden movement. I grabbed a butcher knife out of the knife holder next to the blue gla.s.s containers, stepped carefully, the knife tight in my hand, ready to use it if I needed to.

Silence.

Slowly, I climbed the stairs, listening for sounds, glancing behind me, all my senses sharpened. The smell was different. It was an odor from my past, heavy like perfume, but I wasn't sure where and when I had smelled it before. I stood there trying to identify it, but I couldn't remember. I entered my bedroom, scared as h.e.l.l, and went to the locked chest that held my gun. My fingers shook as I turned the combination, opened the chest, picked up the gun, and clicked off the safety. Then I searched my house-Jamal's room, closets, under the beds, bas.e.m.e.nt-my .38 in one hand, kitchen knife in the other.

I found nothing and after a while I felt foolish for having been so afraid. I placed the knife back in the holder, locked the gun back up, then collapsed on the couch, my body tense. I thought of calling Jake, then dismissed the thought. The telephone rang, the jarring sound of it startling me. It rang four times before I answered it.

"Tamara?"

"Who is this?"

"Larry Walton. I said I'd call you later, remember?"

"Yeah."

"I was wondering if you're free tomorrow. For brunch."

"Yeah."

"How about Jay's in Newark, is that okay? Let's say around one?"

"Yeah," I said, and hung up the phone, my fingers as tight around it as they'd been around the gun.

I'm not sure what made me pick up the pencil lying next to the phone and write the letters I'd seen in Celia's book on a sc.r.a.p of paper. I don't know why the letters came out in the girlish script that had been in her book, as if her hand were guiding mine.

A. Was it for Annette or Aaron? Was it for Annette or Aaron?

B. Brent? Beanie? Both? Brent? Beanie? Both?

C. D. Clayton Donovan? Clayton Donovan?

Or was C for Chessman?

CHAPTER SEVEN.

I asked Larry Walton about asked Larry Walton about Celia Jones the moment we sat down to brunch. Celia Jones the moment we sat down to brunch.

"Do you mind if we order first?" he asked with the charming grin that marked everything he said. He was a good-looking man, that was for sure, and the teenage waitress acknowledged it with a nause-atingly sweet smile as she set our table. He ordered brunch like he was serious about food, which is always a good sign in a man. Jay's was jammed, like it is every Sunday morning. I usually throw caution to the wind when I come here, wolfing down calories and carbs like they won't show up on my hips, but even the fried fish and biscuits didn't tempt me this morning.

As Larry Walton sipped his orange juice, I gulped down the first of three cups of coffee lined up in a row in front of me. It was tacky as h.e.l.l to order three cups at once, but I needed the jolt and didn't feel like waiting for refills. Last night had been another rough one. I spent the first half of the night tossing, turning, and waiting for somebody to try to break into my place again, and the second half trying to figure out what Larry was going to say to me this morning.

"You sure you don't want anything else?" he asked as the waitress set down his order of eggs, biscuits, fried porgies, and grits. The smell of fried fish has always had the power to break me, but professional integrity beat out greediness this morning. It was better not to let him treat me to brunch until I knew what role he played in Celia's drama, and I didn't want to pay for it myself; brunch at Jay's was not in my budget.

"No, I'm fine," I said.

He grinned, dimple showing. "That's what you told me yesterday. When aren't you 'fine,' Tamara Hayle? Is there ever a time when you aren't self-sufficient and self-reliant?"

"I'm fine then, and I'm fine now." I hadn't meant to sound so snappish, but it came out that way, and I didn't bother to apologize. Larry shrugged as if it didn't matter and bit into a biscuit. Neither of us spoke until he'd finished eating, and I asked the question that had been bothering me since yesterday afternoon.

"So why were you at both of their funerals?"

He took a sip of coffee, placed the cup carefully down on the table, and looked me in the eye.

"You mean Celia and her son?"

"Why else are we here?"

"Because I knew Celia."

"In the biblical sense?" I asked, hurled into nastiness by three cups of coffee on an empty stomach. "So just how close were you?"

