Witness to Murder

Brody gazed into Meghan Lange’s dilated pupils. Here stood the reason that Damon was born and raised an emotional yo-yo, but the woman loved him the best she could. There was no doubt about that. And right now, there was no more dangerous creature in the world than a terrified mother on drugs.

Hallie stopped her car behind Brody’s and sat squeezing the steering wheel. Did she dare step foot outside in this neighborhood? She glanced around the area. Had Brody gone inside the house where the music blasted or this other one where the door stood open? Under her rearview mirror light, she checked the address Vince had given her over the phone after she’d lost Brody. She looked at both homes, but couldn’t read the house numbers in this darkness.

Well, she was always one to take a chance on the open door. She tucked her cell phone into her jeans pocket. As soon as she confirmed Damon was present, she’d make her call and scoot. Gripping her car keys in her fist, one key poked outward for a quick jab into an eye if necessary, she hustled up the chipped and weed-ridden sidewalk. Somewhere in the shadows to her left, a snap sounded. Hallie froze, muscles wired for flight. For long seconds, all she heard was her own pulse. Then a woman’s voice grated from beyond the doorway ahead. Brody’s tones answered, smooth as butter. Placating.

“Mom, put that thing away,” a third voice rasped. Damon? “You’re so wasted, you’re as likely to shoot me or yourself as anyone.”

Shoot? Hallie’s heart fluttered. Brody was in danger, just like she’d warned him, but not from the source she’d anticipated. What could she do about it?

Her hand closed around the phone in her pocket, but that wasn’t the whole answer. The police couldn’t get here fast enough to stop the tragedy that could occur at any second. Maybe there was a rear entrance. If she could sneak inside and create a distraction, Brody might get the gun away without anyone being hurt. That was a big “if,” but better than walking inside and giving the crazed woman another target.

Hallie darted across the lawn toward the left side of the house. Her peripheral vision caught Brody backing out the front door with his hands in the air. She reached the narrow strip of ground between houses and plunged into darkness. A low growl ahead stopped her in her tracks. Then a hiss and rustle indicated a retreating feline. Who knew what else lay ahead of her? What was she thinking trying to creep around the dark in this neighborhood? She needed to call the police right now! Hallie yanked the cell phone from her pocket, and her fingers found the keys. 9-1—

Crash!

That was no gunshot. Male voices shouted, one of them Brody’s, and a woman started crying. Hallie backpedaled and poked her head around the corner of the house.

A scarecrow woman stood on the front lawn, wringing her hands. “My window!”

The front window sported a jagged hole, Brody now clutched the gun, and the lanky Damon wrapped his mother in his arms. No one else was in sight, but from somewhere nearby, tires screeched on pavement.

Gaze darting from side to side, Hallie hustled up to Brody. “What happened?”

“What are you doing here?” He glared at her.

“I was trying to save your bacon, but then this.” She gestured toward the shattered pane.

“You didn’t throw a rock?”

“No, I was sneaking around back.”

Brody scowled. “You win the Girl Scout badge for tracking me, but you need to get out of here. Now!” He turned toward the noisy house across the street.

Her gaze followed his. A pair of dark figures lurked by the fancy car in the driveway. Their unseen stares crawled beneath her skin. “What about you?”

“I’m not a beautiful woman, and besides, Damon and I are leaving, too. I called and got police blessing for me to bring him in, rather than them coming for him. Now go!”

Hallie glanced across the street and gulped. The watchers had moved to the end of their driveway. Brody took her elbow and steered her to her car. She hopped in, slammed the door and locked it, then lowered the window a crack. “Aren’t you leaving now, too?”

Brody stood on the street with his back to her, eyeing the observers, Damon’s mother’s gun in plain sight. “You’re the spark that could set this situation off. I’ll be fine. Trust me, please, and get moving.”

Hallie started her car. A hasty retreat could be a wise thing once in a while. She peeled out. The rearview mirror showed Brody walking back toward the mother and son on the lawn. The other two men were retreating to their own domain as well.

Invisible clamps loosened from Hallie’s chest, and she took in a deep breath. Was Brody really going to bring Damon in, or was he playing her?

“Trust me,” he’d said. That was a novel idea where the WDJN sportscaster was concerned. Still, Brody had called her beautiful a few minutes ago. Her skin warmed. Humph! Like that compliment meant anything. In the breath before that, he’d equated her with a Girl Scout. He might as well have patted her on the head and offered to buy a box of cookies. But then, he had looked pretty impressive standing there with a gun between her and those thugs across the street. Of course, he was thinking about his own hide at the same time, not to mention looking out for that slime Damon and his wigged out mother.

Reaching a main thoroughfare well away from the shady neighborhood, Hallie popped open her cell phone and dialed. “Hello, Vince? Remember that favor I owe you?”

“What? I’m about to collect already?” The crime reporter chuckled.

“Brody says he’s going to bring Damon in. If you get down to police headquarters with a cameraman, you could get footage that’ll scoop the other media again.”

A low whistle sounded in her ears. “That tidbit is worth another favor back at ya.”

“I warn you, I don’t forget things like that.” She laughed.

They ended the call. Now Brody had better come through.

