From Cape Town with Love (50 page)

“Well, if that's how you feel,” Marsha said. Then she pulled a manila folder out of her white leather bag. She rested it on the table, although she never let it go. The folder was marked with a single name typed on a label:
PATRICE S. McLAWHORN
.

Chela's birth mother.

Marsha pulled out a full-color eight-by-ten photo. It was a surveillance photo from a grocery store parking lot, as clear as a studio's. It was the same white woman I'd seen in Chela's photo, with thirty more pounds and fifteen more years, her hair dyed red. She didn't look like a junkie, dressed in a skirt and jacket she wore to an office. I couldn't see Chela anywhere in her.

“This is it,” Marsha said, watching my eyes devour the photograph. “Everything you need. Home address and number. Work address and number. Her biography. Once she signs her consent, your adoption application will race like lightning. You'll be Chela's legal father before her eighteenth birthday. This woman has gone to great lengths to forget who she used to be.”

“Quid pro quo?” I was seething that she was trying to trap me. For an ugly flash, I remembered the man in the basement. I pushed the folder
back to her half of the table. “Don't dangle people I care about over my head,” I said. “Help with strings is just a threat in lipstick. Not a path you want to walk with me.”

“Not at all, Ten,” she said, and pushed it back. “This is yours. A gift for an old friend. But I would like you to listen to me for a minute.”

“One minute.”

She smiled. “Most people are bored to death all of their lives, Ten,” Marsha said. “They're hamsters on a wheel. That's not you. Most people let the shitstorm they call their past cripple them with guilt. You look for people to save. You thought you were an actor who solves problems. No, Tennyson. You're a problem solver who acts. And playtime is over. What happened out in the vineyard, Tennyson? Who were you in the basement?”

I stared at her, swearing she didn't deserve the truth, knowing that Marsha, like Spider, already knew it.

Marsha pressed on: “You had some rough moments while we were looking for Nandi—but you were
alive.
I can't be Marsha the soccer mom; I need this rush, and so do you. This is who you really are. I've seen it up close.”

I remembered Cape Town, and how April had tried to bring me into the light. Marsha was pulling me in an entirely different direction.

Just like Spider.

I stared at the woman in the photo, Chela's mother, close enough to touch.

“My soap has a crazy shooting schedule,” I said.

“I suspect this is a night job, baby.”

Marsha smiled. She had me, and she knew it.

When it comes to our children, sometimes there's nothing we won't do.

Of course, sometimes our children are just our excuse.

THE CHINESE BUSINESSMAN'S
wife was beautiful: tall, regal, and oval faced. Shiny jet hair grew down to her waist. Her milk-colored silk blouse fell across her modest chest like a royal cloak. Her dossier said she was thirty, but her petite body lagged by a decade. I would have noticed her even if I hadn't been looking.

She was having a drink, as she did every Thursday after her spa visit.

I strolled in her direction across the crowded hotel bar.

Ignoring a beautiful woman is the only way to get her to notice you, so I walked past her and slipped onto a bar stool about six feet farther on. Two stools sat between us, empty.

“Hey!” the bartender greeted me. I'd seen him the night I rescued Nandi. I hadn't been able to place him, but I did now. He was about fifty, balding, and paunchy—and wearing the same Hawaiian shirt he'd worn renting Hummers in Malibu for Marsha. Still sunburned.

“What can I get you, Ten?” he asked.

“Chocolate martini.”

A girl who looked too young to drink grabbed my arm.
“Omigod!
Can I get your autograph? I hate your character on
The Young and the Restless!
You're such a great asshole!” I thanked her for the compliment.

The bartender handed me my martini and snapped on the bar's mounted TV, where the DVD was already cued. “I was just watching you,” he told me, winking. “Mr. Big Shot.”

The DVD was dailies from
Lenox Avenue.
In them I stood nose to nose with Denzel in a replicated speakeasy, both of us in 1920s double-breasted suits. I barely recognized a close-up of my face—and the scar I was still spending a fortune to fix, but that wasn't quite gone yet.

