Least Wanted (Sam McRae Mystery 2)

She nodded, still scrubbing her hands beneath an invisible tap. “I heard her talking to this man outside. He came by to visit in the afternoon. Some friend of hers with a fancy green car.”

Little D, I thought. “When was that? Do you know how long he stayed?”

“Oh, I couldn’t tell you. I just remember they were outside, talking. It was ’round four. She walked him to his car.”

“You’re sure it was four?”

“Yeah. I remember ’cause my stories were going off.”

“Did you see Shanae at all after that?”

“Not alive. I was the one who . . . found her.” Her lips pursed and her eyes were wet. “God rest her soul,” she said, her voice cracking. “Poor woman. But I’m sure Tina couldn’t have done such a brutal thing.” She dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I know they didn’t always get along, but Tina was a shy, quiet child. They had words, that’s all.”

I thought about Shanae’s history of anger management problems and Tina saying alcohol fueled her mother’s abusive behavior. It reminded me of the interviews you see on the news, after a murderer is caught. “I can’t believe it,” the neighbors say. “He was so quiet. So nice.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I knocked on a few more doors. Either no one was home or they weren’t answering. I considered what Duvall had said about the barriers to finding information in this neighborhood. He’d given me Little D’s number. I could probably afford to use him. William Jackson had agreed to pay me a healthy retainer plus expenses to defend his niece. Even so, I wasn’t going to fork over money to have someone else do what I could manage on my own—at least, not yet. And, bad as this area was, how much worse could it be than Bed-Stuy in the ’70s?

Rochelle Watson lived on the other side of Iverson Mall, in a cross-hatched network of streets near Marlow Heights Park. Another inside-the-Beltway enclave of old brick houses with big trees. The area wasn’t much different than working-class neighborhoods in other parts of the county. Apart from low-end retail stores on the nearby highway, the prevalence of rust-bucket cars and the worn-around-the-edges look of some residences, you’d never know you were in the ’hood.

As I made my way up the walk, I had the familiar feeling of eyes focused on me. Eyes behind window shades and curtains. Two elderly women in porch rockers had stared as my car cruised by. I peered down the street, to see if they were still watching me. They’d probably gone inside to talk about me. Sure, and the CIA and the FBI were probably monitoring me through field glasses. My paranoia was becoming ridiculous.

The woman who answered my knock looked like she’d just rolled out of bed. And it was almost three o’clock. She could have worked—or possibly, played—nights. She had short, blunt-cut, black hair around a thin face with a sallow complexion. After establishing that she was Tanya Watson, Rochelle’s mother, I introduced myself and asked for Rochelle. She took my card and blinked at it.

“Rochelle ain’t here,” she said, sounding listless.

“Tina Jackson says she was here with your daughter the night Shanae died. Can you verify that?”

“Shanae!” She snorted. “She lucky she lived as long as she did.”

“She could rub a person the wrong way,” I said, in a shameless bid to ingratiate myself.

“Heifer ain’t gonna rub nobody anyway no more.” Her eyelids drooped, as if she were fighting to stay awake. The cause was probably more than sleep deprivation. Tanya had the look of a heroin addict in mid-buzz. Her long-sleeved shirt probably hid track marks.

“Last Wednesday night. Do you remember if Tina was here with Rochelle and some friends?” I wondered what her memory would be worth.

I heard a toilet flush and an older woman, rounder than Tanya, came creaking down the stairs. She walked up behind Tanya and peered over her shoulder, making Tanya appear two-headed.

“My niece ain’t feeling right,” the older woman said. “Could this wait?”

“It okay, Aunt Louise,” Tanya said, pronouncing it “ahnt” in that way that always sounds like an affectation to me. “I’ll talk to her now.” She widened her eyes, as if forcing them open.

Aunt Louise noticed the card Tanya held and snatched it from her. Looking it over, she said, “Well, if you gonna talk, why’on’t you invite this lady inside?”

It felt like deja vu. Gawks from the neighbors, followed by the once-over at the door, then an invitation inside. I began to regret my decision when I got a good look at the place.

Tanya didn’t share Mrs. Mallory’s neat-as-a-pin housekeeping ways. The women led me down a short hallway, its walls smudged with fingerprints and mysterious brown stains, to a living room crammed with furniture. Along one wall, a green velveteen sofa was wedged up against a blue loveseat, leaving barely enough space for a recliner upholstered in a variation of brown plastic. The Salvation Army rejects faced a large-screen plasma TV. Probably being paid for on the forever-and-a-day installment plan with no payments due the first year. Either that or the TV was so hot, you’d get third-degree burns if you touched it. Roaches scampered up the walls and made drunken circles near the ceiling. I glanced down and caught a few lumbering across the burnt orange carpet.

“Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Water?” Aunt Louise asked in a good-hostess tone.

“No, thanks. I’ll keep this short,” I promised. Real short. I perched on the edge of the brown recliner, poised to stomp any roaches that trespassed near me. “I had asked about last Wednesday. Were Tina and Rochelle here?”

“Yeah, they were. I saw them come in,” Tanya said.

“What time was that?”

“Lemmee think. I think it was before dinner . . . .” Tanya’s eyelids drooped again and she doubled over at the waist, nodding toward her lap. I looked at her aunt, who shook her head. She got up, grabbed Tanya’s shoulders and maneuvered her into a reclining position on the sofa. Tanya offered no resistance. I rose to help and was rebuffed. Leaving Tanya to her narcotic dreams, Louise motioned for me to follow her into the kitchen. The dingy yellow appliances matched the curtains.