Who Killed Tiffany Jones? (18 page)

“Sorry,” Latrell said, brushing past Mojo and entering the dimly lit room. “I was detained.”

Mojo stiffened at the curt response but didn’t reply. With conscious restraint he led Latrell to a spot near the center of the circle where they both knelt without interrupting the others.

After five more minutes of silent meditation, Mojo rose. “We can begin now,” he said quietly.

The men stood, and Mojo walked over to the shelf. In a bowl that sat on a simple pine table below the shelf, Mojo carefully mixed a mound of gunpowder with a handful of dirt that was supposed to have come from a freshly dug grave. He returned to the circle of men, holding the bowl in one hand and a straight-edged barber’s razor in the other.

Each man held out an arm. Mojo went around the circle and, one by one, made a small cut on each man’s hand just deep enough for blood to trickle freely into the bowl. After Latrell submitted to the rit-16470_ch02.qxd 7/12/02 4:40 PM Page 127

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ual, Mojo carefully sliced his own hand and watched as his blood dripped into the mixture.

A moment later, he set the bowl down in the center of the circle and began slowly stirring it as he recited the traditional Obeah incantation.

With closed eyes, the men repeated the words after each pause. Once again they drifted into a near trance. Latrell was the only one who refrained. Feigning reverence, he scanned the kneeling figures before him with calculated detachment. He knew according to Obeah belief his behavior was a sacrilege. He also knew that Mojo and the others were almost fanatical believers. Even the new recruits were carefully checked before being invited to the meetings. When he joined, Latrell had also believed in the spirit and goals of the sect as well as in the dire consequences that the Orishas would visit on those who violated the confidence of the rituals or betrayed any other member. He had in the last year, however, adopted a much more secular viewpoint. And it was Mojo who had unintentionally spurred his disavowal.

Latrell closed his eyes when Mojo rose and moved to the pine table where he picked up another, larger wooden bowl before returning to the circle. In the center of the bowl sat a concrete, cone-shaped fig-urine with cowrie shells for eyes and a mouth. He placed the bowl in the center of the circle before walking over to the wire cage that held the rooster. Mojo lifted the hatch and carried the bird back to the circle. Raising the animal high up over his head, Mojo solemnly chanted out a prayer of thanks and obedience to Elegua, the mischievous spirit of fifty-six faces, the god of the crossroads.

Then he kneeled over the bowl and, with the same bloodied razor that had been used on the members, cut the rooster’s throat and drained its blood into the bowl. Mojo seemed unaware of the dying bird’s bucking and thrashing in his thick arms. All of the witnesses save Latrell—who faked entrancement and observed through narrowed eyes—chanted and prayed as fervently as Mojo.

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brothers rose and removed the bowls before returning to their positions in the circle. Latrell then rose and returned with another, empty bowl, which was placed at the center of the circle. Mojo rose and, with eyes sparkling feverishly, began mumbling under his breath and gesturing wildly. His dark, calloused hands cut through the air menacingly as he paced in circles. He was completely unaware of anything around him. Latrell stared at him blankly, trying to mask his cynicism and contempt.

Mojo strode over to the glass case containing the tarantulas, took out the female spider, and carried it back to the circle. She was much larger and fatter than her companion. The sluggish, hairy spider was monstrously big, nearly the size of Mojo’s two massive hands cupped together. The hairs bristled on the spider’s long, black-tipped legs as Mojo flipped her upside down and plunged his razor into the spider’s thorax.

With expertise, he severed the spider’s venom sack and poured the thick liquid into his bowl. He stepped back and raised his hands, an almost beatific glow on his face.

“I am Mojo. I am Obi-man. I call on you, Bones, King of Death, to intercede on my behalf against my enemies. I call on you, Oduda, you who guides and sets my path. I have been wronged. I have been mis-used. My enemies have poisoned my life with their wicked, sinful ways, and I call on you to respond in kind, my gods. Avenge me against those who would hinder my path and keep me from my treasures that I would use to glorify your names and the names of our people. I give myself over to you, body and soul. Avenge me against those false and covetous enough to attempt to stop our work. Hear me, all powerful Oduda!”

