More Money for Good (9 page)

When I got my things back and turned on my phone I could see that Lauren had called way more than a few times. I called the ladies to let them know we were okay. Joyce was now in the back seat of Rossi's car. She was drinking a coffee from Waffle House. It didn't seem to be helping her cope that her son who she hadn't seen in twenty years was still in jail.

“I had a feeling they were going to come after him for this,” she said. “I tried to wait around for him at her house because she told me he was on his way, but I got scared. I didn't want anybody to see me.”

“You were at Amara's house?” I asked.

She nodded her head yes.

“Why'd you go there?” Rossi asked.

“We were going to surprise Tavious. I knew Amara some when the two would hang out and do their thing. I kept in contact with her the entire time he was in prison without him knowing. She was my funnel to my son. Every time they would talk she would let me know how he was doing. I wasn't so sure about it, but she talked me into coming to see him first thing when he got out and I agreed. When I went over to see her, the front door was open. When I walked in, there she was, just above the stairs, dead.”

“Did you see anyone coming or going?”

“Not a soul. I knocked on the door; it was slightly open. I went in when she didn't answer; then I saw her on the floor in her blood.” There was a pause. Joyce, no doubt, was reflecting. I was watching her in the rearview mirror.

Rossi turned around. “Did you take anything?”

“Like what?” Joyce answered quickly.

“Like anything?” Rossi repeated.

“Amara had a suitcase next to the door. When I left I picked it up and took it with me.”

“Suitcase?”

“Yes, a brown suitcase. She told me that she and Tavious were going to go on a vacation.”

“What was in the suitcase?” I wanted to know.

“Just some clothes and her laptop.”

Rossi turned around again. “That's it?”

“That's it,” she responded.

“So, that's how you got on her Facebook page?”

“Yes. I turned on her computer and it automatically came up. I didn't have to put in a password or anything—the computer must have been in sleep mode or something. I thought about closing down her page but I thought I would just let it be; then I got a message from Tavious.”

“Why didn't you meet him at the park,” I asked her.

“Scared . . . I don't know. It's been twenty years so I didn't go through with it when I saw his face. I know he's staying with my mother but I haven't seen her either.”

We sat and chatted with Joyce a few more minutes. She was not in the chatting mood. She wanted to go inside the police station and find out what she could about her son. She didn't trust the police any more than I did. Joyce kept rambling that they were probably inside trying to get him to confess to killing Amara. Rossi pulled into the parking lot. I got out of the front seat and opened the door for her. As she made her way out of the car a black sedan pulled up next to us. The back window rolled down.

“Joyce?” Mrs. Bullock questioned.

“Mama?” Joyce said back. “They've got Tavious again.”

Soon after that, Rossi and I were standing alone in the well-lit police parking lot. We were sure there were cameras and cops looking out at us. At this point there was no hiding from the police that we were connected to Tavious on a more personal level than employment. The night was turning out to give us a little insight into Tavious and his personal life. Mrs. Bullock and Joyce stood outside for at least twenty minutes talking then hugging before they ended up walking inside the police station hand in hand.

About ten minutes after they went inside, Mrs. Bullock, Joyce, and Tavious were walking out the door. Mrs. Bullock seemed as stern as I've seen her in years. Tavious was straightening his collar on his jacket and getting himself back together while looking outward at us standing in front of Rossi's car. Everyone turned to a black Ford F-150 that inched onto the lot. The driver began to faintly blow its horn more than a few times. The truck stopped right in front of Rossi's BMW. The driver door opened. There was a gigantic German shepherd inside. The dog was not happy that it was being left alone. It was barking out of its mind. The beast kept his eyes on the man now outside the truck. It pawed and growled with some crazy distain. Rossi grabbed the handle of his own car, ready to jump his ass inside.

The black man was now in front of his truck. He was average height with a short haircut. He initiated a hand signal in the direction of the window of his truck and the dog immediately stopped his nonsense like it was remote activated.

Rossi whispered, “You see this shit?”

“Joyce? Joyce, you okay?” This guy repeated himself at least three times. He looked over at me then Rossi. He seemed a bit hesitant when he joined up with Joyce, who was standing with Tavious and her mother.

Joyce introduced them. “Ma, Tavious, this is my husband, Ely,” she let them know.

“You're married?” Mrs. Bullock asked.

