Dark Paradise (25 page)

George follows, still yammering. “What if he killed his sister and he's trying to find out what you know?”

“I'm not listening to you,” I say, covering my ears.

“He's dangerous. And every time you see him, you're putting yourself at risk.”

No matter how hard I press on my ears, I can still hear his words. My hands drop and fist at my sides to keep from doing something I'll regret. “How many times do I have to say that he did not kill Lainey?”

“You don't know that for sure. You're talking with your heart, not your head. I'm following the clues, and they all lead home—Lainey's home.”

I whirl around to face him. “What does that mean?”

Bessie had been slouched against the wall, but she stands upright and her eyes narrow on George. “Yes, George, what
does
that mean?”

George looks at Bessie with a pleading expression. “Will you talk some sense into her? Tell her to stay away from Landry Prince.”

“Leave it alone, Deputy Dubois,” Bessie warns.

George turns back to me, eyes wide. “Don't you see? I'm concerned. I'm not always going to be around to save you.”

I squint up at him. The overhead lights turn his copper hair into a halo. I study his earnest expression. The poor guy. His protective nature has been sent into overdrive. No matter how I wish otherwise, he still thinks of me as that helpless little kid he protected from bullies in high school. Fighting with him feels wrong. “But you promised you would be, Superman.”

George's eyes go flat and hard. “Stop thinking of me like I'm some kind of superhero.”

Bessie raises her hand impatiently. “Enough, guys. This is neither the time nor the place for this discussion.” Heat enters her voice. “I'm ashamed of both of you—acting like a pair of fools in front of a sickroom—but, George, you're a representative of the department. This behavior in front of our victim's family is unacceptable.”

I duck my head, embarrassed, and sneak a peek at George's face. He doesn't seem at all remorseful. If anything, I think he wants to argue with Bessie, but the look on her face shuts him up faster than supergluing his lips together.

Bessie folds her arms. “Mala, get in the room and talk some sense into Jasmine. She's holding on to her story and claims she doesn't remember what happened to her.”

“Is she telling the truth? If she has a head injury—”

“Hardheaded is what she's being. Says her work is confidential, and if word gets out that she snitched to the police about things getting ‘a little out of hand,' that she'd lose customers.”

I nod. “Can't fault her logic on that, Bessie. Those perverts she sees would scatter like cockroaches under a flashlight if they thought the police might get wind of their nighttime activities.”

Bessie sighs. “Talk to her, Mala. Help me bag this guy before he kills the next hooker he ‘dates.'”

“I'll try, but I won't make any promises.”

I freeze in the doorway, unable to force myself to enter the room. I'm damn sure the woman lying in the hospital bed is not my mama. Mama isn't some frail, birdlike thing. She looms, larger than life, shooting sparks of energy from every fiber of her being, while this woman resembles a shriveled-up old lady, lingering on the brink of death.

“Go on in, Mala.” George prods me forward.

“This is the wrong room.” I turn to head back the way we came, brushing off his hand when he tries to stop me. “I don't know this person.”

“Mala, stop this,” Bessie orders.

“I
said
I don't know that woman. She's not my mother. You've identified the wrong person. How could you've made such a stupid mistake?”

“Mala,” the woman in the room calls with Mama's voice, and I shudder. “Get your butt in here 'fore I got to pull my tired bones out of this bed and grab you.”

I glance at George and wince. “Hellfire and damnation! It really is her, isn't it?”

Pity fills Bessie's eyes. She pats my arm. “I know this is hard for you to accept. Nobody likes to see a loved one in pain. Jasmine's tough, but you need to take it easy on her. She's not as strong as she sounds.”

“She looks like she's been wrung out and put away wet. I seriously didn't recognize her.”

Didn't
want
to recognize her with her eyes swollen and black, a cast on her arm, and white linen draped over her. Then she gestures imperiously. “Everyone get out except my daughter. Go on, I said my piece and ain't nothin' changin' my mind, so you might as well go.”

“Ms. Jasmine, if you could—” George protests.

“I said get out!”

I
close the door slowly, not wanting to slam it in their faces, then turn to Mama with a shake of my head. “Now that wasn't nice. They wanted to help.”

