'Annette and I were girls together, and somehow we've managed to maintain a friendship, even though she's done a great many things I don't approve of." Her tone was remarkably judgmental, and I was reminded momentarily of the old "church lady" routine Dana Car-vey used to do on Sat.u.r.day Night Live. Sat.u.r.day Night Live. But then she chuckled, and the warmth came back into her eyes. 'Annette is my friend, despite her selfish, immoral blunders." But then she chuckled, and the warmth came back into her eyes. 'Annette is my friend, despite her selfish, immoral blunders."

"I take it you're referring to Celia Jones."

"Yes. Miss Celia Jones." A pained look, a grimace really, settled on her face and she gulped her coffee down hard, as if washing Celia down with it. "Did you know Miss Celia Jones?"

It was odd the way she phrased it, spitting out Celia's name. The bond between us was suddenly broken; the mere mention of the possibility of a relationship with Celia had snapped it. She was the aloof, proper lady again, the one I'd spoken to on the phone. But in a way, I was relieved. We were back on a professional level, and I could ask blunt questions more honestly.

"She was my best friend in high school."

"I hope she was a better friend to you than she was to many others."

"I hadn't seen her in years."

"That was wise on your part."

"You mentioned before that you met her at a women's shelter?" I said, eager to go back to why I'd come.

"Yes."

"I understand that you introduced Celia to Annette Sampson."

"Yes, I did."

"I sensed that Mrs. Sampson was very bitter over the fact that Celia left her. Was she angry because you introduced her?"

"No. We still have our breakfasts. Annette didn't blame me. My regret is bringing Celia Jones into all of our lives, but I was just trying to do the right thing. How could I possibly know it would end up like this." She shook her head slowly, as if still trying to fathom the unraveling of her friend's life.

"I'm curious about Brent Liston. You stated when we spoke before that the judge had helped Celia escape from him?"

I couldn't tell exactly what aspect of her face changed. Was it her eyes that widened slightly or her lower lip that hardened into a pout? Something was altered. I wondered if it was the mention again of her husband or had it been the thought of Brent Liston.

"It's pretty simple really," she said, her tone belied what showed on her face. "I took Celia to meet Clayton, and he was very kind to her. I think he felt very sorry for her because he did everything he could to make things easier for her. I found out after he died that he had even given her some money; he was that kind of man. He put away Liston to help her feel safe. Liston had just gotten out, but both Clayton and I agreed that she should be protected from him, so he put him away for a while to protect her and her son."

I got an eerie feeling in my bones and suddenly I was afraid for her, living alone as she did in this big house.

"Has Brent Liston ever threatened you?"

"No."

"You mentioned before that you're going out of town tomorrow. To Connecticut, I think you said. Will you be safe there?"

She smiled, trying to put me at ease. "I feel very safe there. It's isolated, but I like it that way, and I can take care of myself. Thanks so much for your concern, Ms. Hayle. Can I call you Tamara? I've shared so much of myself with you, I feel as if I know you. Please call me Rebecca."

"Okay. Thanks. Tamara is fine. Where in Connecticut are you going?"

'About half an hour out of Hartford in a small town called Ash-ton. It's a lovely old town founded in the 1700s, mostly woods and farmland. Clayton and I fell in love with the place the moment we saw it. Maybe you and your son would like to visit me someday."

"I'd love to," I said but couldn't picture Jamal sitting happily in a house in the woods with two middle-aged women for more than fifteen minutes. "Is it hard to find?"

"Not if you know where to look. The town is very small, and everybody knows everybody else. We're the only black people who've bought there, so you can literally ask anybody in town-any gas station or convenience store attendant-where Judge Donovan lives, and they can tell you."

"Do you ever feel vulnerable, like if some criminal wanted to get even with the judge, he'd know where to find him?" I thought again of Brent Liston.

"It doesn't worry me, but I think it must have occurred to Clayton. He doesn't like guns, but he kept several there, and he showed me how to use them."

"Probably a good idea. It must be great to have a country home. Most folks I know considered themselves lucky to have the one they live in."

"It's fun during the summer. We used to have friends visit us all the time. Larry Walton came up regularly with his wife and daughter when they were together, and Annette and Drew spent many weekends with us. I like to go there in the winter now. I love to see the leaves change in October, and that first snowfall. Clayton is always with me."

She began to gather up the coffee items, placing them back on the tray, and I recalled Annette Sampson's hint that it was time for me to go. But yesterday's tension was absent today. I admired this woman's quiet dignity and suddenly cared a great deal about her welfare.

"I have one more question," I said.

"Sure. What is it?"

"Why did you go to Celia's funeral, Rebecca?"

