Authors: James Henderson,Larry Rains
Perry wore gold silk pants, a black silk blouse with padded shoulders and black-and-gold striped pumps.
“Are you ready?” Tasha asked her.
“Yes, we’re ready,” Bob answered.
Tasha frowned at him, but he missed it, escorting Perry into the backseat, his hand on her back.
During the ride, Bob and Perry continued chatting like two old friends headed to a class reunion, Bob expatiating on the multiple uses of peat moss.
Tasha wished he would just shut up and drive.
“Excuse me,” Perry said. “Schott’s Facial Cream will clear up your skin in a few days. I use it myself.”
Tasha waited for Bob to respond. He didn’t. “Who are you talking to?” she asked.
“You, of course,” Perry said. “Your skin condition, Schott’s Facial Cream will do wonders for it.” She paused before adding: “I also know a good physical therapist, if you’re interested.”
Tasha crossed her arms: she feared her hands would impulsively strike the woman. She didn’t reply--couldn’t reply. Any words out her mouth would have been a prelude to a fight. Bob stole nervous glances at her. No doubt he expected one of her snappy comebacks, but she just sat there, mute, hugging herself.
At the station, Tasha got out, slammed the door and walked off, leaving Bob to escort Perry upstairs to an interrogation room.
Tasha wanted to scream, wanted to pick up something only to throw it down. Mostly she wanted to slap the taste out of the mouth of one Perry Davis.
She went straight to the woman’s bathroom, kicking the door so hard it bounced off the wall. She kicked it again. Again. Her foot was raised, poised to punish the door yet again, when she checked herself. She lowered her leg and, feeling watched, turned. Four uniforms, three civilians and two plainclothes were staring at her, oddly.
Smiling, she said “Stupid door!” and stepped inside.
Calm down, just calm down.
She inhaled deeply and exhaled through her nose.
I’m
letting her get to me--just what she wants. Schott’s Facial Cream!
She crossed to a sink and splashed water on her face. Looking in the mirror, she rubbed her right cheek, where a cluster of bumps had formed. Since junior high she’d been at war with acne, and acne had won the majority of battles.
I have bad skin, so what!
“Just a few bumps,” squeezing a pimple that was dead center on her forehead.
Don’t pop it; it’ll only make it worse. Schott’s Facial Cream. Never heard of it. Guess it wouldn’t hurt to try it.
“I might not be as pretty as she...”
Maybe another hairstyle.
The last six years she’d worn her hair in a self-styled hi-low, a little curly on top--which would remain so if the temperature didn’t top eighty degrees--and tapered near the edges, similar to Toni Braxton’s, though not as attractive, nor as long.
Maybe some weave. Not to the point of ridiculous, just enough for a new look.
She stepped back for a broader view; pressing her stomach with both hands, she pirouetted. “I’m not really what you can call fat…big boned.” She tiptoed, adding two inches to her five-feet, three inches.
The door opened and Detective Lisa Wells entered. She and Tasha had partnered on the vice squad before Tasha transferred to homicide.
“Hey, Tasha.”
“Hey, Lisa,” returning to the sink, feigning indifference to the mirror.
“Everything’s all right, isn’t it?”
Tasha splashed more water on her face. “Just great. You?”
“Same old shit, you know.”
Tasha nodded, dried her face with a paper towel.
“I saw the suspect your partner brought in. She’s all that and a free spin.”
Tasha started for the door. “I’ll see you around, Lisa.”
“Tasha, don’t let her get under your skin. If she’s dirty she’ll use anything to get the upper hand, including her looks. You know what I’m saying?”
“Yes,” Tasha said, and walked out. She met Bob as he exited an interrogation room. “You read her her rights?”
“Sure did. Tash, are you ready for this?”
“Yes, I’m ready. Why? You don’t think I can conduct a simple interrogation?”
“Oh, I know you can. It’s just…”
“What?” Tasha snapped.
“Well, you seem teed off.”
“No, Bob, I’m not teed off! We’ll give her a few minutes to refresh her lies, and then I’ll go in and ruffle her scales.”
“I thought we agreed to me playing the heavy?”
“We did. Now I think I should do it.”
“Okay. Let me know when you need me.”
* * * * *
Perry drummed her long, candy-apple-red fingernails on the Formica-topped table, wondering when were they going to get the show on the road
.
She had no intention of sitting here all day waiting for them to get their act together. She had things to do.
Why after all this time were they bringing this shit up now? Why?
Did she overlook something?
No!
Someone was dipping in her business, sticking their funky nose where it didn’t belong.
Probably that funky-ass insurance investigator. It
doesn’t matter. They’re fishing for whatever they can catch, doesn’t matter what bites the hook they’ll take it and run with it.
Play it cool, see what type of bait they’re using.
She’d rather talk to fat boy; he seemed reasonable. She could work him.
They’ll probably send in the other one, the one with the bad skin and nosy eyes. Bitch makes me sick and I just met her. All those damn bumps on her face. What kind of detective can she be if she can’t take a few minutes to care for her skin?
She’s pissed, too. Gave her healthful advice and she got pissed. I can’t help it if she’s ugly. She was ugly long before she met me. I’ll have to watch her. She’s jealous, that’s all. I’d be jealous too, if I was all fat and nasty and my skin looked like a stucco wall. She probably--
The door opened and Tasha entered the room carrying a three-inch thick manila folder, in which all but a few sheets was comprised of blank typing paper.
“Certainly,” Perry said, “all that’s not about little old me.”
“I’m afraid so,” Tasha said, sitting in the chair opposite her.
“My, my, my! Somebody’s been awful busy. That’s a lot of paperwork for an accident.”
“Which accident?”
Perry smiled. “Please, Detective, let’s not kid each other. I came down here willingly. The least you can do is not bullshit me.”
“Okay, Mrs. Davis,” left eye twitching. “For the record, your name is Perry Davis?”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Davis, you’ve been read your Miranda rights, and you fully understand them, is that correct?”
“Yes, I have, and yes I do.”
Tasha placed the folder in her lap and opened it to a blank page. “Let’s see here…you were married to a Lester Perkins, a Tyrone Banks and a Willie Davis, is that correct?”
“Yes I was,” leaning forward, attempting to see the file.
Tasha leaned back in her chair. “You obviously enjoy being married.”
“Is that a question?”
Tasha nodded.
“Yes. I enjoy being married, and I’m just as happy being single.”
“Mrs. Davis, were there any children from your three marriages?”
“No. As you already know, I have a daughter.”
“What’s her name?”
“Keshana Green.”
Tasha wrote the name down. “Father’s name?”
Perry forced a smile. “How is that relevant? I told you none of my three husbands are the father. Why is that important?”
“Does your daughter live with you?”
“No, she lives with my mother.”
“Here, in Little Rock?”
“No.”
“Where?”
“In…I don’t know, really. They were in Dawson, Arkansas. I called down there a while back and they were gone. Where? I don’t have a clue. If you have their whereabouts in that file, I’d sure like to know myself.”
Tasha stared at her. “Your mother leaves town with your kid and you don’t have a clue to where they went?”
Perry shook her head. “Honest. My mother has full custody, she doesn’t need my permission to take Keshana away.”
“How old was your daughter when your mother gained custody?”
“I don’t know…nine or ten. I’ll have to check.”
Tasha flipped through blank pages. “So…according to your marriage dates, your mother gained custody sometime during your marriage to Tyrone Banks, is that correct?”