“Or you'll do WHAT, man?”
my voice said from the screen, ready to kill or die.

The footage seemed alien to me. I couldn't judge it. It must have been good, because Denzel had said he'd never want to meet me in a dark alley . . . but wanted to work with me again. Spike said I'd really captured the aura of a crazed killer.

Spider and I would have had a good laugh about that.

She slid onto the bar stool beside mine.

“That's you in that movie?” She had an English accent, by way of Hong Kong.

“It hasn't come out yet,” I said. “That's just footage from the shoot, eight hours on the set with Denzel. Someone's gonna kick your butt for having this, Mario. Those studios don't play with their money.” His name wasn't really Mario, just like Marsha's wasn't Marsha. But Mario would do.

While I joked with the bartender, my mark's eyes drank me in like a chocolate martini.

“It must be very exciting to be in movies,” she said. I'd never met a model who didn't want to act.

I gave her my full attention over my shoulder, and turned on The Grin. If the light caught my face right, she would squirm in her seat.

“Movies are one way I get excited,” I said.

She squirmed. In her gaze, we were already befouling her husband's bed.

“My friends call me Ming Ming,” she said, slipping her delicate hand into mine. Her birdlike thumb brushed the pulse point on my wrist. “Your name is . . . ?”

“Hardwick,” I told her. “Tennyson Hardwick.”

Trailer

http://www.simonandschuster.com/multimedia?video=87313458001

What an incredible journey Tennyson Hardwick has been! Thank you to Blair Underwood for dreaming Tennyson to life, and to Steven Barnes for walking with me in the dream every day as my coauthor and life partner. Thanks to my longtime editor, Atria Books Vice President and Senior Editor Malaika Adero, and to publisher Judith Curr at Simon & Schuster for understanding exactly what we wanted to accomplish with this series. And thanks to Todd Hunter at Atria for always making sure we're on track.

Special thanks to the NAACP for awarding us a 2009 NAACP Image Award for
In the Night of the Heat
—as a child of civil rights activists, that resonates very deeply. The memory will endure as one of the most magical moments of my life. And thanks to Go on Girl! Book Club for the honor of naming us 2008's Authors of the Year for
Casanegra.

We are humbled and grateful.

Thanks to my literary agent, John Hawkins, of John Hawkins & Associates; and to my film and TV manager, Michael Prevett, at The Gotham Group.

Many thanks to the people in my circle who helped us research this novel—with a special shout-out to my Facebook “family,” which really came through in delightful ways.

Any mistakes herein should be blamed on me, not on my sources.

First, thanks to the Old Soldier.

Thank you to photojournalist and producer Miki Turner, for her impressions of Cape Town. (I was visiting vicariously through you!)

Thanks to social worker Stacie Ottley and family attorneys Elizabeth Schwartz and Deborah Wald, for advising Tennyson during his plans to adopt Chela.

Thanks to Lisa Getter Peterson—you know why.

Thanks to retired Col. Frank Underwood, Blair's father, for his grace and service.

Most important, thanks to my family: My parents, John Due and Patricia Stephens Due; my sister Lydia Due Greisz; and my sister Johnita Due, for blessings to last a lifetime. Thanks to my husband, Steve; my son, Jason; and my stepdaughter, Nicki; for my new home.

Adoption is a subject very close to my heart. It would pain me to believe that the events in this fictitious story would make anyone hesitate to adopt a child, either domestically or abroad (although it is usually much cheaper to begin the search at home).

The children need us. It's not as hard as you might think.

Your child may be only a few keystrokes, or a phone call, away.

As always, no book is written in a vacuum—many hands and minds collaborate to shape human lives, and it's those humans who create things like detective novels. Tennyson's world is always a great place to play.
From Cape Town
has special significance, because I have loved the espionage genre so much, for so long, and this has been the first time I've even wet a toe in that pond.

With that in mind, first thanks must go to the Old Soldier, who pointed me in the direction of fascinating truths concerning the American intelligence community and warned me when the fiction got too close to literal truth. His contributions can be found in every chapter, and it is one of the unfortunate realities that those who are most helpful in such matters sometimes cannot be thanked by name.

