In This Rain (35 page)

“But frankly,” Ford said, “that doesn’t mean I’m comfortable with you. You’ve put me in a pretty deep hole.”

“I want to get you out.”

“Working from the hole you’re in yourself?”

She poured tea for him. “I went to see Sonny O’Doul yesterday morning.”

“Can you do that?”

“No. But it was worthwhile. He told me something interesting. He said it was Walter Glybenhall who personally told him if he needed to talk to DOI, call Ann Montgomery.”

“I don’t understand.” The steam rising from his tea smelled sweet, but strangely sad.

“See, didn’t I say it was interesting? And the other thing I did yesterday was study Glybenhall’s financial records.”

“How did you get those?”

“Technically, I’m on desk duty.” She looked at him levelly and didn’t expand. “Now try this: it’s true Three Star took out additional insurance on Mott Haven four months ago, and the Three Star partnership is strapped for cash. But if you dig deeper, things change. A number of Walter’s other businesses are doing quite well. He has available cash, not to mention credit lines, he could have applied to Mott Haven, with a little effort.”

“So Walter Glybenhall’s rich. Is that what you brought me to Brooklyn to tell me?”

“What I’m telling you is that he had no real reason for insurance fraud at Mott Haven. It only looked as though he did.”

“Maybe it looked that way to him, too.”

“I’m not being clear. It looked that way because he made it look that way. It took some fiddling to make Three Star seem as precarious as it does.”

“What possible reason would he have for doing that?”

“I don’t know yet. But it’s obvious there’s something going on.”

“You said that last week. Now look at the mess we’re all in.”

“Mess notwithstanding, it was true then and it’s still true.”

“And it’s still a mess. I have funders pulling donations, agencies talking about contracting with other nonprofits for programs we’ve always run. My board members are behind me 110 percent, of course. But if you listen hard you can hear words like ‘for the good of the foundation’ and ‘resignation.’ Tell me something: Why shouldn’t I go to Walter Glybenhall on my hands and knees, telling him I’m sorry I got in his way? Asking him please to leave the Garden Project alone and let me minister to the innocent and needy children of Harlem, and promising never to cross him again?”

“Walter Glybenhall loves it when his enemies crawl. He’d probably send you a hefty donation.”

“So why should I turn his donation down? What are you offering that’s better?”

“A chance to find the truth.”

The pastries on their lacquer tray had not been touched. Ford reached for a frothy white ball. “What’s this?”

“Lamb’s Tail, it’s called. Because it looks like one.”

“But it’s not?”

“It’s meringue filled with bean paste.”

“I understand you’re a wealthy woman.”

“That’s true.”

“Why didn’t you offer me a donation to replace what I’ll lose if I don’t go hat in hand to Glybenhall?”

“Because you’d have gotten up and walked out.”

Ford bit into the pastry. The meringue was light and melting, the dark filling chewy and sweet. “What do you want?” he asked.

“First, to talk to T. D. Tilden’s girlfriend.”

“Why?”

“You never told anyone where she is.”

“And I still won’t.”

“I’m not asking you to. But if you’re really the only one who knows, chances are Walter hasn’t gotten to her the way he did the other witnesses. She may be able to tell me something I can use.”

“And then? You said that was first.”

“That’ll depend on what she says.”

“What if there’s nothing?”

“Then that boy Armand— A-Dogg. And the other gangbangers.”

“If you’re right, he’s bought them off already.”

“And they’ve already done what he paid them for. They have nothing to gain from long-term loyalty.”

“Or from helping you out.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“This sounds like police work. Why don’t you go to Detective Perez?”

“Perez won’t take my calls.”

“Can you blame him?”

“No.”

Their eyes met in silence. Ford sipped his tea and looked past her to the brush-painted pine branch. Early autumn, that was the sadness in the fragrance: that first hint that the promise of spring would not come true and the glories of summer would, again this year as every year, wither and fade.

With a sigh, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number in Crawford County, Georgia.

The same guarded male voice answered, but this time when Ford identified himself he was told, “Yeah, just a minute,” and Shamika came on the line.

“Hello? Mr. Corrington?”

“How are you, Shamika?”

“I’m good, real good. I told my mama, I’ll be staying down here awhile.”

“I know, she told me. I think that’s great.”

