Black Lace Page 7

  “No idea, because Mr. Wheeler went missing a few days ago.”

  Drake asked, “Do we think he’s missing or dead?”

  “Unfortunately it may be the latter,” his brother responded. “His wife has filed a missing persons report. For the moment, the feds are treating the disappearance as a missing persons case. She’s agreed to let them look at his home computer, and they’ll probably want to do the same for the one in his office.”

  “What’s Parker saying?”

  “He’s been talking back and forth with Wheeler’s wife, offering to help her look for him, telling her not to worry because he’s sure her husband will show up.”

  “Are we looking at him as a suspect?”

  “Yep, but proving he’s responsible is going to be the hard part. Especially with no corpse.”

  Drake asked, “You’ll keep us posted?”

  Myk nodded.

  Drake wondered if Parker knew about the Wheeler partnership with the feds and had him killed because of it. He wouldn’t be surprised. He also wouldn’t be surprised if indicting Parker took a long time. The man was smart; too smart, it seemed. He was shaping up to be NIA’s most challenging foe since the deadly Clark Nelson, who had been a major player in the Midwest drug rings. That case ended with Myk’s wife, Sarita, being shot and Nelson killed. Sarita had been hospitalized for weeks but made a full recovery.

  Myk closed down the discussion on Parker, then reported on some of the other investigations NIA was involved in. One that caught Drake’s attention was a request from Adam Gary, an old friend of his from med school. Gary was now a celebrated metallurgist working on a revolutionary polymetal that had the Defense Department salivating over the metal’s unique properties. Apparently, the Defense Department wasn’t the only group interested. According to Myk, a few weeks ago Adam Gary had almost been abducted in Madrid after giving a lecture on his preliminary findings. The DOD wanted him protected until he finished his final analyses and they took possession of the prototype.

  Myk opened the floor for comments, and Drake asked, “How about sending Max Blake?”

  “Is she back from the Middle East?” someone asked.

  No one knew. Maxine Blake was one of their best operatives. They decided to check on her status, and if she was available send her to protect the scientist. After that, the discussion moved to the next item on the agenda.

  An hour later the meeting ended and Drake and Mykal were the only ones left in the room. Like their third half brother, Saint, they shared the same father but had been raised apart. Growing up, though, Myk and Drake spent summers together in Louisiana with their paternal grandmother. They hadn’t known about Saint until a few years ago.

  “So,” Drake asked, “how’s the little mama?”

  Sarita was due to deliver in September. “She’s doing fine. Me, I’m a basket case,” he admitted as he put away the projector.

  “Why?”

  “I worry about her 24/7.”

  “Pregnancy is a natural thing.”

  “Maybe for women.”

  Drake grinned. “How are the Lamaze classes coming?”

  Myk shrugged. “Okay I guess. I just hope I remember what I’m supposed to do.”

  “You’ll be okay. Older men than you have come through it.”

  Myk shot Drake a look.

  Drake just grinned.

  Myk said, “Speaking of old men, what is this about you and Burton running some poor woman off the road?” He began gathering up his papers and reports and sticking them in a black leather briefcase.

  Drake told him the story.

  “Is she gonna sue?” Myk asked.

  “I don’t think so, but man…”

  Myk looked into his brother’s eyes. “What?”

  “She is so fine.”

  Myk chuckled. “Oh, really.”

  “Yes, Lord, but getting her to talk to me is like trying to put shoes on an orca.”

  Myk’s handsome face showed his smile. “Any woman who can resist His Fineness is one I want to meet. Wait until I tell Sarita.”

  It was Drake’s turn to shoot Myk a look.

  “Wait until I tell Sarita and our little brother,” Myk teased.

  Not sure he liked being teased, and hoping to turn the conversation to something else, Drake asked, “Speaking of little brother, how’re Saint and Narice doing?”

  “She hasn’t put him out yet, so I guess they’re doing okay. Last I heard, they were looking at a villa in Tahiti.”

  “Tahiti?”

