In the Nick of Time (81 page)

“I know they did, baby… but I personally don’t think those others are from the same perp. Matter of fact, my gut tells me they aren’t and I think the guy doing this is probably white.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m certain he mistook two at least one of the girls, who were Dominican, to be African American. You know how it is; sometimes we only recognize our own… you or I would know they weren’t. Maybe not at first glance, but after a minute or two, we’d be pretty certain. Yet, a white guy may not notice that right off the bat. All he knows is that she’s got brown skin, her hair is kinda coarse, and she fits the way he likes his girls to look…”

“This is so sickening…” she mumbled, holding on to him. “It is so disturbing how someone can hurt children like this… take them away from their families and do Lord knows what. Every time I hear stories like this I just want to vomit.”

“Yeah… but we live in a sick world, baby. People have been harming children since the beginning of time. These people prey on the weak. This ain’t some new shit; we just started caring as a society is all. Hell, parents were allowed to kill their kids and in some places in the world, they still can.” He shrugged. “You got places where, if your daughter gets raped, she’s seen as a slut, a whore, no longer pure, and they force her to marry her rapist. You got people right here in our very own country that don’t give a shit if a man beats up on his woman if he is a celebrity. They figure somehow she deserved it ’cause she’s a gold digger, had it coming. We got uncaring people right here under our nose hunting children through the laws they pass, so all this self righteous shit, baby, about people caring is bullshit. People only care about the shit that directly affects them until something turns on inside of them that makes them realize life is bigger and more important than their little role in it…

“If you have people just trying to survive, then they have no time for empathy for others. Why in the hell is someone who has no place to live and his freezing his ass off going to be motivated to care about and try to help find some missing kid half across town? When you find exceptions to that rule—the homeless guy for instance that sees another hungry person and pulls his last dollar out of his pocket and hands it over—that’s where the gold lies… those are the people that should be running some shit, having some say, you know?”

She understood, though his words broke her damn heart.

“Those people are the angels. They have a special something that most of the world doesn’t fucking have. It’s like God touched them personally with a gold finger, told them that their lives would be fucked up, but they were created to serve nevertheless. We’re
all
monsters, Taryn. I’m a monster, too… one of the worst ones of all.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. I’m a beast, trying to be gratified by God, asking to be given the Midas touch, and I’m alright with that. I accept who and what I am. It’s why I’m not afraid when I see a bunch of dead bodies. It’s why, as a kid, I’d steal things and not give a fuck who I hurt. It’s why I can look at people that are a fucking mess, and keep on going like nothing happened… until you show me children. When you show me children that are all messed up, hurting, it tears me up inside. That innocence, you know? That’s why I say I’m a monster, baby… because I just don’t care, as a product of my environment, or maybe it’s in my blood. It’s about damn time I accept who I am, and embrace it. So now, I want to help. I don’t want to be like that anymore; it no longer feels good to me. I want to use what I know and what I’ve done and lived through to make a difference. I want to find these girls, Taryn, dead or alive… but I won’t give up. It’s not my case and it never will be, so I had to take it. I had to steal it…

“They aren’t handling it right… I can see where they’ve fucked up already, and trust me, I work with some competent ladies and gentlemen. They’re good, I can’t take that away from them, but they’re missin’ shit because the world is falling apart. The monsters are taking over, and they don’t have the time, resources, and manpower to keep trying to find that needle in the haystack.

“But I do… and so now, I’m just beggin’ to be given a little more time and a longer leash… to be trusted… to be touched by that golden hand of God. He already touched me once, and the beast found his beauty… I found love… I found
you
.”

She couldn’t help but smile at the look in his eyes.

“Lightning might strike twice… stranger things have happened. But I have a hunch, I have an idea or two, and I’m going to chase it. My soul, baby, is telling me I can do this. I’m going to chase that shit, chase it to Heaven and Hell and back, and I just hope I’m not too early, and I’m not too late… but right on time…”

A
n ombre wall
in shades of hot pink and muted orange greeted Taryn as she stepped foot into the lobby of RED, Rousseau Enterprise and Design. Jule’s black and white photo, printed on stretched canvas, took up another wall. He posed like a majestic man from yesteryear, brandishing a smile, a black top hat, and a suit that almost appeared to be painted on his limbs. He leaned back against a graffiti covered wall, only one eye exposed—a dazzling, dark thing paired with an all-knowing smirk. Regardless, Taryn was no fool. Vicki was fucking him.

She’d realized it as soon as she called and the man made himself welcome and available for her without a moment’s notice. No one just called Jules Rousseau up, as if he were a pizza delivery service. One would have far better luck being blind playing in rush hour Manhattan traffic on a unicycle, guns a-blazing, and surviving such mayhem. Nevertheless, she was grateful, for Vicki owed her nothing. The woman definitely had sat by her side, showing up at the oddest of times, and if Vicki weren’t occasionally so incredulous and downright negative, she’d have sworn she could be her guardian angel.