"Because it was the proper thing to do," she said quietly, and after we had shared our thoughts about loneliness, insomnia, and the virtues of good coffee, I left Rebecca Donovan to her memories and headed back to my office.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

It was going on noon when I left Rebecca Donovan, so I picked up some lunch and the when I left Rebecca Donovan, so I picked up some lunch and the Star-Ledger Star-Ledger on the way back to my office and made another attempt to contact Aaron Dawson. His phone was still disconnected, so I settled down to enjoy my tuna on rye, Diet c.o.ke, and whole-wheat doughnut picked up as a special treat from the Dunkin' Donuts on Central Avenue. on the way back to my office and made another attempt to contact Aaron Dawson. His phone was still disconnected, so I settled down to enjoy my tuna on rye, Diet c.o.ke, and whole-wheat doughnut picked up as a special treat from the Dunkin' Donuts on Central Avenue.

Although Rebecca Donovan hadn't told me anything new, I was sure she'd turn out to be a valuable resource. Even though the mere mention of Celia's name had set the woman's teeth on edge, there hadn't been the pa.s.sionate response I'd gotten from others. Whether people loved or hated the girl, they seemed to do it with all their heart.

I rarely read the business section, but I did today and was rewarded for my effort with an article about Drew Sampson under the heading "Home-Grown Businessman Makes Good." The story gave a brief history of Sampson's life and told how he'd inherited a single drugstore from his father and turned it into a thriving small chain by the time he was forty. According to the article, he'd made a killing when he sold his business, and was looking forward to retiring and traveling to places "far and unknown." He was eager to spend quality time with his family, the article observed, because over the years he felt he'd neglected them and wanted to make up for lost time. I sucked my teeth in disgust when I read that.

The article also said that Sampson was a "model" citizen who "gave back" to the community and was proud to have grown up in Newark. There was a blurb at the bottom of the story announcing his lunchtime appearance at the Businessman's Club to which the public was welcome; the fifty-dollar price tag could be written off because the proceeds would go to charity.

I glanced at my watch. It was almost 12:30. If I hurried, I'd be able to pay my fifty bucks and catch him at the club. Although I hated spending money on lunch when I'd already eaten, I knew I couldn't miss the opportunity to confront Sampson in person. I had no idea what I was going to say, but at least I'd have a chance to observe him and maybe get a reaction out of him that might be helpful. It was clear that he wasn't going to give me an interview, so this would be the best I could do. Surprise is always an essential element when you want to pry the truth out of somebody, especially if you ambush him in a public place.

I'd worn my good gray suit for my interview with Rebecca Donovan, and luckily taken off my jacket when I gobbled down my lunch so the mayonnaise that found its way to the front of my blouse missed the lapel. Fortunately, I keep a paisley silk scarf along with a spare pair of heels and a decent-looking pocketbook in my file cabinet for such emergencies. I tied the scarf jauntily around my neck, successfully concealing the stain, dumped the contents of my trusty Kenya bag into my leather handbag, and squeezed my feet into a pair of stylish heels. I ducked into the ladies' room down the hall for a quick self-appraisal and figured I looked professional enough to walk into the club without arousing suspicion, especially if I folded my coat so the lint wouldn't show and checked it at the door.

The Businessman's Club is tucked away on a side street off Broad. It's been around for the last few decades, managing to avoid the devastation that followed the riots in the 1960s, just in time to hold its head high during the 1990s in the "renaissance" that now marks the city. In the old days, most of the members were white, but now there are nearly as many black and Latino faces. Club members have played an important role in the rebuilding of Newark, even though the vast majority of them live in the affluent suburbs, and until recently wouldn't be caught dead in the city after dark, but the opening of the New Jersey Performing Arts Center and the presence of the new baseball team, the Newark Bears, changed all that. The "Club," as it's called by insiders, was and continues to be the the civic organization to belong to, even though membership cost more than I make in six months. civic organization to belong to, even though membership cost more than I make in six months.

It didn't surprise me that Drew Sampson was a member, and I'd read somewhere that Larry Walton had been inducted, too. I also recalled seeing a plaque from the club in the Donovan sunroom, so they counted the late judge among the membership. Jake had been invited to join, but declined the honor. He said he didn't completely trust the city's powers-that-be and was uncomfortable mixing and mingling with them.

As I walked into the club, I tried to maintain an air of self-confidence, but my "good" shoes had tightened around my feet like vises, making a graceful entrance impossible. I stumbled into the foyer like a drunk, then stood in awe of my surroundings. It was an old building that had been renovated to reflect the power of its members. The place was lit by chandeliers, and the mahogany walls and heavy velvet draperies kept sunlight to a minimum. The room was cavernous but divided into nooks and crannies designed for clandestine meetings and lucrative business deals. The air vibrated with testosterone. A maitre d' dressed in a maroon uniform that matched the draperies stopped me when I entered.

"The lunch has begun, ma'am," he said with a glare, as if he'd caught me swiping rolls from a serving tray.