  Myk shrugged. “You know Saint. But he promised they’ll be here for Gran’s birthday party next month.”

  Gran was their father’s mother and the woman who had raised Myk from infancy.

  Myk added, “If you can get that woman to talk to you, you should bring her along as your date. Can’t wait to meet her.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Myk laughed. “Have you had dinner?”

  “Nope.”

  “Sarita’s making jambalaya.”

  Drake paused a moment. “Let’s see, Sarita’s jambalaya or pizza? Hmm.”

  Myk grinned. “Get your coat and let’s go.”

  Drake didn’t have to be told twice.

  After sending Malcolm home, Drake joined his brother for the ride to Indian Village, where Myk and Sarita lived. “How old is Gran going to be?” he asked.

  Myk shrugged. “Two hundred.”

  Drake laughed. “She’s going to get you for that.”

  “Only if you tell her. Which you probably will.”

  They shared a look. Myk had amusement in his eyes.

  Drake asked, “You’re never going to forgive me, are you?”

  “Nope,” and he chuckled. “You cost me a night with Charlene Reynolds.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Drake replied, unimpressed. “You were what, twelve that summer?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Charlene the Bed Queen would’ve hurt your skinny little thirteen-year-old behind.”

  “Maybe, but thanks to you, we’ll never know.”

  The story revolved around Myk’s attempt to sneak fifteen-year-old Charlene into his bedroom one night, only to have the eleven-year-old Drake rat him out to their grandmother. Myk stayed mad at Drake for the rest of the summer.

  “I wonder what happened to her?” Drake asked.

  Myk looked over. “No idea.”

  Drake thought back on the well-built Charlene. “Hindsight? She was fine.”

  “Oh, now you admit it?” Myk laughed accusingly.

  “Chalk it up to me being young. I was eleven. Didn’t care a thing about girls.”

  “I know,” Myk answered sagely.

  An amused Drake settled back and watched the streets go by.

  Reynard Parker wasn’t happy. In addition to having to hold the hand of the Wheeler’s clueless wife, one of his haulers had been busted by the feds, and now the driver was in jail and the truck and its load impounded. Parker used his well-paid blond lawyer to disavow any knowledge of the hidden contraband. He also promised to help the authorities with their investigation. He looked at his watch: 10:00 P.M. Where the hell was Fish? He had paged him over an hour ago, and so far Fish hadn’t called him back. Probably between some woman’s legs, Parker groused inwardly. He needed Fish to pay a visit to the jailed driver and let him know he’d be taken care of as long as he kept his mouth shut.

  Ten minutes later the phone rang. It was Fish, and from the sounds in the background, he was at a club. The high-pitched laugh of women competed with the sounds of tinkling glasses and thumping music blaring over speakers. Parker shouted over the din, “When are you coming in?”

  Fish yelled back in a slightly slurred voice, “Come in for what?”

  “Something’s gone down that we need to discuss.”

  “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

  “If it could’ve, I wouldn’t have called you now.”

  “Okay, let me say ’bye to the ladies and I’ll be right there.”
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  He never showed.

  By 2:00 A.M., Parker had come to a decision. Fish had become unreliable, and an unreliable team player was a potential liability. He was too old to have his ship sunk by a fish-eyed fool who couldn’t keep his pants on. Sooner or later—more than likely sooner—Fish, in his effort to impress one of the topless dancers or streetwalkers he couldn’t seem to resist, was going to give up some vital information about his business, and who knew what might happen next. The incident with the pole dancer and the briefcase was a prime example. Women made Fish careless, and Parker knew that in his business, such carelessness could get a man fifteen to twenty years in the state prison. “And I’m not going down like that,” he said aloud. Not after all he’d done.

  He hoped Fish had had fun tonight, because if he had his way, it would be Fish’s last. Parker picked up the phone to make the call, then set the phone back in the cradle. With the accountant Wheeler supposedly missing, it wouldn’t look good to have another employee disappear. Even though Fish had no immediate family, he had friends on the street, and having him suddenly vanish might bring more scrutiny. It would be better to postpone Fish’s fate. Only fools rush in, or so the song went, and Reynard Parker had never been a fool.