"Close enough so I cared about her and Cecil. Close enough so that if I had ten minutes alone with the son of a b.i.t.c.h who killed her, they'd put me in jail for life," he said in a way that told me more than he knew. "I was at loose ends for a while. Marva, my wife, and I were still together, but I was very lonely, and being lonely in a bad marriage is the worst kind of loneliness. I was looking for someone to help me through a bad time. I needed some fun, and my relationship with Celia supplied both."

"So basically, you just f.u.c.ked her," I said, using the "F" word to both shock and bluntly define what I suspected was at the core of their relationship. It had the desired effect: He blushed and dropped his gaze for a moment before returning his eyes to mine.

"I suppose that some people might put it like that, but Celia was very vulnerable and kinder than anybody I've met in a very long time," he said, implying with a slightly raised eyebrow that she had it on me in the kindness department. "Celia Jones was a decent woman who never got a break, and during the time I was with her, I treated her like a queen because beneath all that tough bravado, that's what she was.

"I wasn't in love with Celia, and she certainly wasn't in love with me, she had too many other men in her life for that, and she made no secret of it, but I respected and liked her, and I hope she felt the same about me. f.u.c.king her, as you put it, was a very small part of our relationship."

It was my turn to blush. For a minute, I thought he was going to stand up and stomp out of the place. Instead, he politely asked if I'd like some more coffee, and ordered another cup for himself, keeping me on tenterhooks as he added cream and sugar and leisurely stirred it.

"So do you still play chess?" I asked, sick of the strained silence and trying for neutral ground.

He was surprised by the question. "Yes, once a chess player always a chess player. It's a game that influences your life."

I couldn't think of a follow-up to that so I asked the obvious. "Why did you invite me to brunch?"

"When I saw you yesterday, I remembered you'd been Celia's friend in high school. I figured you'd cut her out of your life like everybody else, so I didn't bring her name up, but when you came to her son's funeral I knew that at least you'd cared enough about the two of them to show up. I asked you out because I wanted to find out if you had any idea who could have killed her or her son. Will you tell me what you know?"

It's always tough to tell if somebody is leveling with you or simply tossing out a bunch of c.r.a.p to see how much you know about a given situation. That was one thing I learned in my short stint as a cop: Never immediately believe what somebody says, search for the forgotten detail that will point to the truth, don't take anyone at his word. My bulls.h.i.t meter is usually pretty accurate, but the needle was jumping all over the place this morning. The only person who could verify what Larry'd told me about him and Celia was dead. I didn't answer his question, but came from another direction.

"So was Celia the reason you and your wife broke up?"

"No. Me and Marva parted ways a long time before I started going out with Celia."

"When did you start your relationship with her?"

'About three years before she died."

"Could your wife have had it in for Celia?"

It was the first time he'd laughed since we sat down, yet his eyes didn't reflect his amus.e.m.e.nt. "Marva? No. She left me for a preacher man a year before Celia was killed. Took my daughter, Jamillah, and moved with him to Nashville. She married him the day our divorce was final. She was pregnant with his baby last time I saw her. Marva has cut out a new life for herself, and I'm happy for her."

"Did you you blame Celia for breaking up your marriage?" blame Celia for breaking up your marriage?"

"Celia didn't break up my marriage. My wife was a good woman and she deserved better from me than she got. Next time I hold a piece of gold, I'll know how to polish it."

"You mentioned other men in Celia's life. Was one of them Drew Sampson?" I asked, aiming wildly, hoping to hit something. I realized now that the Drew he'd mentioned as one of his best friends in high school must be the same Drew Sampson who had signed Morgan's guest book and was connected to Annette Sampson. The look in his eyes told me I'd hit it.

"Drew Sampson? Why are you bringing him into this?" His brow wrinkled into a frown.

"No reason. I just saw his name in Celia's diary," I said, stretching the truth.

He looked puzzled, "So you are are investigating Celia's murder then." investigating Celia's murder then."

I gave him the truth. Or part of it anyway. "She was a friend of mine. We shared some history. I thought I'd ask around a little bit."