"I'm so sorry, but I was held up in an important meeting," I whispered back.

"I'm afraid the remaining tickets are for members and guests only."

'Actually I'm meeting one of your members, Larry Walton," I said, taking a gamble, which considering the tone of our last conversation, was cheeky as h.e.l.l. The manager hesitated for a moment and then led me to a chair in the back of the room.

"I'm afraid you'll have to sit here for the time being. Mr. Walton is seated in the front. I'd rather not interrupt the lecture."

"Thank you very much," I said as I settled into my seat.

As I glanced around the club, my lips curled in disgust; this place certainly lived up to its name. The only other women present were either waiting on tables or brought by their bosses as table decoration. By all rights, my friends Annie and Wyvetta, who both own small businesses, should have been members, but neither had ever been invited to join.

Larry Walton was seated near the podium as the maitre d' had mentioned, and his attention, like that of everybody else, was fixed on Drew Sampson, who, I a.s.sumed by the rapt attention of the audience, was sharing vital advice on small businesses. But my small business had about as much in common with his as I did with the men who surrounded me. It was a big deal for me to pay my public service bill every month, and there were no potential buyers for Hayle Investigative Services anywhere on the horizon. I tuned out most of what he was saying and focused my attention on him.

He had the straight black hair and caramel-colored complexion of a South American expatriate, which made me recall Larry's comments about his Cuban grandmother. He wore an obviously expensive pin-striped suit with predictable tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs-gold cuff links, conservative tie, black wing-tipped shoes-but his c.o.c.ky manner and delivery was irritating. I remembered his rudeness on the phone and hoped he wouldn't curse me out when I approached him, even though in this rarefied world he'd probably watch what he said.

My ears perked up when he mentioned his travel plans. He repeated what had been reported in the newspaper about his desire to visit countries "far and unknown" adding a comment on his "curiosity" about distant kin he'd never met. He further emphasized the importance of connecting with his "roots" and how his "killing" would make it possible. I recalled his wife's comments about him being capable of murdering Celia, and the mention of "killing" and the grin on his face when he said it, made my skin crawl. His emphasis on family connections sounded as if he were preparing to move to Cuba, where he could live out his days untroubled by the American justice system. I've dealt with enough murderers to know that their violent actions often go hand in hand with their arrogance, and Drew Sampson struck me as just c.o.c.ky enough to be publicly flaunting getting away with murder. Sampson wound up his talk with an appeal to all those who loved our "fair city," as he called Newark, to support it in as many ways as they could.

The room gave him a standing ovation, and I headed with the rest of the crowd to the front of the room to offer congratulations. Drew Sampson obviously had no idea that I was the annoying PI who had called him earlier in the week, so I was embraced by the warmth of his phony smile along with everybody else. I tried to linger near the edge of the crowd waiting for it to thin out. Unfortunately, I was spotted by Larry Walton, as he made his way to the exit.

"Tamara Hayle, what are you doing here?" He was clearly puzzled by my presence.

"Well, you know, Larry, I'm a small businessperson, just like you and everybody else, and I wanted to learn how to make my business grow," I stuttered, flashing what I hoped was a convincing grin.

"You're not here to-"

"Cause trouble? No, of course not!" I said, antic.i.p.ating his question. "I just want to say a few words to Mr. Sampson. Can I call you later?"

He hesitated for a moment. 'A few words like what?"

"My feelings about his interesting presentation," I said. "Can I call you?"

He looked doubtful. "Sure. I'm glad you're not still mad at me about the other night."

"Mad about the other night? Oh, no. Of course not! It's completely forgotten."

He looked relieved. "I'll talk to you later then?"

"Later!" I said, praying that the guest of honor hadn't heard Larry say my name.

Grinning all the way, I edged closer to Sampson, falling in step with the admirers who had gathered to hear his sage advice. As the only woman in the crowd, I immediately caught his eye, and he gave me that self-important, condescending smile that "successful" men bestow on women in these situations. I smiled back coyly.

"Well, miss. How can I be of help to you?" His high-pitched voice oozed charm.

"I just have a couple of questions for you. Is this a good time?" I added a cute shoulder twitch that suggested I might be up for some fun and games later if he wanted to wait around.

"Sure, miss. Now's as good a time as any." He nodded benevolently.

"Did you kill Celia Jones?" I asked, the grin still on my face.

Confusion filled his eyes. "What did you say?"

"I said, did you kill Celia Jones?"

The color drained from his face, and a hush went through the surrounding crowd. Still grinning like a fool, I kept my eyes glued on him. "Mr. Sampson, the cops didn't grill you like they should have, and somebody has to. You had reason to kill Celia Jones, and she was my friend. Now I'm asking you the question again, did you murder Celia Jones?"