The ceremony continued late into the night. When Mojo finished, satisfied that the recruits were thoroughly impressed and that the gods had heard his pleas and would respond favorably, he dispersed the 16470_ch02.qxd 7/12/02 4:40 PM Page 129

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meeting. The men were led to the table where they ceremoniously dipped their fingers into each of the bowls, bowed, and prayed. After toweling off the rancid mixtures, the men were escorted to the door, where each paused and thanked Mojo before marching out into the dark Harlem night.

Latrell stayed behind.

“Martin, we need to talk,” Mojo said when the door had been bolted and secured. “I could feel the distance tonight.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Martin said, staring defi-antly up into Mojo’s eyes.

“I think you do, my brother,” Mojo said, before pausing and shaking his head. “Back when we first met, you were just a flunky serving the white devils, a gofer collecting crumbs for Shabazz Pearson.

Shabazz is a traitor to our people, Martin. You knew it then, and nothing has changed. He’s dealing crack and running numbers, destroying our community. But I pulled you out of that. I selected you as my assistant because I sensed that you were a strong, capable black man. I also believed that you shared my vision for our people. It pains me to think that you may be backsliding, that you’re losing the faith. Do you want to return to treading on the backs of our people, scrounging nickels from poor black souls who persist in the belief that drugs or a few dollars will somehow save or deliver them? Martin, I’ve opened my heart to you, tried to elevate you spiritually as well as financially so that you might take part in the greater cause. I trusted you, my brother. I hope that you haven’t betrayed that trust, defamed my . . . no, our sanctuary.

The Orishas see into your heart. They know the things that you’re too fearful to reveal to me.”

Latrell stared into Mojo’s eyes, which were now dilated and flushed with the same intensity witnessed during the ceremony; he tried desperately to restrain himself. “Clarence,” he said, after a long pause,

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struggle. I’m your righteous servant, you know that, brother. Any disrespect you may have felt tonight was unintended. I may drift sometimes, but it’s only because I’m so involved with the details of our, uh, operation. I—”

“The Orishas do not lie, Martin. I hope you understand that no act of heresy, no pretense will be tolerated.” He paused.

“Clarence, I ain’t nobody’s fool. I know what you’ve done for me.”

He patted his pocket, visibly bulging with a fat roll of bills, and touched the diamond-studded bracelet that hung from his wrist. “But when you brought me in, brother, you knew I was from the streets.

Yeah, I’m strugglin’, tryin’ to deal with the spiritual side, but I’m with you till the end.”

“We’ll see, Martin. But I don’t want to be misled. I too have powerful contacts on the streets, considerably more powerful than Shabazz.

Nothing you do is unseen. Don’t ever think your childish pretense goes unnoticed.” Mojo turned, went to the pine table, and picked up one of the wooden bowls. He carefully poured it into a drain in the corner of the room. After emptying the other two bowls, he turned on the spigot above the drain. “I’ll be watching you, Martin. But, more importantly, the Orishas are watching. Don’t disappoint me.”

Latrell steeled himself as Mojo rose and walked toward him. The huge man stopped a few feet away from him, towering above and staring into his eyes, searching for some sign of his true feelings. “You are growing in spirit, Martin, but you’re still an infidel. I hope that soon you’ll see the light, accept the will of Obeah. Remember, we are only instruments in the hands of Elegua, who requires our strict obedience.”

Mojo turned and unbolted the door leading to the office and storage space. “Come,” he said, “we have work to do. There are several packages that must be prepared and delivered by tomorrow morning.”

