His Last Wife Page 5

  “Kerry is in jail for a murder she committed and she’ll say anything to try to peg this on someone else,” Coreen said. “She’s desperate and she hates me. But just like I told her long before you were even a thought, her husband slept with me. He wasn’t my problem; he was hers. When my son was born, I just wanted my money. How was killing him going to get me any more? I loved Jamison, but I didn’t hate him enough to kill him. And you want to know who loved him, but hated him enough to kill him because of those times he lied to her and cheated on her and made her look like a fool? Kerry. She’s looking for the killer? Tell her to look in the mirror. I heard about Jamison’s death just like everyone else—on television.”

  Chapter 3

  “Leaf—I mean, Detective Johns—this is Val Long calling again. I called you last week. I’m calling this week. I know we haven’t seen each other since . . . everything happened . . . but I wanted to talk to you. I just . . . you know a lot of things just don’t add up. And you were there. You know. Some of these things they’re saying . . . that are happening . . . they just don’t add up. I don’t know. Give me a call. You know my number.”

  Certain things were supposed to make other things okay. For children, an ice cream cone can make a recent slip and fall a painless memory. For a teenager, a new love erases the once-shattering tumult of the last lost love. And adults—well, by then it’s a “pick your pleasure” game: Alcohol. Sex. Money. Drugs. God. Guns. Grown folks have a treasure chest of little psychological titillations designed to help the human move on, let go, forgive and forget. And there’s only one rule involved in the deal of replacement: One must never look back.

  Basically, that’s how Detective Leaf Johns was supposed to feel two weeks after his last undercover assignment with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation ended with an unearned, unsolicited and—to his knowledge, unwarranted—monumental raise and epic promotion up the ranks at the GBI.

  Leaf had been sitting at the bare desk he hadn’t sat at in a month at the Bureau, thinking through his last year on assignment. He’d been handpicked by the chief to infiltrate the new mayor’s staff. His pale, alabaster skin, those emerald eyes, the strawberry-blond hair atop a svelte male frame, made him look like a brainy overachiever, a political wannabe who’d sacrifice all as Mayor Jamison Taylor’s new assistant. The governor, who’d been under suspicion of corruption for years, had strategically placed some of his key players on Taylor’s sponsor list. That meant his dirty politics would turn into the mayor’s politics and the Bureau’s director wanted to take them both down. The only problem was that Leaf had been there alongside Taylor, working most days elbow-to-elbow, and though he’d been suspicious at times, he never found a thing that could spell out corruption for Taylor. In fact, following a fraternity house melee that sent Governor Cade and all of his cronies to jail, Jamison appeared to be the lone political survivor. But then, the very next morning, Jamison was dead. The police pegged his ex-wife for the murder, but for Leaf that was too fast, too cut-and-dry. Too clean of a solution in such a dirty equation. And the one thing that Leaf couldn’t get off his mind even after he left that barren desk and was elevated to a swanky corner office in the newly minted international-residents division of the Georgia Crime Information Center, was that every single person Jamison had helped Leaf put away just hours before he died was now free, out on the street, and back in business. Even Cade managed to run for office again. He lost, but was getting ready for a national run for office. Word was that he’d probably win.

  Still, none of that could be any of Leaf’s concern. Conveniently enough, his ascension took him far away from politics. He’d been removed from investigations altogether and placed in an administrative executive role in IRGCIC. Nothing in his past was any of his business anymore. This new thing, this new work, which required far less time and stress, but also paid far more money, was supposed to make that old thing, that old work, okay . . . and he tried so hard to follow suit, but the one thing inside of him that made him a great detective just wouldn’t let it go. And then there were those calls, the many calls from Val.

  When Leaf listened to that last message Val left on his voice mail at work, he did something he hadn’t done to the other messages: He didn’t delete it. He didn’t save it, either. He just hung up the phone and pushed away from his new mahogany desk in the swanky office. He stood and surveyed all of Atlanta outside his window. It was just before noon and from his floor-to-ceiling window that gold dome that marked Atlanta’s City Hall in the city’s ever-changing skyline looked like it was just six inches away from him. He remembered how Jamison would look when he’d walk into his office each morning. His new eyes. Both nervous and excited at the same time. Leaf spent weeks trying to understand if this was an act. If it was real, there could be no way Jamison would ever make it in politics. If it was fake, he’d climb all the way to the top.