She walked to the front of the place and greeted the receptionist, whose oddly shaped, rectangular, glossy white desk looked tiny and shrunk down in the large, almost empty area.

“My name is Taryn Jones and I’m here to see Mr. Rousseau.”

The blond with short, cropped hair gave her a once over, studying her face, body, and clothes, not making any concessions to hide her analysis.

“Taryn Jones? Hmmm…” She smirked as she tapped her pointy chin. “You look different in person.”

Taryn mirrored the woman’s expression, nodded, and bit her tongue.

And you look idiotic in any setting…

“Is he available? He’s expecting me.”

The woman looked down at her computer, her face tight in concentration as if she were doing tricky surgery on a patient.

“Yes, here is the appointment I see… He is with another client right now. Looks like their meeting is running a bit over.” She looked back up at her. “May I get you some coffee while you wait?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you.” She made her way over to a sitting area with two black and white checkered couches, one of which was shaped like a heart. She’d never pegged Mr. Rousseau to be the sort of man who’d give in to silly furniture gimmicks and whims, yet looks could be deceiving, and she’d never spoken to the man face to face in her entire life. Whatever perceptions she had of him, she was certain would be challenged—for she also did not envision him as the type to hold an inkling of an interest in specialty bras designed for women such as her, either.

Just then, the receptionist stood from her chair and waved her over. With desk phone in hand, she stated, “Yes, she’s here… send her to conference room A, correct? Or your office? Mmmm hmmm… Oh, okay.” She disconnected the call. “He’ll see you now in his office. Go over here to the left.” Taryn followed her direction. “Get on the elevator and go up to level 14. Once you get off, there will be another receptionist and she will lead you to his office… Good luck.” She winked at her and picked up her cell phone.

“Yes, thank you.” Taryn swallowed a ball of something wrapped in trepidation and made her way over to the elevator, following the instructions to the letter. She was already on the twelfth floor of the building; two more flights would not give her nearly enough time to gain control over her jumping nerves. She stood there drawing hot and then cold like a water heater on the fritz. She’d marched in front of dignitaries along a blazingly lit stage, posed scantily clad for elite editorials, yet here she was showing some drawings and losing her damn nerve.

She stepped off the elevator and saw an attractive middle-aged black woman with snow-white braids piled atop her head, paired with sky blue lipstick on her mouth. The song, ‘Don’t Want to Fall in Love’, by Jane Child played softly in the background.

“Hi, Taryn! It’s so nice to meet you person!” The woman got to her feet and extended her hand. She shook it.

“Thank you so much, I’m here to see—”

“Oh, I know… he already told me.” The friendly woman rounded her desk and shoved a piece of letterhead in Taryn’s grasp. “May I have your autograph, please? My daughter adores you. Her name is Amanda.”

“Oh… of course!” She offered a silly, half-cocked grin, took the paper and pen, and signed it.

“God is good, isn’t he?” The woman slipped the autograph on her desk, barely looking at it.

“Uh, yes, yes he is…”

“Look at you, surviving… such a terrible thing you went through. I am stunned that more exposés haven’t been done on your life. I’m tired of us as black women getting the short damn end of the stick! Your ass should have been plastered all over the place! CNBC, MSNBC, all of ’em should have been trying to interview you! Hell, Dateline did a—”

“Tiffany!” someone called out, interrupting the woman’s rant. “Can you please order more bread, cheese, and fruit for downstairs?! There’s nothing left except a few bottles of water!”

A short, petite woman with curly brown hair called out, her expression full of distress.

“Yes, Margot…” Tiffany sighed, barely hiding her irritation at the lady’s disruption. “Taryn, normally I’d walk you to his office but this meeting starts soon and if I don’t call these caterers right this second, everything could be late and trust me, if it is, I’ll never hear the end of it…you know how they do
us
…” She rolled her eyes.

“Oh, I understand,” she offered.

“Please head to your right and his door is the second one down the hall. Knock on it, say who you are, and he’ll let you in.” The woman winked at her then sat back down at her desk, looking every kind of flustered as she plucked the phone from the receiver.

“Thank you!” Taryn called out and did as instructed, now feeling a bit more at ease. She stood before the closed door, inhaled a deep breath, and knocked.

“Mr. Rousseau, it’s Taryn Jones.”

Before she could take another breath, the door swung open, revealing the man. A whisk of cool air brushed past her, while the scent of exotic cologne engulfed her. His photos did him no justice whatsoever. Jules was approximately sixty-five but looked not a day over fifty. His salt and pepper hair was slicked back, his thin frame covered in expensive fabrics, and his face gentle, yet determined.

“Please.” He stepped out of the way, pointing to a chair beside his desk. “Have a seat.”