“My cousins could use a hand. And this farming, it’s kind of interesting. My cousins got chickens and all. And three dogs!”

“I can hear them barking.”

“Yeah, they’re chasing the chickens.” She giggled. “I ought to go out and stop them.”

“Shamika, I have someone here with me who wants to ask you some questions.”

“Umm

what kind of questions?”

“About T.D.”

“Did y’all find what happen to him? My momma told me about Kong. She say someone kill him, too.”

“No, we don’t know any more than we did. That’s why we want to talk to you.”

“I don’t know nothing I ain’t already told you.”

“Still, it might be important. Shamika, do you have a cell phone with you?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Can I have the number?” He wrote it on a napkin as she gave it to him. “This lady’s going to call you. Her name’s Ann Montgomery. It’s okay to answer anything she asks. Except don’t tell her where you are. All right?”

“Okay.” Shamika sounded unconvinced.

“I’ll be right here, sitting with her.”

“Okay,” Shamika said again. “If you think it’s important.”

“I do. I wish I didn’t, but I do.”

Sutton Place

Ann keyed into her cell phone the number Ford Corrington had given her. She heard two rings, then a girl’s tentative voice saying, “Hello?”

“Shamika? I’m Ann Montgomery. I work for the city, for something called the Department of Investigation.”

“You a cop?”

“A kind of cop, yes. What I want to do is ask you some questions about T.D.”

“I already told Mr. Corrington everything about that.”

“I know you did. But sometimes people know things they don’t know they know. Can I just ask a few questions?”

“I guess.”

“Thanks. First, tell me again just what T.D. told you he was doing.”

“He say, he be going on up to the Bronx, make accidents where this rich white guy building a building.”

“And he was working for someone?”

“Kong.” She hesitated. “You know who that is?”

“Yes, thanks. But Kong was working for someone else, isn’t that right?”

“Prob’ly. Kong don’t stand up out his chair, he ain’t being paid for it. I don’t mean to disrespect no one, ’specially now he passed, but that’s a fact.”

“Do you have any idea who that might be?”

“Who Kong working for? T.D. didn’t never say. I don’t think he knew.”

“Do you know where T.D. and Kong went, in the Bronx?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Did T.D. say why they were doing it?”

“So it would cost the white guy money. I told Mr. Corrington.”

“I know you did, Shamika. I just need you to tell me. When was the first time they went?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a couple weeks ago.”

“Did T.D. give you any details— time of day, tools they took with them, anything like that? Did he say how he and Kong got onto the site, like did they climb a fence, or break a lock?”

“First time, they climb over the fence. T.D. do that stuff all the time, but Kong, he have trouble getting his big-ass self over. Oh, sorry, miss!”

“That’s okay, Shamika, I don’t mind whatever you say. Go on.”

“Well, T.D. say Kong cut his hand, then he trip when they was on the scaffold, bang his knee. T.D. tell me it just about crack him up, watching Kong fallin’ all over hisself in the dark. When they get where they was going, Kong knock something over, make a lot of noise. An’ something else happen when they was leaving, I don’t remember what, but T.D. say he ain’t going back to do the next job if Kong come along.”

“He told you that?”

“Told Kong that, too. He say he can do it on his own just fine, don’t need no helper.”

“What did Kong say to that?”

“Well, he get all bent outta shape when T.D. say ‘helper.’ He all, like, T.D. his helper. But seem like he as happy as T.D. that he don’t have to go up there no more.”

“Wait. What do you mean?”

“To do the jobs, with T.D.”

“Kong agreed?”

“Kong come like he ain’t happy, but he don’t fool nobody.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“He just sit his fat ass down an’ wait for T.D. to get back. Oh!” the girl said again. “Sorry!”

“Shamika, you have nothing to be sorry about. You’ve been a terrific help.”

“I have?”

“Yes. Thank you. May I call you again if I need to?”

“I guess. You gonna find out what happen to T.D.?”

“I’m going to do everything I can to find that out, Shamika. Thank you again.” Ann cut the connection.

“Did she help?” Corrington asked.

“I think she did.”

“What did she say?”

“That T.D. and Kong didn’t get along. Now there’s someone else I want to talk to.”

From his look she thought he might demand details, but all he said was “Who would that be?”