  “Dude, don’t cry. She’ll come back someday!”

  Leaf turned away from the window to find one of his old teammates from Investigations standing behind him in his office, grinning.

  “Delgado!”

  “ ’Sup, sentimental motherfucker!”

  Delgado walked over to the window and the two gave each other an informal hug that noted the years they’d known each other and worked out in the field together.

  “Glad the glass is here. You look like you would’ve jumped,” Delgado added. He was just as skinny and young-looking as Leaf, but he was actually in his mid-thirties and had a wife and two children at home.

  “Never that. If I killed myself, I wouldn’t be able to see your wife again. That would be terrible,” Leaf joked and they both laughed. “No, really, I’m just in here thinking about old stuff. Wondering if I made all the right decisions. You know? Agent shit.”

  “Of course I do, brother. I’ve been out here just as long as you, but you know the rule: You have to let that shit go. Whatever it is, you have to let it go.”

  “That’s what they tell us. Right?”

  “And for good reason. I’ve been out there with you. I know. If we held on to all of the shit we’ve seen—half of the shit we’ve done, we’d never be any good to anyone. We have our orders. We follow them,” Delgado said mechanically. “When that case is closed, there’s nothing else to do or say.”

  Leaf nodded along and bit at his upper lip. After a pause, he asked, “And who says when the case is closed?”

  “The motherfucker who cuts your check,” Delgado replied, tapping Leaf on the chest. He laughed. “Listen, don’t get caught up. Whatever it is, saying something—doing something, that isn’t going to make a difference.” He lowered his voice to a near whisper. “I’ve seen some of the best guys go down thinking otherwise. And not all of them left the Bureau on their feet.” He looked Leaf in the eye soberly and stepped back from him before completely changing his demeanor to something more decidedly chipper. “So, what’s up? I stopped by to see if you wanted to head over to lunch at Daddy O’s with me to get some ribs.”

  “Ribs? What are you doing eating ribs? What’s up with your high blood pressure?”

  “Got it down, now I’m trying to get it back up,” Delgado joked. “Seriously, though, don’t worry about me. I’ll get the rib salad. That’s collard greens and ribs.”

  “God, I don’t miss you lame joke-telling motherfuckers in Investigations,” Leaf said.

  “Well, we miss you—king of the lame jokes,” Delgado snickered. “So, what’s up? You down for some Daddy O’s? Or are you going to stand in here and weep for the rest of the afternoon?”

  His hands in his pockets, Leaf grinned at his old comrade and bounced his eyes from Delgado back to the skyline. “Yes. Daddy O’s is probably a good idea.” He turned away from the city and pulled his hands from his pockets. “Ribs on you,” he said, grabbing his suit jacket and cell phone from his desk and following Delgado out the door.

  Chapter 4

  This was about money. Everything was about money. But the truth was, there wasn�
�t enough money. Not enough money. Now, there was a lot of money. Maybe more than a lot. But not enough. No. Not enough money for someone who had no money to keep money after everybody else got all their money. And while Val didn’t know a lot about money, she knew that. If she played nice and she played fair with this money, she was going to come out on the bottom. And that wasn’t going to happen . . . not again.

  When Jamison kicked Val out of his house in Cascade and promised to divorce her, leaving her broke without a dime to her name, she just knew her everything was about to crumble. Everything she’d worked for. Everything she had promised herself so many times would materialize in her life was about to dissipate into a memory. Now, maybe finding a rich man and living the rich life as his rich wife wasn’t everyone’s plan, but it was hers. Some women went to law school. Some to medical school. Some to hair school. Val wanted a rich man, so she had to endure her own course of study. For some time she was a straight-A student in the curriculum, and at one point it seemed that she was about to graduate with a ring and get that terminal degree and title before her name: Mrs.

