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

might have had in common? Did he live or work there or did he prowl the area looking for likely victims? What’s driving him?”
    I thought of John Wayne Gacy, Ted Bundy, Son of Sam, Jeffrey Dahmer, and a chill went through me. “You think we have a serial killer loose in Harlem?”
    He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Anything’s possible, though we don’t get many black serial killers.”
    “What about Atlanta in the seventies and eighties?”
    “They only convicted Williams for one of those murders and I have my doubts about that one.”
    He fell silent again and gazed out at the lake. Across the water, children were launching small sailboats, guiding them by remote control. Their laughter wafted toward us as some of the boats collided. A few minutes passed before Tad spoke: “In any event, Mali, from now on, I’m gonna do this investigation solo. You’re still grieving and it’s making you crazy.”
    “What do you mean by solo,” I asked, ignoring everything else he’d said.
    “Just what I said. It’d be better if you weren’t so involved. You’re too close to this … this …”
    I gazed hard at the toy boats and the children. I thought of Claudine and Marie and the life that had been taken from them. They’d had no chance to feel the love of their own child, no chance to watch it grow and sail toy boats.
    Despite Tad’s argument, I still believed James did it, had taken all of this from Claudine and Marie, and I intended to find him, with or without help.
    Tad was still searching for the right word and I didn’t wait for him to find it. I got to my feet and walked out of the park without a backward glance.
    I strolled uptown, and by the time I’d walked past the Lenox Lounge near 125th Street, I’d made up my mind to look for James. He was sneaky and crazy. He’d come up on Marie from behind to beat her. And I knew all too well what he’d done to Claudine. Now they were dead. I intended to let him know that if he was looking for me, he was looking for trouble and I was ready to meet him face-to-face.

    Between Malcolm X and Powell Boulevards, 136th Street was lined with three-story row houses—brick, lime, and brownstone—and anchored by the Countee Cullen Library near Malcolm X and a community center near Powell. Most of the houses were occupied and many others were sealed. One had been abandoned for so long a tree was growing inside. Others had been converted into funeral establishments, small churches, and rooming houses.
    A long time ago, my mother had said, “Learn to look at the bells. Five bells or more in a three-story house usually means its a rooming house. Not always, but most of the time.”
    I counted the bells at a house next door to a sealed building and hit a jackpot of sorts when I pressed the bottom one. It chimed like a church bell and a thin, brown, middle-aged woman in black linen slacks and a yellow cotton pullover appeared at the wrought-iron gate and eyed me carefully before she opened it. A curly wig slanted over her left eye and an unlit cigarette hung from the corner of her mouth and bobbed up and down as she spoke.
    “You lookin’ for who?”
    “James. James Thomas,” I repeated.
    “Where you from?”
    I didn’t know if she meant which city, state, or finance company, so I said, “I’m a friend. I was told he—”
    She removed the cigarette and rested her hand against the door frame. “Who you foolin’, girl? Did Maxie send you?”
    “Maxie?”
    “From the number hole.”
    I knew of Maxie from my days on the force. A young Jamaican who sported long silken dreadlocks and whowas into loan-sharking, numbers, and a whole lot of other stuff. Rumor had it that he was a man of extremes: loyal to friends, generous with strangers, and vicious with anyone who crossed him. I nodded and shrugged.
    “I heard of him but I don’t know Maxie personally.”
    She brushed her hair back from her eyes and looked at me even closer now. And smiled. “You ever go