  His encounter with the Green woman had also tested his patience, but he didn’t think he’d have any trouble making her see the light. The last thing he and his constituents needed were more inspectors nosing around in their business. According to the report, Green was recommending six new people be hired. Fines for citations topped out at fifty grand and she wanted to put citizens and environmental representatives on the hearing board. No, she had to be schooled before this idea became a reality. He had enough on his plate; he didn’t need a tree hugger complicating his life.

  Drake was in the office Saturday morning trying to catch up on the never ending paperwork that went with being mayor. His plan was to get as much of it off his desk as he could in the four or five hours he and Rhonda planned on being around, so he’d have less to face come Monday morning. Tonight he had a formal event to attend at the Charles H. Wright African American Museum—a scholarship fund-raiser for one of the city’s high schools—and he was looking forward to it. Right now there were papers to be signed, contracts to scrutinize, and City Council minutes to read and review. But the sun was shining, it was April warm, and just like a kid, he wanted to be outside. He thought about cruising over to Belle Isle and taking in the fresh air off the river. He thought about driving over to his sister’s and taking the kids for ice cream. He thought about a lot of things that had nothing to do with being cooped up inside on a gorgeous Saturday morning, but he had work to do, so he dove in.

  But he couldn’t concentrate. The sunshine kept calling, and his mind kept turning to other things, like Lacy Green. He swung his chair around and faced the window that looked out onto Jefferson Avenue and the sunlight playing on the river. The memory of how soft her skin had been was still a vivid one. Had Rhonda not interrupted, who knew where that short moment in time might have taken them? It was not like him to be so obsessed with a woman. Usually, if a woman didn’t want to be with him, he’d shrug it off and move on. Not this time. He thanked the brother above for giving the lovely Lacy such an impressive brain, because had she not come up with the proposal, he might never have been given the opportunity to know her better.

  He turned back to his computer and brought up Google. He typed in Lacy’s name and hit Enter. Drake knew searching her out on the Net wasn’t a very gentlemanly thing to do, but he wanted to know as much as about her as he could before starting his campaign to woo her, as Uncle Burton was famous for saying. Drake didn’t really expect the search to turn up anything, so when hundreds of hits came up, he stared, amazed, then began to read.

  The articles tied to Lacy proved to be real interesting. No wonder she was so standoffish. If the info was accurate, she had good reason. She’d been married to Wilton Cox, and their divorce had been all over the Atlanta papers. Drake had met Wilton Cox a few years back at an NAACP fund-raiser in D.C. The man had been so full of himself Drake had politely excused himself from the conversation and did his best to avoid Cox for the rest of the evening. Cox was one of those men whose view of himself and his own importance far outweighed anything else. The man was a legend in his own mind, as his mother was known to say. What in the world had Lacy been thinking, to marry such an arrogant SOB? There were no answers in the hits on Google, but he did find another interesting fact. Her mother was the well-known artist Valerie Garner Green. Unlike most artists, who operate in only one field, Lacy’s mother was known for creating in a variety of mediums. Watercolors, oils. Jewelry. She even sculpted. Many of her pieces were on loan to elite museums all over the country. Drake was impressed. Although he’d never met Mrs. Garner Green, he was aware of her celebrity status. So, she’s Lacy’s mama, he thought. He wondered if Lacy had inherited any of her mother’s talent. Again, he had no answers, but thanks to Google, he knew a lot more about Lacy than he had before.

  When Rhonda walked in with a small stack of papers, he looked up. “Her mother is Valerie Garner Green.”

  “Whose mother?” Rhonda asked, setting the paper on his desk.

  “Lacy’s.”

  “Valerie Garner Green, the artist?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you smitten with Ms. Lacy?” Rhonda asked slyly.

  “Smitten?”

  “Yes, like—”

  “I know what smitten means, Rhon. It’s just not a word you hear this side of the nineteenth century.”