  She’d set her eyes on the mayor of the fastest growing little city in the entire world. And somewhere between letting him remove her fishnets with his tongue and doing lines of cocaine off her ass and watching him lead press conferences from the front row with nothing but white people behind her, and seeing a picture of herself on his arm on the cover of a national newspaper, she’d fallen in love. She’d gotten pregnant by him and then—dear God above—Val had gotten that ring—the ring—and the promise that she was going to be his second wife.

  And then it happened. Just like that. She became Mrs. Jamison Taylor. The mayor’s wife. Not just a lady, but a first lady. Her face was everywhere and everyone knew her name, and more importantly, how powerful and very rich she was. Everyone from her past—her sisters, those men she’d met in the night, the fake friends, Jamison’s first wife and his mama—they could all see what Val had done. And everything she’d ever talked about. Everything she ever wanted was hers for the taking.

  But she knew Jamison was never really along for the ride. Yeah, she really did truly love that man. His back. His voice. His smell. How he loved. How he gave love. But none of that ever seemed to rightfully trickle down to her. She was quite clear on that. Still, she thought a baby and ring would somehow change that major impropriety. However, like most brokenhearted little girls with such dreams, she’d soon learn that there could never be anything but fool’s gold at the end of that rainbow.

  The baby died in her belly one night in their bed after Val had eaten Jamison’s mother’s mysterious summer soup, the man sent her packing, and somehow poor Val ended up crying salty tears on the shoulders of Jamison’s first wife. Here was ground zero. Here was luck run out. Here was, “What the fuck do I do now?” She’d be a grown woman playing a young girl’s game if she went back out there to find someone new. Even the old—the oldest men—wanted the youngest women. Their taut tummies and high-sitting tits. What next? A job at Macy’s? Waitressing? Home to Mama? Down on her knees to beg a nobody man with a 401(k) and health insurance to take her ass in? Hell, no. And then . . . hell no, again!

  And then she got the call about the man’s unfortunate flight from the hotel rooftop. Though Jamison and Val had called it quits by then, that wasn’t how it was seen in the eyes of the law. There had been no divorce, so she was called to play the weeping widow. And the Tennessee beauty queen learned four things that would save her life. One: While she’d signed an agreement stating what would happen to Jamison’s money upon divorce, as no such divorce occurred before his death, the prenuptial agreement was null and void. Two: When Jamison found out she was pregnant, he dutifully went to see his lawyer to change his will. He’d removed Kerry as his sole benefactor and entrusted his funds to the mother of his unborn child—Mrs. Jamison Taylor—who was to do one thing: split his belongings among his children as and where fitting.

  Whatever all that meant . . . Val didn’t care. All she heard was that she was about to cash in and move up. Between the money in Jamison’s insurance policies, dividends from Rake it Up, and investments, she’d be more rich with him dead than she ever could have been with him alive. Her mouth started watering and her head started swelling. But that was all too soon. There were still the matters of lessons three and four: In addition to making moves to change his will behind Val’s back after they got married, Jamison changed the benefactor on his private insurance policy, which was worth five million dollars. And four—that same benefactor was awarded 20 percent of his dividends from Rake it Up.

  Whatever all that meant . . . Val had to care. That’s what had led her to Jamison’s lawyer’s office so many times. What led her there that day she’d met with Coreen.

  “So there’s no more money?” Val asked.

  “No. Not until the end of this quarter when the next dividend check is cut.” David Bozeman was sitting in his high-back leather chair in his office in Decatur. His arms resting over his lap, he tried not to look as annoyed by another one of Val’s random visits as he actually was. It was common for widows and widowers and just anyone feeling like they needed to seek some kind of justice after such a tragedy as the one Val had encountered at the beginning of their grieving process. Bozeman was an Atlanta lawyer. His father had been one too. And so that had been the only thing he ever really wanted to be. He’d gone to Morehouse and pledged Alpha with Jamison and after he graduated from law school, his Morehouse and frat brother became his first major client. When he’d heard about Jamison’s death, so many things about their last encounters suddenly made sense. But then again, maybe none of this made sense at all.