“They wanted to get all up in my business.” Mama taps a button on the medication dispenser. “Ah, that's better. I'm achin'.”

“I get that you don't want to talk to the police, but tell me what happened. Who did this to you?”

“Never mind that, I'll survive. Guess that death vision wasn't such to cry about after all.” She grins. “Came close to meetin' my maker, but I'm stronger than I look. And I float real good.”

Anger twists my gut for whoever did this to her, but I force a laugh, as she intended. I rush to the bed and throw my arms around her narrow shoulders, careful not to hug her too tight. “I was so scared. I didn't even know you'd gotten back from New Orleans, then to hear you'd gotten assaulted—” I pull away from her arms, clenching my fists. I want to hit someone so bad. My whole body vibrates. “Don't you
ever
frighten me like that again!”

Mama eyes me warily. Then understanding lights her heavy-lidded gaze. “Guess you do love your mama.”

“Of course, don't be silly. I don't know what I'd do without you driving me crazy.” I perch on the edge of the bed and lay my hand on the cast. “How long do you expect to be in here?”

“The doc said I can go home tomorrow night.” Her eyes drift closed, and I think for a moment she's fallen asleep, but she opens them again to scowl at me. “'Fore I forget, what's this I overhear about you seein' that Prince boy?”

“You left me. I didn't have anyone else to turn to for help dealing with Lainey. Landry's been a friend to me the last week.”

“That boy's no friend to you,” Mama says, and her eyes close again. “Them Princes are a shady bunch. Keep clear of him. Do you hear?” One eye opens to glare at me until I nod. “Good. Now go on home. I don't need you no more.”

Mama falls asleep. If she'd been in her right mind, I might've argued. But I'm grown. I don't need her permission. I tiptoe from the room to find Bessie in the hallway, and she insists I spend the night at her house.

Maggie and I lie in her bed, gossiping for hours. I fight falling asleep, not because I enjoy having my messed up love life dissected, but because after the emotionally exhausting day I've had, I'm terrified of the coming nightmares. When I do drift off, I dream I'm on fire. My clothes and hair burn first. Then my flesh blackens and peels. Blood sizzles on the ground. Worse, even though I choke on the smoke, I don't pass out. I wake up coughing so hard that I'm afraid I'll hack up a lung. I give up on sleep and watch infomercials on the TV in the living room for the rest of the night.

The next morning, I pull on my big-girl panties and return to the hospital to visit Mama. I get lucky. The spiritual attacks aren't as bothersome during the day. Or maybe I'm getting used to their goose bump–raising touch on my skin. A nurse finally kicks me out after lunchtime, saying Mama needs her rest, not that she knows I'm there. She's using a heavy hand on the morphine drip. I'm kind of envious. My bumps and bruises still ache, but the pain becomes manageable once I take the pain meds I bought at the gift shop.

A cab drops me off at the Super Delight Motel. I took Mama's keys before leaving the hospital so I can pick up her truck before someone jacks it. It's parked in front of room 105. I stare at the red door with the yellow police tape crisscrossing it while considering my options. We didn't get to search Lainey's room last night because of the attack, but the plan's still good. Nothing has changed except that I've added another psychopath to my list. Now, not only do I need to find Lainey's murderer, I also have to figure out which of Mama's clients attacked her.

Key in hand, I go inside. It looks like a normal bedroom. Mama rents by the month, and she's had this room for as long as I've been alive. It's totally trashed, and I don't think by the Sheriff's Office either. The mattress has been shoved off the frame. Clothes and shoes cover the floor. Boxes of oils, candles, and cleansing crystals are stacked in her closet. She even has a crystal skull, and I roll my eyes—the hoodoo supplies Mom buys off the Internet to sell to the girls. I dab a dollop of Fast Luck oil on my wrists and sniff.
Mmm, cinnamony.
Hopefully it'll work. I could use some good luck.

Seeing the room so disorganized makes me jittery. What in the world was this guy searching for that would make him resort to attempted murder?

