Read Hanging on a String Online
Authors: Janette M. Louard
Hanging on a String (4 page)
I watched as Thea walked over to my bedroom door.
What a day,
I thought.
Death and divorce.
What a day,
I thought.
Death and divorce.
4
The next morning I left the house before Thea and Reese were awake, and although Magic glared at me as I got myself together for my meeting with Marcus Claremont, he didn't bark. I hoped we'd reached a truce, but with Magic, you couldn't be certain. After counting five yellow cabs, which were already taken, I made my way down into the bowels of hell. Specifically, I took the subway during early morning rush hour.
It was an unusually hot morning in late May, and things got even hotter on the Number 1 train. The air-conditioning system on my train had given up the ghost, and the tempers of the harried subway riders flared in response. I managed to fight my way to a seat at Forty-second Street, which was several stops from where I first got on.
By the time I got off the train at Wall Street, my nerves were shot, and my black Chanel knockoff suit clung to the sheen of perspiration covering my entire body. I had a run in my stockings, and someone had stepped on my pumps and left a nice dark mark right by the toe. It was only eight o'clock. I was sure that things were not going to get better.
I walked up the narrow subway stairs and gratefully embraced the bright sunlight. Although the thick, hot morning air promised extreme heat and humidity, I was glad to be aboveground and headed for a cool, air-conditioned place. Crossing the street quickly, I made my usual stop at Ricardo's newsstand.
“Hey, Ricardo. How's it going?” I asked.
Some people needed coffee to get their workday started. For me, it was my early morning conversation with Ricardo that usually provided the necessary jolt to propel me into my office, ready to face a day of frenzied litigation. Ricardo was good for gossip, compliments, and weather predictions.
“I can't complain,” he replied. “Have you seen the headlines today? That guy from your law firm is all over the paper.”
Ricardo handed me one of the New York dailies. Chester's face was plastered on the front page. He was wearing a broad smile, with his eyes squinted toward the camera. Splashed above his head was the bold headline LEGAL EAGLE'S WINGS CLIPPED. So much for decorum and dignity in death, I thought. The other paper wasn't much better. Once again, Chester made the front page, but this one had a nicer picture of him. It was a full shot of Chester walking down the stairs of the federal courthouse, wearing a smile of victory. His coat was open, revealing a crisp suit. Nina and Wayne were walking a respectful distance behind him. The headline read PROMINENT NEW YORK ATTORNEY FOUND MURDERED.
Ricardo shook his head. “Makes you want to get the hell out of New York,” he said. “May God rest his soul. He always let me keep the change.”
The last thing I wanted to do was discuss Chester's recent departure, and I skipped the rest of the conversation, which I knew would be about the murder. Thanking Ricardo for the newspapers, I made my way to the corner of Wall and William Street, along with all the other people who were rushing to desks, bosses, computers, deals, or whatever other business they had on Wall Street.
B&J was located at 55½ Wall Street. A nondescript grey Wall Street building on the outside, it was a veritable palace of marble, glass, and chrome once one pushed through the revolving door. I said my usual good morning to the security guard in the lobby and walked toward the elevator bank. I rode up in silence to the ninth floor, thankful that there was no one from B&J riding with me. I didn't feel like talking to anyone. I wanted to read the paper in silence, eat my yogurt at my desk, and think about how best to navigate the day.
“Good morning, Jasmine,” Raquel, the receptionist, greeted me. B&J was one of the few New York firms that had a receptionist start work at seven in the morning. Raquel's usually cheerful face was now worried. She had been with B&J almost from the firm's inception, and although she tended to lose messages, talk too much, and get in people's business, Raymond had a soft spot for her.
“Isn't it just terrible what happened to Chester!” she said, her voice lowered to a dramatic hush. Although it was just past eight o'clock, it wasn't too early for her to gossip. Shaking her head, she continued, “And as fine as that man was! Who would want to kill him? I'm telling you, all these ugly folk running around New York, and God knows
they
are going to live forever. But, a good-looking, rich man like that, and someone has to go and kill him! It just ain't fair.”
they
are going to live forever. But, a good-looking, rich man like that, and someone has to go and kill him! It just ain't fair.”
For a moment I stared at her, wondering if I had truly heard what she'd said. Then I decided that sometimes it was best not to comment on other people's foolish words. I said a quick good morning and kept stepping.
“Oh hey, Jasmine,” Raquel called after me, almost as if as an afterthought, “there's someone waiting for you. A cop. He'll be back in a minute. I think he went to the bathroom. He was here yesterday, too, talking to some of the attorneys about Chester.”
I didn't know if it was just me, but the way Raquel was looking at me reminded me of when Inspector Columbo would casually ask a suspect, who you knew was the actual culprit, an innocent questionâready to catch the unsuspecting murderer in some sort of lie. Raquel raised an eyebrow, as if speculating on the exact nature of my whereabouts the previous day.
“Send him down to my office,” I said.
“Speaking of fine men, that detective sure is easy on the eyes.”
Apparently, Chester's murder had now taken a backseat to the apparently good-looking detective. Thanking her for the information, I walked down the hallway and headed to my office.
B&J occupied one floor of 55½ Wall Street. It's furnishings were more functional than fabulous. Raymond didn't believe in squandering the firm's resources on luxurious surroundings. I believed most of the furniture came from a secondhand office retail store. Still, the pieces of African art that adorned the walls gave the place a little bit of color, relieving the overwhelming greyâgrey carpet, grey wallpaper, and grey chairs. I had once told Raymond the grey chairs did not look right with the brown desks. His response to me was that for the price he paid, the chairs would look right with just about any piece of furniture.
