“How does what make me feel?”
“Ho
w does it make you feel to know that the woman you claimed to love so dearly was taking money and having sex with at least two other men?”
Scott’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t speak.
“How did it feel to be played like a fool,” Marcus demanded an answer.
“It made me mad,” Scott yelled. “Mad as hell. She didn’t have to go to other men for money. I loved her. I would have given her anything.”
“Mad enough to kill her for going to them for money and sex.” Marcus started to walk away. “I have no more questions for this—witness.”
“I didn’t kill her,” Scott yelled.
29
As soon as she got back to Atlanta, Olivia was boarding another plane and on her way to O’Hare airport. She checked into her hotel room for her meeting the following day with a named Bruce Washburn the detective assigned to the case. When Olivia called about seeking information about the murder of Lamar Winston and his alleged relationship between Aisha Kaufman, the detective reviewed his files.
“His death was ruled to be from natural causes, it wasn’t until I had the body exhumed and autopsied that we found traces of the poison.”
“What made you suspect something else and have the body exhumed?”
“To many things didn’t add up, talked to a lot of people who knew him, you know, just followed a hunch,” Washburn said. He agreed to tag along with Olivia while she questioned witnesses about their knowledge of Aisha Kaufman.
Lamar was the owner of a string of nightclubs, both strip bars and dance clubs. He also owned a few other businesses. According to the notes, she breezed through in the back of a taxicab, Aisha and Lamar had split up a month or so before he was poisoned.
Olivia instantly regretted having come to Chicago when her cab pulled up in front of the building at North Pulaski Road. There was a crowd of immigration activists posted outside of the Albany Park District Police station.
“What’s going on here?” she asked the cabdriver.
“Demonstrations—they started Monday,” he reported and looked at her like she was holding up business for him.
Olivia paid the fare and eased out of the cab reluctantly. As she made her way past dozens of demonstrators chanting for justice and denouncing racial profiling, Olivia made her way into the double glass doors.
She was more than a bit surprised to see what appeared to be business as usual going on inside the office, despite all of the commotion going on right outside. Officers were shuffling back and forth behind a large desk that ran the length of the room. Some were on phones behind desks and others were typing at computers. Olivia looked to her left and noticed a line of people who appeared to be waiting for their turn at the desk.
She didn’t want to wait. At that time, she pulled her cell phone from her purse and dialed the detectives number.
“Detective Washburn, how may I help you.”
“This is Olivia Wayne. I’m in the lobby, are you at the station?” she quickly added.
“Oh, of course, Ms. Wayne. I’ll be right out,” he said.
Much later, Olivia pulled up in Detective Washburn’s unmarked car as they arrived at a building which housed loft apartments in downtown Chicago. It was the home of Linda Raphael. Washburn told Olivia that she was the main one that put him on to the fact that it was murder. They rode an elevator up to the eleventh floor and knocked at a door down the hall a few minutes later.
The instant the door opened, Detective Washburn flashed his badge and said, “Is Linda Raphael here?”
The thin woman with a rag wrapped around her head, wearing a wife beater and a pair of short shorts, used child-like eyes, lined with thick fake lashes to closely inspect the officer and Olivia. “Who wants to know?” she looked between Olivia and the officer.
“I’m Detective Bruce Washburn. I need to see Linda,” he began before the woman cut him off.
She leaned against the door and said, “I’m Linda. If you’re here about Bobby, you need to hear my side of the story. I am sick of his shit.”
Olivia held up a hand. “We’re not here about Bobby. We’re here to talk to you about Lamar Winston.”
A smile broke across her face. “Oh, Mar—” she said longingly as if the mention of his name took her back to a better place. “What about him?” she snapped out of the private dream.