Without Faith Read online

  Too much confusion for a Friday morning.

  I slammed my door shut.

  What was I supposed to do with the information Laz had given me? Call Yvette? Call my mother?

  Call Leon?

  I crawled back into my bed.

  Chapter 13

  Hiding under my covers only lasted about two minutes. I knew it would only be a matter of time before my phone started ringing, and I wanted to be proactive, ready for what I knew would be a long day.

  In retrospect, I would have never imagined how bad the day would get.

  Bad.

  I tried calling Roman first, and, as I expected, his phone was turned off.

  “I know what’s going on. Call me immediately,” I yelled into his voice mail.

  I decided against calling Yvette. She would want more answers than I could give, and I figured she would learn of her son’s fate soon enough.

  Leon.

  I had to go see him. He’d been trying to talk to me since yesterday. Thankfully, I’d kept my Friday appointments light, so I could cancel all of them quickly. I grabbed my work notepad to get phone numbers, and a large wad of bills fluttered down to the floor.

  Jenellis and Brayden.

  “Twenty-four hours,” Brayden had said. “By this time tomorrow, both of you will understand why we are so pressed for time.”

  I had no idea what that meant, or what I was supposed to do. All I knew was that at the moment, that was secondary on the list of concerns of my life. A fleeting thought of Silver crossed my mind, but I had already submitted my tip on the Crime Stopper’s Web site.

  My hands were clean of all I could think to do.

  I picked up the money and decided to put it back into my notepad for now. I’d deal with it later. I needed to get to Leon.

  At seven in the morning, I knew that I would find him at a small diner where he went daily for coffee, pancakes, and bacon. An accomplished cook himself, breakfast was the one meal of the day he let someone else cook for him, opting only to fix it for himself on the weekends, usually including me in the fare.

  I threw on some clothes and left, determined to make the day one of answers and moving forward, fully knowing, sensing that my plan was a lost cause.

  I pulled up to the Twenty-fifth Street diner a little after seven-thirty. As I expected, Leon’s gold Altima was parked at a meter near the front door. The smell of grease and waffles drifted in the slight breeze as I parked around the corner in the first open space I could find. As I cut off my ignition, I realized that I was not so sure what I was supposed to say to Leon, or was even prepared for whatever he had to say to me.

  But I was there now, and it was time to talk.

  For whatever was going on with Roman, I wanted to have Leon’s support for the day, with the awkwardness between us gone completely.

  As I was getting out of my car, I spotted him through the window, sitting at a cushy booth. He could not see me, and I smiled at how relaxed he looked. He was laughing at something, and in my mind, I could hear his hearty chuckle, something, I realized in that moment, I had not heard in a while.

  I wondered what he was laughing at, and figured that the flat-screen television that hung on the wall was the source of his delight. A national morning news show was airing and the anchors appeared to be laughing as well. A funny joke, a light story. I could use one right now myself. I shook my head.

  But then my head stopped shaking.

  As I neared the restaurant, I saw what had Leon’s attention. Or rather who. A young woman was on the other side of the booth, laughing along with him.

  She had sandy brown hair that flowed down past her shoulders and finely chiseled features that made her look like an airbrushed supermodel on the cover of a fashion magazine. A natural, knockout beauty. And several, no, many years younger than both me and Leon. Maybe twenty, twenty-one years old.

  Barely legal.

  My heart sunk.

  My mind became like a DVD on rewind as I mentally reviewed the last few months, searching for a moment when Leon looked as alive with me as he did sitting, laughing in that diner with that young girl.

  Why should I care?

  I tried to convince myself I should not. After all, wasn’t I the one who insisted we just be friends? Leon had never been subtle about his desire for us to be more than that over the past two years, frequently telling me to take my time getting to where I wanted to be emotionally before delving into a serious relationship, or whatever, with him.

  Maybe he had grown tired of waiting.

  Duh! I wanted to kick myself at the obvious sign of his finished patience on the other side of the glass window.

  Or maybe it was not an obvious sign.

  Hadn’t he left my house not even an hour ago seeing another man hugging me, and I knew there was more to the story that Leon would not have known?

  There might be a completely legitimate reason I was not privy to that explained why Leon was enjoying breakfast with a knockout beauty on a Friday morning. Believing that was a stretch, but enough of a hope to keep me afloat for the moment.

  I got back in my car, both thankful and grieving that he had been too engrossed in his conversation to even notice me outside the diner.

  As I pulled away, my phone began ringing. It was a local number, but not a familiar one. I did not answer, but then it began ringing again. I remembered how that happened last night during my dinner with Leon, and it turned out to be people from church trying to let me know about Roman. I grabbed the phone and pressed talk, putting it on speaker.

  “Hello?” I said, breathless, into the receiver.

  Silence.

  “Hello?” I asked again.

  There was more silence, and then the phone clicked off.

  I dialed the number back only to hear the line keep ringing. Not even voice mail picked up.

  “Strange.” I shook my head to myself, throwing my phone back onto the front seat.