"I've heard you're a good detective."

"I have my days."

"Will you keep me abreast of what you find out? I don't mind paying you."

"I've already been paid, thank you."

He looked confused, then went back to Drew Sampson. "So Celia kept a diary. Wow! I'm surprised Drew's name is in it. Drew is probably one of the best friends I have, and to tell the truth, I don't think he's looked at another woman since he married Annette. He spends too much time counting his money from those drugstores to-"

"Drew Sampson is Sampson Drugs?" I asked with new respect, as I connected his name to the chain of small independent drugstores that had sprouted up in neighborhoods where the big guys wouldn't go.

"The same, but not for long. He just sold it, and he got a very big check from a very big corporation. He told me a couple of days ago that he's getting the h.e.l.l out of Newark. Too many bad memories here."

"Bad memories? Like what?"

He shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. 'A lot of things have changed in Newark in the past few years." The tone in his voice reminded me of Jake's when he talked about the way the city was growing, and that caught me by surprise.

"Not fast enough for some," I said.

"Faster than they thought it would after the riots."

"The riots were a long time ago."

"Not as long ago as you think," Larry said with a chuckle, and I left my pursuit of the truth long enough to share the affection and concern I have for our city. We spoke of the city's rebirth and our excitement about what might yet happen. We laughed about local characters we both remembered who had made the city what it was. After about ten minutes of shared remembrances, I brought the conversation back to where I wanted it.

"So Drew was sick of Newark and the life he had here."

"Drew took a lot from Newark, but he gave a lot back, too. He and Annette contributed to every charity there was, and he served on half a dozen boards. He wrote more checks for benefits than most folks pay in rent."

"Where does he want to go?"

"I'm not sure. Fiji, maybe. New Zealand, places he's only read about. His grandmother was Cuban, and he talks about her a lot. He says he'd like to see Cuba before he dies."

"He's retiring, then."

"To tell the truth, Drew was always more interested in making money than making people healthy, and now that he's made a lot of it, he just wants to relax. He's a pharmacist with a broad knowledge of drugs. I call him whenever I need anything. But he's also a very astute businessman."

"Do you know why he showed up at Celia's funeral? His name was on the guest list."

He studied me for a moment as if deciding whether to level with me, then said, "He was looking for his wife. He knew that Annette would probably see the register, and he wanted her to know that he was there. At least Marva left me for another man. Drew wasn't the one involved with Celia, it was Annette. She left him for Celia Jones. It shocked the h.e.l.l out of me, too," he said, acknowledging the expression on my face. "I had no idea Celia swung both ways, as they say, but she was a free spirit, and she must have had that effect on Annette as well."

"It must have shocked the h.e.l.l out of Drew Sampson, too."

"Shock was the least of it. Annette took their son, Drew Junior, and moved back to her father's old place with Celia and her boy. Annette has a bit of the social worker in her, and according to Celia, she was trying to help her get her life together, which Celia both appreciated and resented."

"So Celia told you about their relationship?"

"Celia and I were friends. I looked out for her son as much as I could, until Annette came into the picture. I loaned her money when she needed it. But Annette was extremely possessive, which really p.i.s.sed off Celia. Annoyed the h.e.l.l out of me, too."

"She and Celia were together when Celia was murdered?"

"I'm not sure."

'Annette didn't go to her funeral, at least she didn't sign the guest book."

"I usually don't bother signing those things either, do you?"

"But you signed the one at Celia's funeral."

"I signed it for the boy, so he'd have a record of who cared enough about his mother to pay their last respects. I don't know why Annette did or didn't sign. Yesterday was the first time I'd seen her in months."

"So that was Annette Sampson you were sitting next to? I thought it might be Rebecca Donovan. Brent Liston mistook me for her."

"Liston mistook you for Rebecca? No way!" He laughed at that, too, and his expression told me that according to whatever criteria he was using, I came out the better.

"So the kid at the funeral, the one sitting in front of you and Annette, was her son, right?" I asked, although I'd already guessed it.