Caress (5 page)

Usually, he immediately checked his voice mail and at the very least glanced at his text messages. His job and his nature compelled him to be perpetually plugged in. Communication was his life. Contact was his life. And if all of this attempted contact represented something big, he knew that once he heard it, he would be halfway out the door. So why was he avoiding the inevitable? Why was he ignoring his hustling father’s constant mantra that time is money? His father had hustled for everything his family had, and had made sure to drive that lesson home. Michael had found that this was nowhere truer than in the news game. Big stories weren’t big until they were broken, and you couldn’t break a big story unless you were the first to it, as he had been with this Hatsheput piece.

He shuddered as if someone had passed over his grave. The horrifying story about those young men and women being exploited had touched him as nothing had. Michael had seen atrocities. He’d spent nearly a year in the Congo and had come across every act that could defile another human being, and yet as he had stared into the eyes of evil, so did those around him. Evil was out in the open for public consumption. But these kids in St. Thomas had stars in their eyes. They came from hardship and had been promised a way out. They had been deceived, and it hurt his heart to think of it. Exposing Hatsheput had been gratifying, but he didn’t kid himself that there wasn’t an aftermath. Families had lost sons, and no article could bring them back.

Maybe he was getting old. Hell, maybe he was getting
lonely.
There was no one waiting on him when he got home to blunt the sharp, gritty edge of reality he’d seen. All Michael had was the memory of an island that had oddly felt like home to him in those few hours he’d had to explore when he wasn’t working on the story. And, of course, he had the vision of that woman on the plane burned into his mind. His thoughts flashed between the story, the island, and
her.
A new, breaking story would definitely take his mind off those things, but exhaustion, both mental and physical, wouldn’t let him escape.

What he wanted most was to shower, listen to a little blues, and maybe watch some basketball while lying on the couch. So he postponed the messages and headed up the wide, spiraling black stairs to the second level. About twenty minutes later, he got out of the shower hungry and in the mood for Otis Redding. It wasn’t long before the soulful voice filled his home. He remembered the luscious, appealing dream woman he’d seen in the airport. His smile broadened. Michael had to admit his fantasy had gotten way out of control. If she only knew… But that was the attractive thing about fantasizing about people you didn’t know: you wouldn’t, in all probability, ever see them again. You’d never have to be disappointed by the real thing. But he had approached her anyway to help her with her bags after they landed in Birmingham. Michael didn’t want to obsess over a fantasy. Yet he could not shake the sensation that with her a man wouldn’t have to worry about disappointment. For a moment he wished things could have been different. He hummed as he grilled a thick, juicy T-bone, baked a potato, and made his favorite lettuce, cheese, and bacon bit salad.

With food in hand and Otis still lamenting in the background, Michael turned on the television to catch the last of a basketball game. He sank into the couch and smiled contentedly as he took in his downtown Birmingham loft. A part of an urban revitalization project, his home was luxurious, for sure. Constructed on the site of one of the most dangerous government housing projects in the area, the buildings were populated by Birmingham’s young professionals and retired wealthy. Stylish slate floors, dove gray walls, and high ceilings could have made Michael’s place cold and sterile, but it was none of those things despite his sparse furnishings. His gaze shifting around the room, Michael became reacquainted with his home. It was everything he had ever wanted. He needed space, and it had space. Space was something he’d never had much of growing up with four siblings in a two-bedroom apartment, so he hungered for it. He kept his furniture to a minimum. Just outside the kitchen was a small mahogany table Claudia, his sister, had forced him to buy, though he didn’t think he needed one, with four mahogany chairs around it. Now he was actually grateful for his sister’s insistence ’cause that table had seen many a wild game of spades and dominoes. In the living area, there was the leather recliner he had gotten himself for his thirty-first birthday and a single sofa. It was navy leather and just long enough for him to stretch out his full six feet, three inches while watching the big-screen TV or listening to the stereo system. Beside the couch sat a sturdy oak table and a black floor lamp that he had gotten at an auction in Zimbabwe.

As far as he was concerned, he had all the furniture he needed. With the rugs he’d added, the place looked stylish and roomy and yes, warm. He was not nearly so Spartan when it came to his art. His walls were covered with African tapestries woven from coarse wool, paintings and prints from nearly every place he had ever been. They were all vibrant, colorful pieces celebrating the lives of black people all over the world. His favorite, however, was by a little-known artist, Hattie Andersen. It was titled
Attending the Sunset.
The print was large, almost tapestry-sized. There were two dark little girls in pristine white dresses squatting on rocks at the shore. Their eyes were focused on their entwined hands beneath the surface of the translucent blue water. Hovering over them stood a shirtless, skinny, light-skinned boy with long dreads. He held a stick taller than he was and stood with his eyes trained out on the horizon. He didn’t know what had drawn him to the painting. Maybe it was the boy who looked so sovereign and fierce, or was it the little girls and the way they clung to each other’s hands beneath the water’s surface. He simply didn’t know. He fell asleep thinking of the three children.

Michael didn’t know how long he’d been asleep when he awoke to a loud ringing and the realization that he had fallen asleep on his sofa. Groggily, he swiped at the sleeve of his sweat shirt until his eyes focused on the face of his watch. It was almost nine. He sat up with a start. Jet lag had attacked him and he knew he was going to pay the price. Rubbing his head, he looked around and was greeted by his ominous answering machine once more. He went to grab his cell and sat down on a step of the staircase ready to check his messages and determine what he needed to do. His house phone rang. Before he could answer it, the machine picked up and he heard, “I don’t know what you’re doing or why you’re avoiding me, but you’re going to have to deal with me sometime, little brother.” The line went dead just as he picked up. It was Claudia. He didn’t know whether he should call her back just yet, or listen to the messages.