I spend half an hour straightening up. When I'm finished, her bed is made and candles rest on the bedside table. I hang Mama's work clothes in the closet—I don't find anything made with leather or holes that would scar my psyche, which makes me immensely grateful. I have a hard enough time accepting this part of Mama's life. I didn't need or want firsthand knowledge, but now, whenever I think of her at work, I'll picture her lying on this bed with the fuchsia and yellow tropical flowers reading
The Color Purple
.

I don't find any clues as to what happened last night. Maybe the police had better luck. I pocket the wad of money I find hidden in her shoe. I also decide at the last minute to take the book. Mama might like something to read while she's recuperating. After locking up the room, I walk over to the fence surrounding the algae-coated swimming pool. A dark blotch stains the concrete by the ladder. I assume the blood belongs to Mama, but it certainly could've come from some other poor soul. The gate looks rickety, but when I give it a jerk, it won't open. I contemplate how much pain and effort it will take to climb the fence. I want to get a closer look at the crime scene.

I've just thrown my leg over the metal railing when Mr. Khan opens the door to the recreation room and steps out. He wears a black turban, a blue silk shirt, and slacks. Coppery brown skin, slightly wrinkled with age, highlights dark eyes. Wire-rimmed glasses attached to a gold chain hang around his neck.

“Who are you?” he asks, squinting in my direction. “What do you do here? The pool is closed.”

“Mr. Khan?” I jerk on my foot, which has gotten stuck in the fencing. “Don't you recognize me? I'm Jasmine's daughter. I heard that you helped pull Mama from the pool. You saved her life. Thank you.”

Mr. Khan slips his glasses on his nose and shakes his head. “That was a very bad thing that happened to my good friend Jasmine. Very bad. I am only happy that I came in time.”

He turns to go back inside.

I pull my foot out of my tennis shoe. The wire mesh shakes, and I half fall, half jump off the fence, landing a few feet from the man. “Mr. Khan, please. Wait.”

“The pool is a dangerous place to play games. Go now.”

“This isn't a game. Not to me.” I limp toward him, talking fast. “I've got to ask. Did you see anything last night? The guy who attacked her…did you recognize him? Maybe something you didn't tell the police. If you did, you can tell me. I'll keep it quiet, I promise, but I've got to know if my mama's still in danger. Who do I protect her from?”

“Did she not tell you?” Khan's head tilts to the side. A furtive expression creases the corners of his eyes as he glances around to see if we are alone. “She would be quite upset if she found out that I spoke of her big meeting. We have an understanding. She pays me to keep quiet, so I keep quiet. But she did not pay me for last night.”

“So you don't have to keep her secret?”

Khan sighs. “You will pay for this information? A hundred dollars.”

“Hundred—” I choke on the word. “I'll give you twenty.”

He shakes his head. “Now you insult me.”

“Damn it, fifty. I can't go any higher.”

“Seventy-five or no deal. What price do you put on your mother's life?”

I dig into the pocket of my jeans and pull out three of the eight twenty-dollar bills I found in Mama's room and hold it out to him. “Sixty. Take it or leave it. This is all I've got to spare, you cold-hearted old pimp.”

He snatches the twenties from my hand and waves them under his nose. His eyes close as he smells the money, and I get an icky feeling inside. Finally satisfied, he smiles. “You drive a hard bargain. Jasmine would be proud.”

“Save the compliments. Tell me what I just paid for.”

“Jasmine told me she was meeting with a very important man last night—a very rich and powerful man—who has much influence in the community. She said she knows something about him that he would pay a lot of money to keep quiet.”

“Blackmail?” Shocked, my hands ball into fists. “You'd better not be lying to me.”

Khan raises a silver eyebrow, eyeing me wearily. “Oh, no. Jasmine was quite proud of her news. She said she has proof, written in blood. She asked me to pay close attention when he came. She didn't trust him. That he'd kill to keep his secret quiet. She feared for her life. I think this was very wise and unwise.”

“I'd say unwise since the guy almost murdered her.”

Khan shrugs. “Some risks are worth taking. Ten thousand dollars is what she asked for. Maybe the amount was too insulting. That's when he tried to kill her.” He laughs, and I want to sock him right in his jelly-filled gut.

I take a deep breath instead, trying to calm down. “Did you get a look at him?”

