Free Black Orchid Blues by Persia Walker Page A

down. If you weren’t careful, you could end up spending more time managing other people’s expectations than actually working the case.
    “So, you don’t have anything?”
    “Oh, I didn’t say that. But it’s nothing I can share.”
    “You working it alone?”
    He shook his head. “We’re putting together a task force. We’ll announce it tomorrow.”
    “How many on the team?”
    “Three. With me, it’ll be four.”
    “Smart guys?”
    He lowered his head. “You promise not to quote me?”
    “I promise.”
    “Nice guys, but they’re rubes. I wouldn’t have picked them.”
    “You mean it’s for show?”
    “You promised not to quote me.”
    “I won’t.”
    “It’s a bunch of malarkey.”
    “When’s the news conference?”
    “At noon.”
    I made a mental note of it, then pointed to the open file before him. “Sure there’s nothing in there for me right now?”
    “What for? Your paper won’t come out for another week. You don’t work for a daily, remember?”
    “Even so. I like to stay in the know.”
    He paused, studying me. “You ever regret leaving the Harlem Age?”
    “No. Why? It’s not a daily either.”
    “But it seemed closer to what you like to do.”
    I shook my head. “I’m fine where I am.” I glanced at the stack in front of him. “So, what’s up with the file?”
    “Let’s see. What’ve we got here? Well, for one thing, we’ve got a confession.”
    I straightened up, all ears. “You have a confession and you weren’t going to tell me?”
    “Hold on.” He raised a hand. “I admit that no, I wasn’t. But since you’re so insistent, I might share a few details.”
    “Please.”
    “One question.”
    “Yes?”
    “Which confession would you like to hear about?” He flipped through the pages. “We have a least a dozen. It’s your choice. I’ll give you everything but the names.”
    I sat back. “Very funny.”
    “Some of it, yeah. In short, what we’ve got here is a whole lotta nothing: crazies who want a minute of fame. At least fifty people claim to have seen the Black Orchid since the kidnapping. As far north as Poughkeepsie, as far south as Dixie. I don’t know how they heard about it down there, but evidently they did. Most of it don’t mean a thing, but we’ve got to follow it up, all of it. And no doubt more will come in. Ever since that boy’s family announced the reward, the phones have been ringing off the hook.”
    I listened to the silence of the station. “It’s quiet now.”
    “Thank God.”
    I shifted topics. “I heard that you guys went through Queenie’s dressing room.”
    “So, you were over at the club, were you? Trying to sniff things out on your own? Now, you know you’re not—”
    “I went to interview the club owner. Part of the regular follow-up.” I leaned forward. “What were you looking for in the dressing room?”
    “I could ask you the same thing.”
    “I didn’t say I was in there.”
    “Were you?”
    “Of course.”
    “Why?”
    “To get a sense of him. You know, for the column.”
    “Of course … the column.” He gave me a cynical smile. “So, what did you find?” I repeated.
    “Nothing in particular. Actually, nothing at all.”
    That jived, when I thought about it, with what I’d found. A strange sense of nothing at all.
    “Look,” he said, “there is one thing I can tell you.”
    “And what’s that?”
    “Another one died today.”
    My smile faded. “Another victim?”
    “I was taking the call as you walked in. She was twenty-five. Took a shot in the throat.”
    “Oh God,” I murmured. After a moment, I took out my pad and pencil. “What’s her name?”
    He shook his head. “Family’s asking us not to release it.”
    “Also rich, also—?”
    “No, they won’t be bothering us. The father said she was better off dead than to be doing what she was doing.”
    “Which was?”
    “Sinning with the sons of Ham.”
    “He actually said that?”
    “He’s a preacher. Has very firm ideas