  I was on my way to my parents’ house, feeling like most of my issues for the day somehow revolved around me being there. The radio was on. A local AM gospel station that offered both inspiration and morning news updates filled my car with light banter and spiritual songs. I was only half listening until a news story caught my ear.

  “Police are continuing their investigation into a kidnapping in the Fells Point neighborhood last night. An anonymous tip has led investigators to believe that the victim is nineteen-year-old Anastasia Denise Simmons, an exotic dancer on The Block, better known by her stage name, Silver. Police are asking for your continued help in locating her as her whereabouts and status are still unknown.”

  I slammed on the brakes as the news continued with weather and traffic updates. My gut told me 100 percent that Brayden was somehow involved. Was this what he was talking about? That we would know everything we needed to know in twenty-four hours? Was this it?

  There were still too many questions, though. Like, why was I involved in their drama? Why me?

  “You passed,” he’d said. Passed what?

  As I began driving again, it occurred to me that Brayden would not have known that I’d seen Silver and him on the dating show, and I didn’t know if Jenellis even knew about it. As far as they were both concerned, I would not know that Silver’s kidnapping had any significance or connection to them.

  That’s when I knew there was more to come.

  First things first. I had to keep my hands clean and share my suspicions and concerns with the authorities. I made a U-turn and drove down Howard Street on my way to the 400 block of East Baltimore Street, where, ironically, both Baltimore’s infamous red-light district, better known as The Block, and police headquarters sat side by side.

  I was almost there when the call came.

  My sister, Yvette.

  My gut told me she knew about the boys.

  I didn’t bother to answer, knowing that her rants and accusations would make it impossible for me to drive straight. I did another U-turn to go back to my o
riginal plan of going to my parents’ home. I decided I would submit another anonymous tip from their computer as soon as I had an opportunity to do so.

  Forgive me, but my son came first.

  Chapter 14

  At the end of Roman’s freshman year, his basketball coach held an awards banquet to recognize all the efforts of each player on the junior varsity team, which placed third in the county. Roman invited Leon and he proudly came with us, braving a torrential downpour that nearly threatened the evening event. The ceremony was held at a restaurant in Charles Village. When it was over and Leon drove us back home, he quieted as we sat at a red light near Greenmount and Thirty-third Street.

  “What’s wrong?” I remember asking, seeing the anguish on his face in the traffic lights that shone through the rain-streaked car windows.

  “My brother died right there.” He’d pointed to a nondescript, overgrown lot in front of a colorful mural painted on the side of an abandoned house. “He was beaten up by five young men and then shot four times, twice in the head.”

  Roman and I were quiet as the wipers swished furiously on the windshield.

  “I was working on homicide back then, and had been following a lead on a case the night that it happened. I wasn’t even scheduled to work, but thought I was on to something based on a conversation I overheard on the street.” Leon sighed as the light turned green and he started driving again.

  “The crazy thing is that my brother actually called me a couple of hours before it happened, asking if I wanted to catch a movie with him. I rarely talked to him at the time because I was angry with his choices. He’d broken my grandmother’s heart, and I was tired of his lies, his stories, his broken promises. I told him no.” Leon paused. “I never talked to him again. And the lead I was following? Led to nothing. I wish . . . If I had put my brother first . . .”

  He never finished his sentence. Roman and I stayed as quiet as he did the rest of the way home.

  “Where have you been?” Yvette glared at me from my parents’ front porch as if I were the one who had taken a forbidden trip to Sin City. I walked right past her and directed my attention to my parents, who were both sitting on their sofa. A couple of church members, some parents of other youth who had gone on the mission trip, were sitting with them. I guess they were somehow afraid that our three musketeers had contaminated the whole lot and coming over here was the best thing they could do to make sure their charges were in line.

  “Minister Howard called.” My mother spoke before I could think of what to say. “He said the boys drove the rental car to Las Vegas and they got caught by some security personnel at a casino. Minister Howard is with them at the airport right now and putting all three of their tails on the first plane back to Baltimore.”

  “Children can really take you through some things, can’t they?” a woman named Sister Beverly Niece piped in. Her daughter, Alison, was a straight A student and track star at an elite private school in the city. The only thing I’d ever known Alison to “take her mother” through was changing her mind about which college she wanted to visit out of the many courting her.

  “That’s why we got to get them in line early,” another parent, Brother Elroy Brown, chimed in, one eye narrowed at me. “The devil is busy and if we don’t set them straight young, we’re in for trouble. If our children are not our priority, then this is what happens.”

  I understood now why Yvette was standing out on the porch. I could feel my hand reaching for my hip and my forefinger about to wag the air, but my mother was giving me the same look I’m sure she gave Yvette: “keep your peace and keep it moving.”

  Now my mother was not one to back down from a good fight, especially when it came to something as personal as family, but a quick look to the dining room let me know why she was content with letting these people rip apart my parenting skills, and encouraging me to find contentment as well.

  Mother Sadie Spriggs.

  She was sitting at my mother’s formal table in the darkened room, her eyes squinted at me, her lips moving furiously in silence. I knew if I said the wrong thing, or even said the right thing in the wrong way, the tambourine in her lap was going to come to life.

  I could not handle it.