“Almost a month now,” Joyce let her know.

Her husband reached out and shook Mrs. Bullock's hand while Tavious gave him a glancing over and just acknowledged him by barely moving his chin upward an inch. After Ely asked Joyce if she was okay again, Mrs. Bullock suggested to Tavious that he go home with her. He declined. She walked over to me.

“West, you of all people know my reach in these parts. I got a call and I'm here. At the moment I don't know what's going on. But I'll trust you will fill me in after I get some rest,” Mrs. Bullock said.

I still had business to attend to in my shop. With everything going on it made it that much more difficult to keep up with the normal daily grind. But I had to admit—the intrigue of what was unfolding around Tavious had my juices flowing a bit more than what my shop had to offer. I was chasing something, but I didn't know where it existed nor what was causing the problem, and I enjoyed it all. I realized it was almost like when I started repairing cars. I would get a thrill of trying to figure out what was going on with a distressed ride, opposed to later in life when I could almost diagnose what was wrong with a car just by someone telling me the problem they were having with it.

Lauren didn't hesitate to step up and help out more than usual to take the load off me. Her presence in the shop allowed me to go see Mrs. Bullock when she called during the midday wanting to see me.

I hadn't been over to see Mrs. Bullock at her estate in quite some time. She had a little more help around the place than I could remember. I noticed a cook, an assistant back in her office, and a man outside putting in new light bulbs in fixtures. She walked in her study and as always with a smile.

“Thanks for coming, West.”

I let her know it wasn't a problem at all.

She sat down across from me in a French-style brown leather chair. “You know why I asked you over?”

I nodded my head in agreement.

“So, I'll just get right to it. It hurts to ask this. And I know deep in my heart what kind of boy—well, man—Tavious was raised to be. But I need to know if you think he killed this young woman.”

Now it was official. Mrs. Bullock has found out that Tavious was being investigated. I knew deep down inside that she would find out sooner or later. As I sat in front of her I could have kicked myself for not being the one to tell her about what was going on. I didn't want to add any stress to her life so I decided not to. I hoped that she wouldn't hold it against me and by the type of person she was I didn't think she would. From that moment on, I decided that all info I had on Tavious and what was going on with him I was going to give to Mrs. Bullock straight with no chaser, even though I could see the worry all over her face.

“Mrs. Bullock, there is no doubt in my mind that Tavious didn't kill her.”

She exhaled. “I never thought he did, but hearing it from you puts my heart at ease,” she confided.

“But I do think the police, just because they have an open murder case and no other leads, are trying to pin the murder on Tavious. He needs to find out who did kill his friend so that doesn't happen.”

“Well, I've seen them send men to prison with much less evidence than what they have on my grandson. Ex-cons are always the first choice whenever they can be connected to a crime.” She thinks. “You know, West . . . I'd have never imagined Tavious would have to live his life this way, even though his mother wasn't there for him like I was raised to be there for my children. You see, she was always in and out of his life . . . searching for what was best for herself, very selfish. His grandfather and I tried to make sure he had the best of everything, which probably made his mother believe she didn't have to do much. She had the leeway to not be as good a mother as she could have been. We could give him the best schools, best of care, but everything we put into him never seemed to come out. I think it was because he wanted his mother in his life; and to make matters worse, the poor boy never knew his father. No one did. But through all that madness I can see, even though he has been locked away in that godforsaken place, he still has some good left in him and a murderer he's not.”

I agreed with Mrs. Bullock. To me Tavious was the type of person who didn't like confrontation. He was someone who just wanted to do his time, whether it be behind prison walls or free as a bird.

Mrs. Bullock looked at me sternly. “Do I know everything that's going on here? It seems on the surface that something else is brewing.”

There was no way I could look Mrs. Bullock in the face and lie to her. I told her that weeks ago Tavious asked me to go over Amara's house with him to look for his two million, and when we arrived she was dead. It wasn't comfortable filling her in on all the details. I explained to her that we had information on some of the places Amara would hang out, but after checking them all out, there wasn't a soul who didn't seem to like Amara or who we thought would harm her.

Mrs. Bullock looked down at her tea in thought while she moved her head back and forth, trying to decide what to say next. No doubt she was deep in thought.

“Looks like you have yourself another case, West.” She kind of smiled at me.

“Excuse me?”

“Who would have thought we would be right back here again?” she said with a coy smile planted on her face.