“He wore a black mask. I could not see his face.”

“That's it? You're the lookout and you couldn't even get a decent description of this guy?”

“He owns a large truck.”

“Great, that's just fan-fuckin'-tastic. A truck. In Paradise Pointe, Louisiana. Wow, I'll get right on that clue. Hell, you've broken the case wide open. You're a hero, Mr. Khan. A regular Sherlock Holmes.”

“What did you expect for sixty bucks? You get what you pay for.” Khan waves the money in the air, kisses it, and turns to walk back inside to do whatever a lowlife scum bucket does when not bilking schmucks.
What the hell am I…
I pause, one foot raised to climb the fence, then let it drop.
A large truck…
Khan said he owns a truck, but the guy didn't drive away. He ran off on foot. So how does Khan know he owns a truck?

“Mr. Khan, wait.” I hold the rest of the money I found in Mama's “office” in the air. “One more question.”

The man turns with a sly grin and rubs his lips with two fingers. “Ah, it appears this question is worth more than your mother's life?”

“I think the answer may save her life…and mine.”
Calm down. Don't spook Khan.
He's the sort who uses your weaknesses to his advantage. I breathe out a slow breath. “The man you saw. Ever seen him before without the mask?”

“I don't know who he is or his name, but yes, he frequently visits.”

My heart skips a beat. “Which is why you don't know his identity, right? Because he pays you not to know?”

Mr. Khan shrugs.

“But the woman he visited is dead. So you no longer have to keep quiet about her.”

His smile grows wider. “What do you want to know?”

Bingo!
I hold the money out. He reaches to take it, but I snatch my hand back. “I want everything you found in Lainey Prince's room when you cleaned it out, Mr. Khan. No tricks. You give me Lainey's belongings, and you get the money. If you hold out on me, I'll know. My mama's not the only witch in town. I'll do worse than twist a curse. I'll go to the police and tell them you held back information about her murderer.”

“How do you know I didn't give her belongings to the man who tried to kill your mother?”

Lucky guess.
I mimic his conniving grin. “You're a businessman, Mr. Khan. And you're more cunning than my mama. You probably came up with the plan to blackmail him together. Now that your brilliant plan has failed, I think you should be more concerned about getting rid of this property before he comes back and tries to kill you for knowing too much.”

The man gives me an elegant bow. “Jasmine pawned the jewelry, but she kept the rest of the girl's belongings. She planned to trade the box to the man last night. He must have taken it with him after he attacked her because it was missing when I found her in the pool.”

I flash back to the night before when I chased after the guy. He had been holding something in his arms while he ran. It dropped and slid beneath a car after I tackled him. Could it still be in there? I don't bother to say good-bye to Mr. Khan, just sprint into the parking lot.

I find the small cardboard box holding what is left of Lainey's possessions beneath a purple Cadillac. It contains a bunch of toiletry items and clothes. Nothing worth murdering someone over.
Another fucking dead end.

“Damn it, Mama!” I kick the box halfway across the parking lot.

Mama tried to blackmail her attacker, knowing he likely killed Lainey. No wonder she won't talk to the police. Either she fears she'll get arrested along with the guy she threatened or she figures, once she gets out of the hospital, she'll give another go at getting the money. But what does she have that he wants? He had the box, but he still trashed Mama's room. He was looking for something specific, and I don't think he found it. What does Mama have over him?

I gather Lainey's belongings. The whole drive home the puzzle of
why
s form and re-form in random, shifting patterns in my mind. I'm close to figuring out the mystery. I know it. I try to stop obsessing over what I've learned by applying myself to my chores. I feed the chickens, clean house, and, afterward, reapply my protective salt and brick dust. Then I start working on the vegetable garden. Hoeing works muscles in places I've forgotten exist.

The ground has dried out from the rain. I dig with a vengeance, chopping up roots and pulling out a gazillion rocks that seem to multiply like gremlins every spring. The monotonous work keeps me from worrying about Mama. Every time I picture her bruised face, I swing the hoe with all my strength, imagining the faceless man who hurt her and feeling angry at her for deliberately creating the situation that caused the attack.