Hanging on a String Read online

  We got out of the taxi and made our way to the sidewalk in front of Irmalee’s building, where one of New York’s finest, one who apparently had not heard the mayor’s speech on the importance of physical fitness for the members of his police force, stopped us, with a “Wheredayathinkyagoing?”

  He was well over two hundred pounds, and he was sweating profusely. He had the red, flushed coloring of one who was well acquainted with the bottle, and his face was lined from years in the sun and, I guessed, hard living. His hair was a flaming color that was stuck somewhere between red and orange, and his eyes were the color of wheat. The whole effect was disconcerting. He looked at us with a bored air. Uppity folks, his eyes said as he gave us both a once-over, taking in the expensive suits and the taxi waiting for us obediently at a discreet distance.

  Raymond spoke in his “I am a lawyer, and you had better think twice about messing with me” voice. “I’m here to see Irmalee Littlejohn. She lives in this building.”

  New York’s finest’s eyes narrowed, and I thought I saw a smile lurking just beyond his lips. “Well, right now we’re conducting police business,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s just not possible.”

  “What kind of police business?” I asked. “What’s going on?”

  New York’s finest looked at me and said, “Who are you? You related to Miss Littlejohn?”

  “No, I’m not related,” I said, his cold eyes confirming my suspicion his presence here had something to do with Irmalee Littlejohn. I was not fond of Irmalee, nor was she particularly enamored of me, but I did not wish her any harm. I saw in the face of New York’s finest the grim eyes of someone who is on a first-name basis with random or specific acts of violence, which told me my wishes on this score would not be granted. Either Irmalee was in trouble or she was in a place where trouble could no longer reach her.

  “Jasmine Spain,” said a male voice that was by now getting more familiar, “what are you doing here?”

  Both Raymond and I turned in the direction of that voice and found ourselves staring at Detective Claremont. He was standing with two other uniformed officers. He had the air of someone who was distracted or worried or both. Dressed in khaki slacks, which had been ironed by someone who meant business, and a white oxford shirt, he looked like a professor or a graduate student on his way to class.

  “I’m trying to get some answers,” I replied.

  “I called your house this morning,” said the detective. “I talked to your mother. She assured me if you felt strong enough to leave the house, you were doing okay. How are you?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  Detective Claremont took two strides, and he was in front of me. He looked at me hard before speaking; then he looked at Raymond. “Mr. Bustamante,” he said by way of greeting; then he returned his attention to me. “What answers are you trying to get, Jasmine?” he asked.

  “Irmalee Littlejohn lives here, and I want to make sure she’s alright. She hasn’t been to work in two days, and we’ve been unable to reach her.”

  “She’s dead.” Raymond’s words were not a question, just a sure and certain statement. I had almost forgotten his presence; I was so consumed by the unfolding drama around me and my fear that Irmalee’s life had come to the same ugly conclusion as Lamarr’s and Chester’s had.

  Marcus nodded his head, his eyes never leaving my face. “Yes.”

  This news didn’t come as a shock. I wasn’t stunned. I wasn’t surprised. I think deep down, I’d suspected as much when I got in the cab. Whoever took the trouble to murder Chester and Lamarr was not going to leave any loose ends. Irmalee had been a loose end.

  “What happened?” I asked, marveling that my voice had remained calm, reflecting a detached air I did not feel.

  “Her throat was slashed. Like Chester.”

  Throughout this discussion, New York’s finest stood silently by, observing us. I thought I saw a mild curiosity in his eyes, but upon closer reflection, I saw I was wrong. I saw boredom. Another day. Another murder. Another statistic.

  “Mr. Bustamante,” Marcus said, now turning his attention to Raymond. “I think you and I need to talk.”

  He knew. It was unspoken. There was nothing unusual about the words spoken by the detective, but all three of us, Raymond, Detective Claremont, and I, knew Detective Claremont had found out Raymond’s secret. The jig, as they say, was up.

