Free No Time to Die by Grace F. Edwards Page A

was a little after four, and the afternoon sky was a cloudless pale blue. I went across the street and joined the waiting line outside Georgie’s Bakery and bought a dozen of the donuts that folks would mug you for. Then I walked toward Malcolm X Boulevard, again passing the chorus of African hair braiders with their flowing colors and accents, calling to the sisters to visit their salon.
    At 127th Street I called Tad. “How about a walk down near the lake?”
    “Baby, you sound out of it. You all right?”
    “I’m okay,” I said. “I just … need to talk.”
    He was there in ten minutes, and twenty minutes later we were strolling down 110th Street heading for the Fifth Avenue entrance to the Central Park lake, devouring the donuts. But instead of the quiet talk I’d planned, I found myself trying to figure different angles, arguing.
    “James is schizoid,” I said. “He’s not particularly bright but he’s cunning. Who’s to say he didn’t slip out or talk his way out of the hospital and make it back before bed check? Who’s to say he wasn’t faking whenhe went in there in the first place? Two women involved with the same man and killed the same way? It can’t be anyone else but James.”
    “No ifs, ands, or buts, Mali. James is not it. You can’t pin a rap on someone just because you hate his guts.”
    “Too bad,” I said, wondering how he’d react if he knew how James felt about me. When James had walked away in front of the Lido, he said he would see me again, and sooner or later I knew he was going to keep his promise.
    We continued to walk. The pale blue disappeared in the shadows of early evening and the sky turned almost crimson, bathing the walkers, runners, skaters, and cyclists in a singular red cast. As we approached the park, the lake, resembling a large jewel, beckoned us. I wanted to gaze at the water and recall some calming mantra that would help me sort through my feelings.
    But Tad stopped suddenly and turned to face me. “Listen, Mali. You’re angry and don’t know where to direct it. I—”
    “Well, what did you expect?” I cried. “Of course I’m angry. I’m damn mad and—”
    “And you’re not gonna take it anymore. Right? So here’s what we’re gonna do.” He took my arm and we walked past the Duke Ellington monument at the Fifth Avenue circle. The huge piano appeared to float above the elongated arms of the Muses and cast a crisscross of shadow lines on the sidewalk. Inside the park, all the benches were filled, so we sat on the grass at the edge of the lake.
    “You’ve got to make an effort,” he said quietly. “An effort to be objective. Get over the idea that it was James. I know what he did to Claudine. He did terrible things but he did not kill her.”
    “How do you know? How can you be so damn sure?”
    My high voice caused people sitting nearby to glance at us. Tad looked out across the lake and let a minute pass. “Lack of evidence,” he finally said. “It’s just not there, Mali. That’s what you have to go by, not your emotion. No matter how much you dislike him, feelings don’t count in a court of law.”
    I remained quiet but inside I was boiling with an anger I knew was irrational.
    “Let’s look at this from another angle,” he said. “There was no money, jewelry, or other property taken, so it wasn’t robbery. The guy is probably a psycho, just as you said, but there were no prints or semen to trace. So maybe we should focus on what might have triggered him.
    “Claudine and Marie were killed on Thursdays—like the women in the Bronx. It wasn’t a copycat because the Bronx details were never publicized. So it’s most likely the same person.
    “What is it that happens on Thursdays? Or Wednesday nights for that matter? Is the moon full? Is there an electrical storm? Does he run out of medication at that particular time? And the ten-block radius in the Bronx. Was it random or was there something within those blocks that the women