Machine first
, he thought. At the beginning, the messages didn’t seem as if they were all that important, mostly Claudia telling him to call her, a couple from Tamitra, too. He found himself half-listening. They had been “off-again” for more than six months and he thought it was time to keep it that way. He would have to tell her about the Art Sentries situation once he got a moment, but not yet. He leafed through the book he’d been attempting to read on the plane as he listened. There were a couple of messages from colleagues inquiring about the Hatsheput article. One of his peers, also a good friend, asked him for an interview on it. There were more messages from Claudia, same as the first until one caught his attention. Her voice cracked and she sounded… well… distraught. “This is Claudia again. Michael, I know you landed. And if you’re avoiding me because you really did screw this up, then I am ashamed of you. I don’t know where you are, but you have put us in some real trouble with this Hatsheput article. Real trouble. I need you to call me as soon as you get this message. I need you to call me right now.”

He was dialing before it was even over.

“Hello?” the clear and high voice of his nineteen-year-old niece sounded.

“Hey, Tonia. It’s Uncle Mike. Is Claude there?” Since they were kids, Michael had always referred to his sister in the masculine form of her name. When her kids or her ex-husband wanted to annoy her, they did the same.

“No, you just missed her. Literally.”

“But she just hung up the phone. Maybe she called me on her cell.”

“Maybe,” Antonia said thoughtfully. “But that’s weird. She was headed to dinner—I think it was pretty important—because she told me that if you called to tell you not to bother calling her cell. She said she wouldn’t be back probably until late but she wanted you in her office first thing in the morning.”

“Do you know who she went to dinner with?”

“Yes.”

Weird that Tonia wasn’t forthcoming with the name. The kid couldn’t hold water. “Who?”

“My dad.”

Michael’s eyes widened. His spidey-senses tingled. Claudia Ann Harrison and her ex-husband Derrick Laymon
did not
have dinner, especially not without their kids. The pair had not had an amicable breakup. In fact, Michael would go so far as to say that Claude hated the man openly when their kids weren’t around. She didn’t ever disparage him in front of their children, but they probably had an inkling. Michael didn’t know what had caused their break-up—Claudia had insisted that he not dig, that he respect her boundaries—but it was the only thing that still brought his sister deep, visible pain.

“Why?” Michael blurted.

“Work.”

Michael cursed himself. His ex-brother-in-law was a retired FBI investigator with a
lot
of contacts, but Claudia had made a vow not to call upon him for work at the paper when they split. Once she made that vow, she’d never broken it, even when it would have been so much simpler to use his connections to get at the heart of a story. If she had broken that vow, she was desperate. And before she’d gone, she had reached out to Michael one last time. This was about the Hatsheput article.

“Do you know what’s going on?”

“Nope.”

Michael did not like the sound of this at all. “If she gets back early, tell her I’m here. If she wants to call, I’ll answer.” He hung up the phone more confused than before.

He went up the stairs into the spare bedroom he used as a study. Stacks of paper were everywhere, on the desk, on his computer, on the windowsill, on the floor. The only pieces of furniture in the room were a black-and-white streamlined desk and two shiny metal file cabinets overflowing with files. He looked at his cover stories mounted on the walls. It was rare that any of his articles were contested and he’d never been responsible for any libel lawsuit brought against the paper.

He sat down at his desk and slid his computer monitor sideways. He swept up his leather bag and set it down in front of him. From the bag he took out every scrap of information on Hatsheput he’d gotten in the islands. He read the article itself over and over again. He couldn’t see a thing wrong. In fact, he thought it was one of the finest articles he’d ever written.

But something had to be wrong. He couldn’t let this pass. He picked up his phone and called his sister anyway.

Claudia didn’t answer right away. Unusual. His sister never let her phone ring. On the fourth ring, he heard her voice.

“Mike!” she breathed, sounding startled and relieved all at once.

“Yeah, Claudia, it’s me. I’m so sorry I didn’t answer before now. I didn’t know anything was going on. What’s happening?”

“I was contacted by Hatsheput Industries yesterday. It would be an understatement to say that they were unhappy with your piece last week.”

Michael lifted one shoulder though she couldn’t see it. Wouldn’t be the first time a company had been out for blood after he had published something it would have rather kept secret. “So?”

“So, after their lawyers and the lead investigator on the Art Sentries case got done with me, I figured you might want to know what kind of hornet’s nest you’ve stirred up. Hatsheput Industries has been engaged in an ongoing investigation regarding the scholarship fund. They’ve been cooperating with the FBI for more than a year now. They refused to speak with you about this because they didn’t want to impede the investigation. Turns out they have an answer to the question in your article: ‘What more has Hatsheput Industries to hide?’ Nothing. Absolutely nothing, but that they are outstanding corporate citizens doing what the police asked them to do.”

Michael’s stomach dropped, his throat closed up, and his pulse threatened to hammer through his skin. “I suppose Derrick confirmed that tonight.”

“He did.”

“Has he told you anything else?”

Claudia sighed long and heavy. She sounded tired. “He has, but I can’t talk right now. You need to get on this tonight. Find out what you can. I’ll work it from this end. Be in my office first thing in the morning.”

“Will do.”

“And Michael?”

“Yeah?”

“Come with a plan.”

She hung up.

Michael didn’t sleep that night.

A towering figure dressed in shoes made of soft Italian leather, khaki slacks, and a deep blue button-down, Michael Harrison had an arresting effect on the women at the
Harrison Tribune
main office. Any one of the women in the administrative assistant pool would have loved to cry on his broad shoulders. His skin, a rich shade of coffee, was matched by thickly lashed eyes of the same color. Dimples framed his mouth in a heart-stopping smile.