  My protective instincts went into high gear. I owed a lot to Raymond. Without his encouragement, I would probably have gone to a white-shoe, established Wall Street law firm, where I would have languished in obscurity, doing unimportant work that needed to be done to bill hours, until I was gently let go. Raymond allowed me to shine, and that opportunity had opened many doors to me. I was not going to turn my back on Raymond. Not now. Not ever. I am a loyal person. I owed a lot to Raymond. Other powerful partners wouldn’t have taken me under their wing and safely guided my career the way Raymond did. I wasn’t about to forget that, no matter how attracted I was to Marcus Claremont.

  “There will be no questions of my client unless I’m in his presence,” I said.

  Marcus raised one eyebrow, but otherwise his expression was inscrutable.

  “Fine,” Marcus said. “Why don’t we do this back at the precinct?”

  Raymond nodded his head. I watched as the realization came to him that his life, a life he had so carefully and meticulously crafted, was coming inexorably to an end. A shameful end. The secrets he had buried back in Florida had now blossomed into an ugly fruit right here in Harlem.

  I turned to Raymond and said, “Let’s get this over with. It’s going to be okay. I promise.”

  Raymond smiled, and once again his smile did not reach his eyes. “Cross your heart?”

  “Cross my heart,” I responded, squeezing his hand.

  “We can take my car,” said the detective, gesturing to his unmarked police vehicle, the same one I had ridden in yesterday. I don’t know how I could have missed it. I walked right by it on my way to Irmalee’s apartment building.

  I walked over to the taxi driver and told him we would not be needing his services. Then I handed him a fifty-dollar bill, which took care of his wait, his ride back downtown, and then some. He started his engine before I could say, “Keep the change.”

  Marcus Claremont’s office was not the standard antiseptic detective office I’d come to know in my dealings with my various criminal clients. It was filled with pictures of family and various plants, which added to an almost homey feeling when we entered the room. On the wall were numerous citations from the mayor, the governor—even one from the President of the United States—all attesting to Detective Claremont’s bravery in the line of duty. He was apparently very accomplished, which did nothing to ease my nerves as the interview with Raymond began.

  Raymond and I sat down in two chairs that looked good but were extremely uncomfortable. Marcus Claremont sat down behind his desk. In the position of power. He cleared his throat. “I’m not here to trap you, Mr. Bustamante. But I am here to get some answers.”

  Both Raymond and I digested this information in silence. I sat up a little straighter in my seat. Prepared for battle. My senses were all on red alert, waiting for the strike to come. Something told me Marcus Claremont wasn’t a man to be underestimated.

  “Mr. Bustamante,” said Marcus, “what I want to know is any information you might have about the murders of Chester Jackson and Irmalee Littlejohn.”

  He didn’t mention Lamarr, but I knew he suspected Lamarr had also been murdered.

  “Is my client in custody?” I interrupted. “Because if he is, I will not allow any further questions until you read him his rights.”

  “He isn’t in custody,” Marcus replied. “I’m just asking him a few questions—for informational purposes only.”

  Yeah, right.

  “May I proceed?” asked Marcus, with exaggerated formality.

  I didn’t respond; instead, I turned and focused my attention on Raymond.


  “Do you know anything at all, anything at all about these murders?” Marcus asked Raymond.

  “No,” said Raymond. His voice was flat. “I don’t know anything about anybody getting killed.”

  “Mr. Bustamante,” said Marcus, “did you visit Chester Jackson on the night he was murdered?”

  “Yeah, I saw Chester the night he was killed.”

  I had to resist the urge not to snap my head in Raymond’s direction. In the words of my late grandmother, what the h-e-double-l was going on? This was the first time I’d heard this information.

  I was glad for the training and experience I had as a litigator, or this bombshell would have made my mouth drop open. Instead, I concentrated on Raymond’s face as I was confronted by a thought that had never before surfaced. Raymond had killed before. Had Raymond killed again? And again? And again? I pushed away all thoughts of Raymond being the murderer of anyone but his wife-beating stepfather. Raymond had changed. He was no longer that little boy from South Florida who wanted to help his mother. He was a distinguished jurist. The man who gave me a start in my career. No, it wasn’t possible Raymond was involved in these murders.