As I walked down the hallway, I passed directly by Chester's office. The door was open, and I glanced inside. I saw that his secretary, Irmalee Littlejohn, was in the office, sorting through some papers on his desk. Like me, she was dressed completely in black, except she was wearing a strand of pearls, which didn't look like the Chinatown imitation pearls that I wore to court or on other special occasions. I knew that she would be devastated, and her stricken face confirmed my analysis.
I called to her in greeting, and she looked up. Her eyes looked vacant, as if she did not recognize me at first. Irmalee was known as Chester's bulldog. There was nothing she wouldn't do for Chester. You had to go through Irmalee before you got to Chester. She was a tiny, attractive woman who would be much more attractive if she learned to smile and changed her hairstyle to something less severe than the tight chignon she always wore. She didn't like me. I never really could figure out what her basis was for disliking me; I hardly knew the woman. Still, every time she spoke to me, which was thankfully not that often, she had a strange look on her face, as if she were eating something vaguely distasteful.
I stopped for a moment to say something to her. I felt some expression of remorse was necessary. After all, she had worked closely with Chester, and according to usually well-informed office gossips, Irmalee lived to breathe the same air as Chester.
“I'm sorry about Chester,” I said to her.
She didn't move for a moment. Instead, she just stood there, staring at me. Usually, she was just distant and rude. Today was an entirely different matter. She was openly hostile. When she finally spoke, her words were full of venom.
“I'll just bet you're sorry,” she said, her voice low and mean.
I stood at her doorway for a long, silent moment, thinking of an appropriate response. Finally, I realized that responding to her wouldn't change anything. She'd never held a high opinion of me, and that wasn't about to change. Any discussion would be a waste of time. I turned and kept walking.
I approached my office and saw that the door was open and the lights were on, which was strange. I never left the firm without turning off my office lights and closing the door. Even the cleaning lady closed my door after she was finished cleaning my office, and as far as I could recall, she always turned off the lights. I took a look around, and everything seemed to be in order. Still, I knew that someone had been in my office.
I walked across the small room, and sat down on the chair behind my desk. My office was not large by other senior associate standards, but it had a decent view of Wall Street. I managed to make the room reflect my personality, from the pictures of my family, to the framed photographs of Jamaica, my favorite place in the world, which hung on every wall, to my potted ferns, my signed portrait of Justice Thurgood Marshall, my college and law school diplomas, and my CD player, where I played my rap music and smooth jazz when I worked long into the night. I spent a lot of time in this room and I wanted to make my surroundings as comfortable as possible.
“Miss Spain?”
I looked over at the doorway to my office, from where that voice had come, and found myself looking at a man tall enough to play basketball in the NBA. In his hand was a small paper cup.
“You must be Detective Claremont,” I replied.
“The one and only. May I come in?”
His voice had an almost musical quality to it. He sounded as if he was from the South, but I couldn't place his accent.
“Yes,” I responded in what I hoped was my cool, courtroom-ready lawyer voice. I stood up.
He wasn't anything like I had expected, although I wasn't sure exactly what it was I had been expecting. He was tall and solidly built, with broad shoulders. He looked as if he'd spent a lot of time in the gym, but he didn't have that “I've pumped a little too much iron” look. He had a smooth brown complexion that brought into contrast his eyes, which, even then I had to admit, were really quite extraordinary. They were the color of light amber and were fringed with long lashes. I couldn't stop staring at him. It was as if a bell of recognition rang inside my head. He seemed familiar, like someone I'd met before, but I couldn't place him.
“Have we met before?” I asked him.
He smiled, and the color of his eyes darkened slightly.
“I saw you years ago, but I'm certain you didn't see me. You were in your own world.”
I felt an inexplicable flare of attraction. It was immediate and hot.
“I watched you in court,” he continued. “I have to say, I was impressed.”
“Thank you,” I said warily, wondering when this occurred. Then it struck me: he'd remembered me years later. I felt a flush of pleasure, which I quickly pushed away. This man was here on serious business. I needed to focus.
“It's called mysterious mint tea, and the lady who sold it to me swears you'll think you've died and gone to heaven when you drink it.” He held out the cup of tea.
I stood there like a complete idiot, mesmerized by the smell of mint tea, his deep voice, and his laughing amber eyes. Recovering quickly, I took the cup, murmured a quick thank-you.
“No sugar and no milk,” he said, with an easy smile. “I remembered.”
I didn't know a lot about detectives, but something told me his direct gaze went somewhere beyond professional interest. Clutching the cup of tea, I retreated to the safety of the seat behind my desk.
“Please have a seat,” I said as I sat down, hoping the hot tea would calm my nerves. A lot had happened in the past twenty-four hours, and obviously, my emotional state was not as steady as it would otherwise have been.
He sat down, and I noticed that he was wearing jeans, which fit him like a glove. Completing the ensemble was a crisp white shirt and a black blazer. He had a good-natured expression on his face and a disconcerting way of staring directly into my eyes when he spoke. He looked as if he were about to take a pleasant walk through Central Park, not grill me about Chester's murder, as I knew he was about to do.
Still, I could sense this was a man that people enjoyed being around, a man at ease with himself and with his surroundings. After dealing with people who postured for a living, this was a refreshing change.
“I like what you've done with your office,” he said, still staring directly at me.
There was something vaguely intimate about his words.
I cleared my throat and took a sip of mint tea. It was delicious.
“Detective, I'm extremely busy... .”
“Right,” he said, still looking at me, with a wide smile. “I'm sure you're very busyâhigh-powered lawyer that I'm sure you are.”
I didn't expect such a good-natured response. Most folk, when faced with the efficient, businesslike, and, yes, downright ill-mannered Jasmine Spain, reacted in one of either two ways: with anger or immediate compliance. Instead, Detective Claremont was smiling at me as if I'd just paid him a compliment.
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