“Hypocrite,” Latrell muttered under his breath as he followed Mojo into the office. Inside, however, he smiled benignly as the two men pried open a crate, marked PHONOGRAPH RECORDINGS/HANDLE WITH

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CARE, that had arrived from Africa and been ushered through John F.

Kennedy Airport customs by several well-placed airport workers earlier that morning. Latrell’s eyes widened when Mojo carefully removed a small cloth sack filled with gems from inside the otherwise empty slip of a vintage Miriam Makeba album cover.

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TEN

New York—Wednesday, August 1

Th e se co n d ca l l
Kim Carlyle received on Wednesday morning came as she stood in her kitchen. She was impatiently waiting for the pot of Afra Gourmet Coffee to finish brewing when the phone rang. The first call had been from Rick Dupre, who awakened her from a sound sleep; she had reluctantly agreed to meet him for dinner later that evening at the Sugar Bar. Now, she hastily poured a cup of the imported African brew, went to the living room, and picked up the phone. It was Lt. Jackson, and, when she heard his voice, she knew something was wrong. No jokes—none of the usual frivolous repartee. He came directly to the point.

“What was the name of the reporter who called you from London?”

he asked.

“Blair, Mariana Blair,” she said. “Why? Did you receive some information about her?”

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“Yeah, I’m afraid so—she’s dead. Murdered in some trendy joint in London last night.”

“What! Are you sure that it was the Globe reporter?”

“Without doubt—unless they’ve got another with the same name.

It’s all over the British tabloids. Some are playing it up as a lurid sex killing. Seems one of the bouncers saw her arguing with a bizarre unidentified woman who approached her just before she was stabbed.”

Kim took the phone from her ear and breathed deeply. Damn, she thought, shaking her head. I’m caught in the middle of some international intrigue, and I don’t even know what it’s all about.

“Are you there? Hello, are you still there?” Lt. Jackson was shouting when she returned the receiver to her ear.

“Yes, yes, I’m here.”

“Look, Kim,” he said, “I’ll tell you the truth; I was skeptical about your conspiracy theory at first, but now . . . well, I don’t know. But I do know you well enough to know you’re not telling me everything. And, friend or not, if you’re hiding evidence about what could be a murder in my jurisdiction, I can’t be responsible for what happens to you. Bottom line is, I need to know everything you know about this—today!”

“Okay, okay Maurice, I agree this is getting out of hand. I’m going to take the day off. Can you meet me for coffee at Henry’s a little later?”

“Twelve o’clock all right?”

“I’ll be there.”

When Lt. Jackson hung up, Kim immediately called the Globe.

Bill Wittington’s secretary answered, and a few seconds later the obviously shaken editor picked up the phone.

“Hello, Miss Carlyle?”

“Yes, it’s Kim Carlyle,” she said. “Is it true that Mariana Blair was murdered last night?”

“I’m afraid so—”

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didn’t have something to do with the story she was working on for your paper?”

“The sex stuff is tabloid hype,” he said before pausing and taking a deep breath. “Look, Miss Carlyle, you’re one of the last people Mariana talked to before she left the office last night—what did she say to you? Do you have any information?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing. She hung up in the middle of the call before telling me much of anything. She mentioned a few people who she thought were involved in some diamond scam, but that was it. Was that the story she was writing?”

“First, let me ask you something. How do I know you’re not involved in this thing yourself?”

“You don’t, Mr. Wittington! All I can tell you is that before yesterday I’d never heard of Mariana Blair. She called me out of the blue and began suggesting that the recent deaths of some musical performers in the United States—including two of my clients, Tiffany Jones and Cheeno—were connected to something that was going on in Europe.

She worked for your paper; you must know something about it.”

There was a moment of silence on Wittington’s end of the line. “All right,” he said finally. “Let me be more forthright. When I heard that Mariana had been killed, I immediately ran a check on you. I know you’re a former New York detective, and it appears you’re on the up and up. I’ll tell you what little I know if you’ll do the same. Do we have a deal?”