I didn't really expect an answer and got what I expected. He'd been pale before, now his face turned as red as a strawberry. For one awful moment, I thought he was going to hit me, and the thought must have occurred to him, too, because he raised his hand and that that look came into his eyes. He must have thought better of it, though, because he dropped his hand down to his side, but his fingers beat an impatient rhythm on his pin-striped leg. look came into his eyes. He must have thought better of it, though, because he dropped his hand down to his side, but his fingers beat an impatient rhythm on his pin-striped leg.

"Who the f.u.c.k let this woman in here?" he said to n.o.body in particular, all the veneer of the cla.s.sy businessman dripping away with the "f" word. It didn't seem to bother him, though, because he said it again. "I asked you people, who the f.u.c.k let this b.i.t.c.h in here, somebody get her the f.u.c.k out of here."

People moved away from me so fast you'd have thought I'd pulled out an AK-47. I didn't give a d.a.m.n, though; I stayed right in his face.

'And why did you bother to go to Celia's funeral after what you did? Why were you there when you hated her like you did? It was guilt, wasn't it? You're d.a.m.ned guilty!"

He stepped toward me, the only person who dared. I took a step backward nearly tripping in my too-tight heels. His eyes narrowed in hatred, and when he spoke his words came straight from his heart.

"Now you listen to me, and you listen good. I didn't talk to you before because it's none of your d.a.m.n business. I didn't kill Celia Jones and anyone who says I did is a liar. You want to know why I went to that tramp's funeral? Because I wanted to spit on her coffin for what she did to me and my family. I wanted her to know that I had the last laugh. I had the last word on my wife and kid, not her!"

'And you said those words when you shot her through the belly, just like you're saying them now, didn't you!" I shouted out my my last words, just as two burly brothers dressed like waiters grabbed my arms. last words, just as two burly brothers dressed like waiters grabbed my arms.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" I screamed in protest.

"Seeing you to the door, lady," the larger of the two replied.

"Let me go!"

"Sorry, lady. Orders are orders."

"I'll see you in court!" I said, thinking of Jake.

"This is a private club, lady, and you have no business here," the smaller guy said.

"How do you know I'm not a member?"

They looked at each other and laughed, then dragged me through the crowded room and gently tossed me out the front door.

The small crowd that had gathered outside watched without comment as I picked myself up off the sidewalk with as much dignity as I could muster. Head held high, I smiled at the open-mouthed spectators. Thankfully, I didn't have to walk far to my car. I got in without looking at anybody and got the h.e.l.l out of there as fast as I could.

Although my low-life departure from the high-falutin Businessman's Club hadn't proved much, I'd put Drew Sampson on notice that he might think he was beyond the reach of the law, but he wasn't beyond mine. Besides that, if something happened to me over the next few days, there were a h.e.l.luva lot of folks who would start paying attention to what I'd said. from the high-falutin Businessman's Club hadn't proved much, I'd put Drew Sampson on notice that he might think he was beyond the reach of the law, but he wasn't beyond mine. Besides that, if something happened to me over the next few days, there were a h.e.l.luva lot of folks who would start paying attention to what I'd said.

I was happy, though, that Larry Walton hadn't been around to see my performance and exit, although I was sure Sampson would tell him about it. I was sorry I'd had to use his name to get into the place, and I hoped they wouldn't penalize him for it. If he ever spoke to me again, I'd apologize.

I headed back to my office to make some notes on my work for the day-namely my conversation with Rebecca Donovan and my impression of Drew Sampson. I also called Detective Griffin and asked if I could drop by his office and talk to him as soon as possible. I hoped he'd let me review his file on Celia, and I wanted to share some of what I knew about Annette and Drew Sampson. Griffin seemed eager to talk to me, which was encouraging. We made an appointment for the following afternoon. I jotted down what I wanted to say to him and then drove home.

It had been a long, grueling day, beginning with my interview with Rebecca Donovan and ending on the sidewalk downtown. My new job was going to start on Monday morning. There were far more big-time impressive detective agencies than Hayle Investigative Services, and I sure didn't want to let Cosey down. I had only a few more days to spend on Celia's and Cecil's murders. With luck, what I told Griffin tomorrow might turn the heat up under the pot, at least enough to get it to simmer.

With the possibility of an increase in funds, I decided to take Jamal to Red Lobster for dinner. We hadn't done that in a while, and it would give me an opportunity to catch up on what he was up to. But when I entered the kitchen, I was greeted by the scent of Calvin Klein for men floating down the stairs followed by my son in his new cashmere sweater.

"Hey, Ma. You home already? I was just on my way to take the bus over to the Clearview to check out that new movie everybody's talking about."

"The bus, huh?" I was his only mode of transportation, so his choice of the bus told me he was meeting a girl and would rather not be seen getting out of his mama's car. "Jamal, it's a school night."