  It was enough to almost make me want to go join Yvette on the porch.

  Almost.

  With everyone crowded on my parents’ main floor, a thought occurred to me. This might be the best chance I had to get that lion’s head ring out of my father’s safe. Everything in my life felt like it was spiraling away from me. The ring was something I could hold in my hands. Control. I needed it. Right then.

  “Mom, I need to use your computer.”

  It wasn’t a lie. I fully intended to get back on the Metro Crime Stoppers Web site as soon as I had that heavy ring back in my hands.

  “Mmm.” My mother grunted from the living room, letting me know that she was going to be too preoccupied with whatever was going on in there to care what I was up to in her basement.

  I felt like I was a teenager sneaking around my parents’ home as I crept down the steps. The smell of my father’s worn burgundy leather sofa and loveseat filled my nostrils, bringing a small comfort, a distant memory of my childhood as I descended into the wood-paneled den where my father housed all of his sports treasures.

  All the things and issues and concerns going on in my life, and all I could focus on was getting the lion’s head ring back in my hands. Don’t know why that one piece of jewelry, which caused so much upheaval for me and my son two years ago, was such a source of calm right now.

  Control.

  It took me all of sixty seconds to spin the combination lock on Pop’s safe to the numbers my father did not know I knew, to push my hand through the crush velvet interior, to grab the heavy ring in my hands, to press it deep into my palm and hold it tight.

  A rush of tears filled my eyes as I collapsed into the swivel chair in front of my parents’ old, large black box-shaped computer. As the ancient machine hummed to life, the screen slowly considering whether it should turn from black to solid blue, I studied the jeweled-encrusted mane, wiped the tears that had dropped off my face onto it, making the emeralds and rubies glisten in the gold.

  The computer was taking forever to boot up, giving me too much time to think, to feel, to wonder. I had turned on the machine with the goal of submitting my hunches about Brayden to the Metro Crime Stoppers Web site; but another Web site was jarring my memory.

  Two years ago, when the ring showed up inside the package from Portugal, my emotions had gone in a tailspin. I had received a call out of nowhere from a woman who did not speak English, telling me that my husband’s ashes were coming to me. No further information, details, names, addresses, circumstances given.

  When the urn was delivered, there were no ashes inside. Only the ring. The ring given to RiChard by a village chief as a gift for vindicating his son Kisu’s murder. The ring RiChard first promised to give to Roman for his eighteenth birthday, but then said he lost while assisting with rescue efforts during the tsunami disaster in Indonesia.

  And yet it was here in my hand.

  I tried to get answers when it came. I called the number of the sender repeatedly, but did not get a response. I even went to a Portuguese language class at a community college to attempt to get a native speaker to make the call for me.

  Answers.

  That was all I wanted.

  Back then.

  Without looking at it any further, I pushed the ring into the side of my purse.

  Out of sight once more, but within reach of my hand. Within reach of my control.

  I had to focus.

  The computer start page finally came up and I logged on to my dad’s outdated dial-up Internet service. I waited three agonizing minutes for the Metro Crime Stopper Web site to finally upload. I logged in with my anonymous username. Now what to say? My fingers danced half an inch above the keyboard as I struggled to remember what it was I wanted to type.

&nb
sp; A man named Brayden Moore, who went by the name of Kwan on The Soul Mate Show, may be involved in the situation with Silver. I am a therapist and he and his fiancée . . .

  I backspaced and deleted the words “and his fiancée.” No need to implicate Jenellis in a possible criminal situation; she had not done or said anything that made her look suspect, at least to me.

  I am a therapist, I continued typing, and he came to my office this week and did and said things that lead me to believe he might be involved in the kidnapping.

  Satisfied with the words on the screen, I clicked submit.

  RiChard.

  His name dropped so suddenly and violently into my consciousness, I had to look around the basement to make sure he wasn’t there.

  The ring.

  I had tucked it into the corner of my purse, but its presence had awakened something in me that I had been trying so desperately to keep asleep.

  The desire to find out what happened.

  When the ring had shown up two years ago, a letter written in Portuguese followed about a week later. I had scanned and e-mailed it to the community college teacher to translate.

  I’d saved the e-mail, though I had not looked at it since.

  The blinking cursor on the screen beckoned me, dared me, begged me to give it purpose. I surrendered and pulled up my e-mail account, logging in before I could talk myself out of it.

  The e-mail from the Portuguese teacher, Tomeeka Antoinette Ryans, was in its own folder. I opened the folder, ready to click open the e-mail when a sound to my right startled me.

  “Our God is an awesome God,” Mother Sadie Spriggs sang to herself as she plodded down the steps. The turban on her head was black, and not white like the one she’d worn the evening before. She’d gone home and come back sometime over night, I realized.

  I minimized the screen as Mother Spriggs finished her descent into the basement. I didn’t need anyone asking me any questions. Mother Spriggs, for her part, seemed to be willing to go along with my attempts of avoiding conversation. Her singing turned into hums as she meandered around the room, studying the posters and jerseys, autographed balls and gloves that made up my father’s treasures. I sat frozen at the computer, wondering how long she planned to pretend to be interested in sports.