Least Wanted (Sam McRae Mystery 2)

Louise lowered herself into a chair next to a speckled Formica-topped table. I took the seat near hers, averting my eyes from the roach convention on the counter and checking my immediate surroundings for strays.

“I’ve begged her to join a program,” Louise said, “but will she? No. She keep shooting up that junk. All I can do is come by when I can and make sure she a

nd the kids are okay.”

You could report her to social services, I thought, but kept quiet. Louise might have viewed it as a betrayal, rather than a way to help Tanya. Besides, if Aunt Louise wasn’t volunteering to raise the kids, who would? And who knows if they would be better off in the system than under the care of their own mother? From my brief observation, it appeared that Tanya was managing with her aunt’s help.

Managing? My inner devil’s advocate piped up. You call that managing when your own daughter is in a girl gang? But I could see the other side too. How is taking her away from her mother going to change that?

I squelched these thoughts and continued questioning the aunt.

“Were you here last Wednesday?” I asked. “Can you tell me if Tina was here with Rochelle and some other girls?”

“I was here, but I didn’t get here ’til late. I come over and had to call 911.”

“Tanya OD’ed?”

“No. She didn’t take her insulin. She was fallin’ out, like she was high, but it was cause o’ not taking her meds. So I call 911 and went with her to the hospital.”

I wondered if that was true or just a story for the medics. “What time was this? Did you see any of the girls?”

She shook her head. “I guess it was a bit after nine. And I didn’t see no girls. If they was here, they was downstairs in Rochelle’s room. But there’s no way to know for sure.”

“Why’s that?”

“Even if they came home before dinner, whenever that was, if they was downstairs, they coulda left any time through the basement door.”

Damn. Scratch one alibi.

* * * * *

The sun was low in the sky when I left Tanya Watson’s place. There was a chill and the acrid smell of burning firewood in the air. I started up the Mustang and sat shivering while the car warmed up. I should have brought a coat. Autumn, with its warm days and cool nights, always threw me off.

What now? It was too late to knock on more doors. Too late to visit people, too late to be in this neighborhood. Shit, my childhood neighborhood was worse than this. I looked around. In the gloom, the houses looked depressingly old. The big old trees seemed to harbor shadow and menace. I thought about Bed-Stuy again and wondered how I’d survived my nine years there.

I got to the office at six. Sheila, the receptionist for Kressler and Associates, the accounting firm where I sublet space, was packing it in for the day.

“You got a visitor,” she growled. In her seventies, Sheila wore her gray hair in an efficient bun. She seemed to be growing increasingly terse with age. As if talking too much would squander whatever breath was left in her body.

“A walk-in? Haven’t had one of those in a while.”

“This guy said it was about a case you’re working on.” She squinted and lowered her voice. “He’s a big, tall black man. Sound familiar?”

“I’m not sure.” I thought of William Jackson. I wondered if he’d come by to make an in-person pitch toward his cause for becoming Tina’s guardian. “Would you say he’s in his late thirties or early forties?”

“More like mid-to-late twenties, if you ask me, but black people fool me on their ages all the time.” She paused and added, “Oh, ex-cuse me. Make that African-American people.” She rolled her electric blue eyes. “As if you ever heard one black person refer to themselves as such.”

I laughed. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“So . . . you want me to stick around?”

I know her question was well-intended, but it grated. Was she asking because it was a man? Or because he was black? “No, no. Go on home.”

“Okay,” she said in her four-pack-a-day contralto and grabbed her purse. “G’night.”

I wished her good night and tromped up the steps. My office door was open. I prefer it that way during business hours. I didn’t want clients to feel they had to wait for me in the public area downstairs. Nothing had ever been stolen, so it worked out fine. I’d lock my office before leaving for the night, a mere after-hours formality—one more barrier beyond the front door for a would-be burglar.

I stepped into the office and understood Sheila’s concern. A huge man sat hunched in my guest chair, dwarfing it. When he saw me, he unfolded himself and got up. He towered over me. Solidly built, his body was supported by tree trunks for legs. I wondered if he’d been a linebacker in a former life. He grinned as if he was pleased with himself; not in a threatening or condescending way. Damned if he didn’t have freckles sprinkled across his coppery face.