The owners and operators of Chronic Cellars in Paso Robles, California, who educated us about wines and the differences between concrete and wooden tanks over glasses of absolutely smashing Merlot. I heartily recommend them.

The Kingdom of Heaven is fictional. But all immigrant populations contain predators as well as good, honest people searching for a new life. We hope no one will mistake our fantasy for any sort of reportage. The “Knife of Heaven” technique is also fictional, but like the South African martial art of Piper (which it strongly resembles), created by Nigel February, is based on Zulu spear and knife techniques. Piper is absolutely lethal stuff, and I simply couldn't resist borrowing its approach.

Thanks to Guru Cliff Stewart, who manifests here as “Cliff Sanders,” a melding of his name and that of Sijo Steve “Sanders” Muhammad, two of the creators of the Black Karate Federation and simply insanely accomplished martial artists, as well as being true gentlemen and scholars. I am honored to count you as friends and teachers. God is good.

To my family, the greatest treasure of my life. My soulmate, Tananarive. I just adore you. My son, Jason, who lives absolutely at the center of my heart. My wonderful sister, Joyce, and her children, Steve and Sharlene, who brightened difficult holidays. And last but certainly not least, to my darling daughter, Nicki, taking her first real steps into her dream.

Go get it, kid.

As
From Cape Town with Love,
our third Tennyson Hardwick novel, is released, my heart abounds and I am exceedingly grateful for this opportunity to acknowledge and remember so many who have supported this endeavor from its inception.

So let us begin with conception. First and foremost, I salute and honor my parents Col. (Ret.) Frank and Marilyn Underwood, who instilled in me the passion for the imagination, a work ethic to see a dream to fruition, and faith to progress to the next condition. Contextually, this story speaks to family ties, specifically parent/child relations. Tananarive Due, Steven Barnes, and I unanimously agreed that it would be most appropriate to dedicate this novel to the ones who gave us life, our parents. So Mom and Dad, this one is for you!

Well, Tananarive and Steven, the saga continues. I am most appreciative to have been given the privilege of collaborating with you these past few years. Though I am enormously gratified with
Casanegra
and
In the Night of the Heat,
what is most enjoyable about this journey is that each subsequent novel gives birth to a brand new set of challenges and unique adventures for “Ten.” As both he and our series evolve, I find myself desperately wanting to delve even deeper and continue to walk in his shoes for decades to come.

Désirée, my bride, you make me feel as though, with God and you by my side, I can move mountains. I pray that you will forever feel my gust of wind under your wings as I feel your perpetual wind beneath mine.

To my seeds, Paris, Brielle, and Blake, your inquisitive nature and wonder of the world before you utterly inspires me. As you grow up, never lose your childlike spirit. The seeds of all possibilities lie within it. Protect that spirit.

To my family, Frank Jr., Marlo, Mellisa, Jackson, Owen, Carter, Austin, Kelly, Khloe, Kamden, friends and relatives far too many to name, the words “thank you” are woefully inadequate. Suffice it to say, I acknowledge and honor you for allowing me to share your walk through this life. Each one of you has been instrumental in shaping and affecting my life in wonderfully profound ways.

To Lynne Andrews, my cousin, they say that the squeaky wheel gets the oil. Largely due to your presence in our household, there are no loud squeaks, squawks, or otherwise. Thank you for your spirit of light and helping to keep everything running smoothly.

Ron West, my manager and friend, “one more again.” Thank you for believing in my crazy journey through the minefields of this thing called
Show Business. You continue to work tenaciously on my behalf and for that, I thank you.

Lee Wallman, we've traveled to countries around the globe and it is always great fun. As often as we greet each other with an elongated “helloooo,” know that I am honored to have you as my publicist and hope to never say good-bye.

Deborah Ainsworth, Tommy Morgan, Gary Reeves, and Maria Savoy, you encourage, insulate, and motivate me more than you will ever know. Thank you for always having my back.