“Blowfish said he saw Walter Glybenhall and Kong down by the river, when he was ‘getting next to’ his girlfriend.”

“And then he said no, it was someone else. I don’t think there’s much point in talking to Blowfish again.”

“I don’t want to. I want to talk to his girlfriend.”

*

It took a call from Corrington to Armand Stubbs at his job at the bakery to locate Blowfish’s girlfriend. She worked as a manicurist at the Beauty First Salon on Lenox near 122nd Street.

“Though A-Dogg isn’t sure they’re still together,” Corrington said, as they walked to the lot where Ann had left the Boxster. “Blowfish doesn’t seem to have a gift for long-term commitment.”

“Even better. You sure I can’t offer you a ride?”

“Being seen with you would be bad enough. Being seen in that?” He pointed. “I’ll take the train.”

Ann handed the ticket to the attendant and turned to face Corrington. “Thank you. If we have any chance of stopping Glybenhall— ”

“I don’t believe we do.”

“Then why did you help me?”

“Because you believe we do.”

By the time Ann entered the Beauty First Salon, it was nearing two. Five standing women in pink smocks and four seated ones draped in pink aprons from their chins to their knees turned to look when she walked in the door.

“Is the manicurist here?” she asked, a little breathlessly. Before the surprise on their faces had a chance to blossom into incredulity, she waggled her fingers in the air. “I’m going out tonight and I cannot go with my nails like this! I just started a job at the State Office Building and I’m on my lunch break. One of the girls says there’s a manicurist here named Ra’shelle who’s a total genius. Is that you?”

Mary Blige’s “Slow Down” pounded so loudly from huge speakers hung off the sprinkler pipes that Ann wasn’t sure her question had been heard. But a tall, thin young woman nodded. Under her pink smock she wore cropped jeans and high wedge sandals. Two magenta stripes flashed in her chin-length hair.

“Oh, good! Are you free, Ra’Shelle? Please say you’re free!” Heads swiveled to follow as Ann maneuvered around the other women and plunked her bag in the corner beside a rolling cart arranged with emery boards, alcohol and cotton balls, and row after row of nail polish. All shades of red appeared, from palest pearl pink to crimson so deep it was near black, and so did some interesting blues, a few golden yellows, and a little rack of tiny glue-on gems and rainbows.

“Sure, I could take you,” the young woman said, with an amused glance at her colleagues.

“But are you Ra’Shelle? Because Chandra said I had to see Ra’Shelle. I’m dating this new guy, and just look at these!”

“I’m Ra’Shelle.” The thin woman examined the hands Ann thrust forward. “Man, that’s nasty. How you mess them up so bad?”

With a nail file and a set of keys, Ann thought, but she said, “I’ve been digging in the garden. Can you do anything? I want a diamond, too, on this finger and a lightning bolt on that one.”

“Go ahead, sit down.” Ra’Shelle pointed Ann to a pink vinyl chair. She flipped her smock out as she sat on a rolling stool.

“Nice to have your own station in the corner like this,” Ann prattled on as Ra’Shelle brushed the chipped scarlet polish off her nails with a damp cotton ball. “Much quieter.”

“Kinda hard to be part of the conversation, though. With the music and all. Like, right now, they’s all talkin’ about how they was afraid they was gonna have to do your hair.” She smiled and flicked a glance at the hairdressers and their clients. As far as Ann could see, all eight mouths were moving at once, and various pairs of eyes kept darting in her direction.

“I guess you don’t get a lot of blondes here?”

“Not when they come in.” Ra’Shelle’s smile turned to a sly grin. “That your natural color?”

“Both sides of the family. Still, if I could get magenta streaks like yours, that might be cool. Not while this guy is so new, though. Does your boyfriend like them?”

“Don’t make no difference to me. It’s my hair.” Ra’Shelle moved Ann’s right hand to a dish of warm water and went to work on her left.

“Ra’Shelle,” Ann said, “it’s good no one can hear us over here. I want to talk to you.”

The manicurist glanced up. “What you mean?”

“I work for the city. I want to ask you some questions.”

Ra’Shelle froze, cotton ball in hand.

“You a cop.”

“Yes. But no one needs to know that. You’re not in trouble but I need your help.”