  “But that’s two more months. I can’t survive two more months. I don’t have any more money,” Val said, looking at David like most of his clients did when they were down on their luck—like he was supposed to do something efficient and magical. Make it better than all right. Make it go away.

  “You paid off the house. The cars. And that last dividend check was for sixty-eight thousand dollars,” David said, looking down at the sheet on his desk, though he knew the number very well.

  Val hardly blinked at this retelling of her history. She knew it all. Val was no top-ranking collegiate scholar, but she wasn’t stupid, either. When she realized the only insurance money she was getting from Jamison’s death was a paltry six-figure payoff from the state after his short term in the mayor’s office, she immediately used his savings and any red dime she could find to pay off that big, beautiful house, those brand-new, drop-top Jaguars, and any other bill she could find that might pop up and put her out. But then Mama Fee came calling. Big Mama’s old property was in foreclosure. And then Mama Fee couldn’t pay her own mortgage anymore. Val bought both properties with the rest of the money and enjoyed looking like she’d done something right in her mother’s eyes for the first time ever.

  “So, you have no money?” David pushed.

  “I’m eating. The power isn’t about to be turned off, but . . . ,” Val paused and looked off. “There are other things.”

  “Look, Val, I’m no financial adviser. I was only responsible for giving you—”

  “Coreen wants money,” Val said, cutting David off. She waited and watched him struggle to swallow the spit in his mouth and loosen his tie. “And don’t pretend that you don’t know who she is. No way Jamison didn’t tell you.”

  “I don’t want to get involv—”

  Val cut in again. “You already are. Jamison got you involved when he put you in charge of his will. She wants fifty thousand dollars or she’s going to the media. She’s going to tell everyone about . . . you know.”

  “Let her. What’s the big deal?” David said nonchalantly, shuffling around more paper.

  “The big deal is the bottom line. The money. You know Jamison’s major clients are nothing but a bunch of Southern good old boys, who are only a generation from the Klan and probably only gave Jamison a contract because of his low prices.
The first thing they’ll do after hearing about Coreen is switch services.”

  “So? Rake it Up will lose some clients. And gain some more.”

  After hearing David say this, Val crossed her legs and sucked her teeth at him.

  “What?” he said. “That’s not enough to keep you in Chanel? Keep you in Hermès? You’re in business now and you can’t worry about that. You’re going to have to take some blows. What does Kerry say?”

  “I haven’t told her.”

  David exhaled and shook his head worriedly. He remembered the first time he saw Val. It was at a dinner party where one of his and Jamison’s frat brothers planned to celebrate the mayoral victory. The brother, who was much older and had over fifty years in the fraternity, was one of Jamison’s biggest donors, so the party was guaranteed to be well attended and highly publicized in their social circle. David’s own wife begged to come with him so she could get a “posterity” picture with Jamison. When Jamison walked in the door with the woman he was calling his “assistant” on his arm, all the talk shifted from being about the magnificent affair to everything from Val’s red dress to her twenty-inch curly weave, red lips, thick hips, and boldly displayed breasts. Of course, the brothers gave Jamison winks and hand grips of support for the vision on his arm. But they also knew how dangerous the whole thing could be, could get. Just by looking at Val in those six-inch stilettos and fake eyelashes, they knew what it was. She didn’t look anything like anyone’s assistant. David’s wife leaned into him in the car on the way home, hollering, “How is she going to type anything with those long-ass fake nails? Yeah, right, that’s his assistant. Yeah, fucking right. And I’ll tell you right now, if you ever get an assistant that looks like that, I’ll kick your black ass and then her ass and then I’ll kill us all.” David rolled his eyes at his wife’s jealous rant, but she was right, as usual. Even if Jamison wasn’t sexing the girl in the tight dress, he would soon. And then, what next? Well, all men knew what was next with a woman who looked like Val. She’d bleed him dry.