I was fully aware of what Mrs. Bullock's smile was all about. She wanted me in 100 percent to help her grandson. It all brought back memories when Rossi and I helped her put those ruthless bastards in jail who worked for the Atlanta Police Department. She thought I had a knack for solving cases and never let me forget it.

There was no uncertainty that I enjoyed solving problems. Maybe deep down inside, way deep, my motivation came from that smooth television character in the late eighties played by Avery Brooks in
A Man They Call Hawk.
He was the only black man I ever saw who was allowed to walk around strapped with that long-ass pistol and wave it around in everybody's face. The aura of it all got to a point where I never missed an episode. But Tavious and his predicament were real. I could only pray that I could help him, because if I didn't I think it would possibly kill Mrs. Bullock to see him go off to prison again.

On every Sunday since he had been out of the pen Tavious made sure that he would have breakfast with Mrs. Bullock. It was one of the few family traditions he still remembered and missed dearly when he was locked up. His grandmother had a cook but never let her touch the sacred meal on Sunday morning since he had been released. Mrs. Shirley Bullock thought it was too precious of a day. Besides, Tavious loved her grits, fish, and eggs even when he was a little boy.

The menu for the morning feast was already planned and prepared: waffles, omelets, some biscuits, and a gang of fresh fruit including Tavious's favorite California seedless grapes.

“Is everything the way you like it, Tavious?”

“Grands, you still got it,” Tavious let her know.

He noticed his grandmother smile. She was even proud.

Tavious stood up and gave his grandmother his plate for this third round. “How do you do it? It's just how I remembered.”

“It's all love, baby. When you put love into it, your love is bound to come out in the taste and it makes people feel good,” she said. “Big problem with these women today, too,” she said.

Tavious took the plate after it was nice and full. “What's that?”

“Tavious, they can't cook, baby,” she said. “Over the past twenty or so years, these young ladies haven't been taught the difference between a pot and a pan.” That in fact was a huge topic of discussion with Mrs. Bullock and her friends at the senior center in downtown Atlanta.

She was adamant about women and their craft of cooking. She believed that spending time in the kitchen preparing a meal was a way to a man's heart. She had evidence because she'd kept her husband for over fifty years happy as can be every night.

Tavious chuckled as he stuffed another homemade butter biscuit in his mouth then reached for his coffee mug. Mrs. Bullock placed a newspaper down on the table next to him. He looked down and started to read the headline staring him in the face: A
LL
A
LONE
AND
M
URDERED
.

“Looks like a reporter has taken interest into what happened with your friend,” his grandmother said.

She had read the article twice hours before passing it to Tavious. Ever since her husband played such an important role in Atlanta city politics it had become her ritual to scour the paper to find out what was happening in the city. She had read many articles from this particular reporter, Saadia Eussit. She was a clever, seasoned reporter who had the knack for concentrating on the facts of situations and only offering opinions and commentary in her biweekly column.

Tavious had not taken his eyes from the paper since seeing the headline. He did sip on his coffee a few times as he read without showing any reaction to what it said. When he finished he exhaled, then held out his coffee mug and his grandmother was already there ready to give him a refill.

“So, it's in the paper now,” he mentions.

“Yes, a lady murdered for no apparent reason is the type of stories reporters in this town salivate for.”

“She doesn't seem to have much,” he said. “Seems to know as much as everybody else.”

“She'll find out more; she always does,” his grandma assured him. “The brass down at the
AJC
gives her full reign to do pretty much what she wants. She's not an unethical woman by any stretch but she does get her stories at all cost. Thank God she didn't use your name in the paper. But when she finds out you've been questioned, there will be no way to keep you out of it when people finally get interested and want to know what's going on.”

Tavious looked at the paper and slid it to the other side of the table. There was a moment of silence.

“I think you should go see her.” Mrs. Bullock's words were as blunt as the day she told him she believed he could ride his bike and the only thing he had to do was to actually do it.

“You want me to go see the woman who could possibly tell the whole city I am a killer?”

“That's exactly the reason to go see her. Give her your side of the story before any innuendos or any false allegations are made by the police. Times have changed over the years, Tavious. You have to use the media as an advantage because if you ever—God forbid—ever have to go to trial, public opinion will play a part of the outcome.”

Tavious was silent and all he wanted at the time was more coffee.