  She smiled. “‘Smitten’ is the Word of the Day on my calendar.”

  “Ah,” he said, understanding now.

  “So, are you?”

  “I think I am, but the verdict’s still out on her.”

  Rhon looked impressed. “Really? I like her already.”

  He gave her a look.

  “Hey, any woman who can be around you and still remember her name is my kind of girl.”

  “Don’t you have something to do?”

  “Yep, but teasing you is much more fun.”

  He grinned and pointed to his glass doors. “Out.”

  The amused Rhonda went.

  During Lacy’s Cleopatra hiatus after the accident, she decided the time had come to break down and buy some furniture. She’d seen apartments of poor college students with more furnishings than one yellow chair, so she and her credit card went shopping by phone and on the Net. This morning it began arriving.

  For her living room, she’d ordered a leather couch in a color the website called “warm vanilla butter,” and when the delivery truck showed up promptly at 8:00 A.M., the leather was soft as butter to her admiring touch. The dining room set, courtesy of a sale on Pier One’s website, arrived at nine-thirty. For the rest of the morning various odds and ends she’d ordered came to the door, and by late that Saturday afternoon, Lacy was seated on her vanilla butter couch admiring the way her once empty apartment had come alive. She had a couple of lamps, a coffee table, and two end tables. Her mother had already promised to ship her some of the art Lacy had stored at home, and when it arrived, her furnishings would be complete. None of the objects were heirlooms, by any means, but they were comfortable and, more important, affordable for a girl who worked a nine-to-five. She also had a place for Drake to sit and eat when she invited him over for dinner. It been in her thoughts off and on ever since that close encounter in his boardroom. Had Rhonda not appeared, would the moment have led to a kiss? It certainly felt that way, and even now, a day later, Lacy could still feel how thick the air had been and the fleeting weight of his finger across her cheek. In reality, it made no sense to keep fighting the feeling. It wasn’t as if the man was an ogre, smelled bad or had some other obvious physical flaw. She knew he was intelligent, witty and had shown her nothing but concern since the accident. He was also supporting her programs. She had no reason not to have dinner with him, but she wanted it on her terms. That way, she could enjoy his
company and not wind up losing her heart to a man rumored to be the ultimate collector.

  The last person Drake wanted to see when he walked into the museum for the scholarship gala was Lola Draper, but there she stood, holding court in a too tight black gown that let folks know she was no longer the svelte young woman who’d represented the state in the Miss America pageant back in the eighties. Lola was also daughter of one of the city’s first elected Black city councilmen. Politics was in her blood, but she had a habit of backing the wrong horse. She also had a habit of drinking too much. As her eyes caught his through the crowd, Drake could see that hers were already glassy and red. He made a point of heading to the other side of the packed room. He didn’t need any drama from her tonight. Spying the museum’s new female director, he went to say hello.

  On the way, he nodded greetings and shook hands with the area’s movers and shakers. He made a special point to stop and speak to as many of the high school students and their parents in attendance as he could and offer congratulations. He even posed for a few pictures taken by proud parents. He enjoyed this part of being mayor.

  After spending a few minutes with the director. Drake and the rest of the attendees moved to the big hall set up for the dinner. Before he had a chance to scope out his seat, Reynard Parker, dressed in a well-tailored tux, walked over.

  “Councilman Parker. Where’s your lovely wife?”

  “Mexico.”

  “Ah.”

  They both nodded at the people flowing around them, then Parker asked with a cold smile, “What do you know about this new program coming out of the Environmental Office?”

  Drake didn’t think now was the time. “How about we talk on Monday? This isn’t the place.”

  “Fine, but I’m letting you know right off the bat that I’m opposed.”

  Drake didn’t ask for whys, he’d hear them soon enough. “Thanks for letting me know. Enjoy your dinner.” And he went to find his table.

  On the way, he made a discreet call to his brother. “Hey. Parker’s here. The crew has maybe an hour. The wife’s in Mexico.” He ended the call and pocketed the phone.