  “Why did you go to see Mr. Jackson?” asked Marcus.

  Once again the litigator in me sprang into action, even though I was still reeling from this latest information. “Raymond, I think we should end this questioning now.”

  I turned to Marcus and said, “If you’re going to charge Mr. Bustamante with a crime, then please do so. If you are not, then my client wishes to end this line of questioning.”

  “Do you want me to charge him with a crime, Jasmine?”

  “No, Detective Claremont,” I said, standing up and giving him the clear indication that this interview was over. “I do not want you to charge Mr. Bustamante with a crime. However, I will not allow you to interrogate him—”

  Raymond’s voice interrupted the speech I had planned to give on Miranda warnings and custodial interrogations. “Sit down, Jasmine,” he said. “I’ve got nothing to hide from Detective Claremont.”

  If I lived to be a hundred, I would never understand the male species. Here Raymond had broken his neck to keep his secret from all concerned, and now he was waving the white flag, letting a cop interrogate him, getting God knows what information from him, only to be used against him. I could see where this questioning was going. Marcus was building a case against Raymond, and Raymond was helping him do it.

  “Raymond, please,” I said, hating the fact that my voice was now getting dangerously close to a whine.

  “It’s okay, Jasmine.” Raymond’s voice was firm.

  I turned to Marcus Claremont and said, “I wish to consult with my client.”

  Marcus answered, “Apparently, your client doesn’t wish to consult with you. Am I correct in that assumption, Mr. Bustamante?”

  “You are correct,” replied Raymond.

  I sat down. There was nothing I could do at this point but watch as Raymond allowed everything he’d worked for to be destroyed. The information that I knew he was going to give Marcus Claremont would help build the coffin in which he would bury his career. Although I could not swear Raymond was not involved in the murders of Chester, Lamarr, and Irmalee, in my heart, I did not believe Raymond had murdered any of those three people. True, he had murdered before, but if he was to be believed, it was in defense of his mother. But why would Raymond kill any of his employees? To protect B&J? I knew B&J meant the world to him, but would he kill for his firm? My heart said no. But my heart had been wrong before.

  “I went over to talk to Chester. I had learned Chester had found out some very damaging information about me, and I wanted to know what he planned on doing about the information.”

  “Was anyone at his town house when you went over?” asked Marcus.

  “No,” said Raymond. “I’d called Chester to talk to him about it. He hung up on me, and I went over there to talk to him.”

  “To talk to him?” asked Marcus Claremont, with one raised eyebrow.

  “To talk to him,” replied Raymond, “and to beat some sense into him if he proceeded down the very dangerous path of messing with me and what is mine.”

  The quiet words belied an undercurrent of violence. I did not doubt for a minute Raymond would do bodily harm to protect what was his, but would Raymond have killed Chester?

  “Did you,” asked Marcus Claremont, “beat some sense into him?”

  “No,” said Raymond. “We talked. He told me he hadn’t yet decided what to do with the information, and for now, my business was not going to be told, at least not by him. We left it at that.”

  “You trusted Chester’s word?” asked Marcus Claremont.

  “No,” replied Raymond. “But for the time being, his word was all I had to hold on to.”

  “How long did you stay at the town house?” asked the detective.

  “Not long. I got there around nine, and I was gone by nine thirty. He was drunk. Couldn’t talk much sense into him, anyway. Besides, I had gotten what I wanted. A reprieve. I figured out I had time to reason with him to do the right thing.”

  “Do the right thing?” repeated the detective.

  “Not to mess with my business,” replied Raymond. In Raymond’s words, I heard something I had not heard before. An accent. A southern accent. His voice became softer. Rounder. More musical. Southern Florida had caught up with Raymond in more ways than one.