A little while later, Hallie let herself into her apartment and pulled off her shoes near the hallway closet. In socks, she padded into her living room and touched the button to boot up her laptop sitting on the coffee table. Then she went to the kitchen and put the teakettle on to boil. Some folks nuked their tea in the microwave, but her mother had taught her from a little girl that the old-fashioned way is best. Of course, Yewande Berglund’s tea had been made with native roots and barks. Tonight called for double chamomile. The natural relaxant had a way of warding off bad dreams. She didn’t need those after today. Hallie put two scoops of crushed leaves into the strainer.

While the water heated, she went to her bedroom and changed into pajamas. Then she opened the lacquered wood jewelry case on her mirrored dresser and took out a shiny child-sized bracelet. The solid circlet of copper fit on her palm. Engraved elephants, linked trunk to tail, marched around the circumference. On the right rear foot of the hindmost elephant stood the Yoruba tribe’s symbol for blessing, Hallie’s mother’s signature.

The same symbol she’d seen on the bracelet that adorned a dead woman’s wrist.

The teakettle screamed, and Hallie jumped. Man, she was keyed up. Time for that tea…and a little research while she sipped. She checked the bedside clock. Too late to call home and ask Uncle Reese and Aunt Michelle a few questions about the time in her life they rarely discussed—her Africa years. That conversation would have to wait until tomorrow evening after her full day of interviews for her modeling story, which would include plenty of questions about Alicia while she was at it.

“I’m coming,” she called to the whining teakettle as she headed back to the kitchen.

Soon she carried a steaming mug into her living room and perched on the edge of her couch. Savoring the pleasantly pungent taste of chamomile, she transferred her cell phone photos to her computer. Alicia’s bracelet filled the screen. This circlet also featured elephants, but these stood nose-to-nose. Hallie zoomed in until she came to the pivotal part.

The Yoruba symbol for blessing on one of the elephant’s hind feet was clearly visible. Hallie’s mother had made this bracelet. The confirmation raised a million more questions, each more puzzling than the last.

How and when did Alicia get the armband? Had she purchased it by chance at a flea market, a rummage sale, a pawn shop? If so, how had the piece come to be on the market? Yewande Berglund had never sold her work, only gave it to those who would treasure the items. So who had passed the bracelet to Alicia? The model couldn’t have been a year old when Hallie’s parents were killed. Had that person known her mother and father? How? Why?

Was there some mysterious connection between her and the woman she’d found murdered only hours ago? Could more than publicity have been on Alicia’s mind when she requested that Hallie do the interview? What would she have told her if they’d had the chance to talk?

Hallie surged to her feet and marched her empty mug into the kitchen. Those were questions that demanded answers, and as a reporter she was equipped to find them—for herself not the station.

Only one question remained. Hallie leaned on her palms against the countertop. Did she have the courage to face the shadowed fears in her own mind that those answers might disturb?

FIVE

Hallie awoke with an ache throbbing behind her eyes. She shut her alarm clock off before it could shriek at her. At least, she hadn’t been pursued by nightmares. Probably because she’d tossed and turned most of the night, despite the chamomile. Impressions from family life in Africa had haunted her mind. Her mother’s dusky smiling face, displaying the little gap between her top front teeth Hallie’d all but forgotten. The cozy warmth of sitting in her father’s lap while he read her a story. The images were welcome, not frightening, but so fleeting they brought frustration instead of satisfaction.

And questions piled on questions. Why did Uncle R and Auntie M so seldom speak of her parents? Their words were positive—almost reverent—but they were few, careful. Why had she never insisted they discuss her family and Africa…and even that last tragic day? How come she had allowed herself to assimilate so quickly into American life and lose the Nigerian part of her heritage? Was that neglect the source of the confusion she sometimes felt about who she was and where she was headed in life?

Hallie slammed the side of her fist onto her mattress and flung off the covers. Way too many deep questions for a fuzzy-headed morning when she had tons to accomplish. She rolled out of bed and plodded to the shower.

A half hour later, she flipped on the television to catch the morning news. Her hand, bearing a strawberry cream cheese bagel, froze halfway to her open mouth.

There he was! Brody Jordan in the flesh, following a slump-shouldered Damon Lange into the police station. The clip had been filmed late last night. Vince got his scoop, Brody kept his word, Lange was off the streets. This day might not turn out to be such a trial after all.

Humming, Hallie got ready for work. She’d have to compliment Brody on his accomplishment. He’d taken the tough route and seen it through. It’d be even tougher on him when the ball player was found guilty. Note to self: Cut Brody a little slack at the office. Of course, she wouldn’t be able to implement her new benevolence plan until late this afternoon. Brody’s hours didn’t start until midmorning because he worked into the evening, and she had interviews to conduct all day. Hopefully, nice meaty ones, with lots of good dope on Alicia and maybe even Damon Lange—anything she could get to help insure a killer went away forever.

As was her habit on sunny summer days, she ignored the enclosed skyway route to the WDJN building and went out the front door of her apartment complex for the short walk to the station. A tall, solidly built man in a rumpled suit loitered near the sculpture of the leapfrogging boy and girl. His gray gaze lit when she appeared.

“Brody, what are you doing here?” She stopped in front of him. “I thought you’d still be catching some zs after your late night.” She looked him up and down. “Have you been to bed at all? You’re still wearing what you had on yesterday.”