  We were all silent for a moment. Then Raymond said, “I didn’t kill him. Although I don’t know what I would have done if he had gone on and tried to test me. He was a sorry bastard who turned everything he touched to dirt. From his business partners to his marriage. Everything always turned to dirt, although he ended up smelling like a rose. But I wasn’t about to let him mess with my firm.”

  Nothing like the client who won’t listen to you. I had no doubt Raymond had now become a suspect in Chester’s death. A prime suspect. In my mind, I was certain Raymond was not the killer. I was convinced all three deaths were related, and while I knew Raymond could kill Chester, I didn’t believe he could have killed poor Irmalee or Lamarr.

  “Is there anything else you have to say?” asked Marcus Claremont.

  “No,” said Raymond. “Not at this time.”

  I thought the detective would push Raymond more. Ask him questions about the information that Chester had on him. Instead, the detective said, “I’d like to thank you for taking the time to talk to me.”

  “Is this line of questioning over?” I asked.

  Marcus Claremont stared at me, with an expression I couldn’t discern. At one point, I thought he was going to say something to me, but instead, he turned his attention to Raymond. “You have my card, Mr. Bustamante. Please call me if anything comes to mind.”

  The detective rose from his chair as both Raymond and I stood up to leave. “I’ll be in touch,” he said.

  Yes, I thought, I’m sure you will.

  Raymond walked out of the office, and as I followed him, Marcus caught my arm.

  “Be careful, Jasmine. I know this man is your friend, but he might be a murderer,” he said softly.

  I shook my head. “I’d bet my life Raymond’s innocent.”

  Marcus looked at me. “I hope you’re right.”

  After we left the police precinct, Raymond and I walked for awhile, with no particular destination in mind. Once again, Raymond was quiet. Lost in his own thoughts. I wasn’t sure how long Raymond intended to walk aimlessly all over the Upper West Side, but I decided I would walk with him until he decided not to walk anymore or until he told me to go away.

  When we reached Seventy-second Street and Broadway, Raymond finally spoke. “Jasmine, why don’t you take the subway home. I’ve got some things I need to sort out.”

  He sounded tired. Broken. Defeated. I cursed Chester once again for his role in bringing Raymond down. Whatever predicament Raymond was in was his own doing. Still, I blamed Chester for whatever role he played in this whole
mess.

  “Call me if you need me,” I said. “Anytime.”

  Raymond smiled then. He pulled me to him in a quick embrace and enveloped me in his arms. I could hear the sounds of New York City surrounding us. The blaring horns of taxis and other vehicles. The shouts of street vendors. Hip-hop music from someone’s boom box. The sound of a couple fighting in Spanish.

  Raymond kissed my cheek and then pushed me away from him. It was an odd gesture. Gentle and firm at the same time.

  “Do you know, Jasmine Spain, I’ve always had a crush on you?”

  I had by this time thought I’d lost the capacity to be stunned or in any other way surprised, but I was wrong.

  Raymond continued. “I’ve wanted to date you for some time ... but I held back. Thought it wasn’t proper. Thought you might think my motive for hiring you was something other than that you were and are one of the best damn lawyers I’ve ever encountered. Guess I missed my chance with you, Jasmine.”

  I stared at him. “Raymond, I don’t know what to say.” This was, in fact, true.

  “There’s nothing to say. You apparently have an effect on men. I think Detective Claremont is smitten with you.”

  Damn, was it that obvious?

  I cleared my throat. “I’m not interested in him,” I lied.

  He smiled. “Yes, you are. He’s a lucky bastard.”

  Then, he turned and walked away.

  Later that night Thea and I sat down on my living room floor, listened to reggae music, and ate Chinese food. Reese was spending the evening with my parents, but Thea had escaped my mother’s lectures on the sanctity of marriage and the prudent nature of forgiveness. I’d had a hell of a day, and I felt a little selfish, in light of my sister’s problems, but I was glad to have her spend some time with me. I’d told her a little about what had happened that day, and like me, she’d been shocked about Raymond’s true identity.