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  “Still, the police should handle this.”

  “Have you eaten? I roasted a chicken today.”

  Angela knew the subject was no longer open for discussion. She could keep her company for a while. It was early, yet, and truth be known she was hungry. Her appreciative smile accompanied the words. “I’m starved. I’ll run home and lock up. Be right back.”

  Chapter Two

  “Miss Munso! We’re ready, Miss Munso!”

  Angela’s attention returned to her students whose faces beamed in anticipation of their classroom musical performance. While they selected their instruments, after much intense exploration for the right one and took their seats, she scoured the internet for a list of police precincts in the downtown area, jotted them down and phoned each on her cell until satisfied one held the potential for success. Mrs. Thatcher left her with the impression last evening that her AWOL relative worked out of one close around the metro district. Well, as soon as class was over, she was on her way to make a little visit of her own.

  Her genuine smile touched on the room of first graders.

  “Are we ready?”

  “Yeah!” The roar of little voices faded in and out.

  “Then, let’s get started. Listen to this, first.” Back straight, feet slightly apart flat on the floor, she lifted the fine wood-grained viola to lie between her chin and shoulder, at once feeling the tug of the muscle as it rebelled. Her eyes teared a bit and she remembered the long welt marring her back. Determination stiffened her spine as she plucked the tune before using the bow. “What did I play?”

  “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” The answers came in a lively disjointed fashion.

  “That’s right. Okay, ready? And one and two and three and four.” Every instrument was a single sound unto itself as they tried to keep time with her. Angela readily traded their shining smiles for her pain.

  Later that afternoon, the taxi let her out across the street from the official looking building that occupied a full block at the edge of the French Quarter. The dingy gray appearance practically blended with the skies beyond since clouds lingered still. The speared wrought iron fence, a deterrent to someone breaking out or breaking in, she couldn’t be sure which, ringed the entire circumference. Angela squared her shoulders in preparation to stick her nose where it didn’t belong; in someone else’s business.

  Her heels clicked on the gleaming marble lobby. The sight of such a beautiful floor in such an uninspiring place surprised her. She scanned the interior noting the architectural design in the flourish of the staircase that led to the upper floor. She passed through the metal detectors and the x-ray machines that guarded the guardians. All of her paraphernalia rolled along the whining belt apparently passing inspection for within a minute she possessed them again. Asking for Lt. Brock Alexander at the desk had her on her way to the squad room on the upper floor. The policeman who directed her claimed to have no knowledge of the person for whom she searched. Hope diminished of ever finding him with each footfall.

  Phones jingled. Voices intermingled, distorting the conversations heard going on in the overcrowded room. Things moved at a snail’s crawl as officers, some in uniform, others in plainclothes, a couple of women, but mostly men, appeared to spend the time swilling down coffee and munching donuts. She thought that was a stereotypical cliché used in movies. All of a sudden, every pair of eyes swung to the doorway where she paused to get her bearings. There was no clear-cut indication of who was in charge and no one moved as they gaped slack-mouthed at her intrusion. Finally, one female officer, a black middle-aged woman in a police polyester slate-blue uniform approached. Courtesy with a yen to serve was absent in her demeanor.

  “Can I help you with something?”

  Her dry tone did more than hint at the disturbance Angela’s presence attracted. “I need to see Lt. Brock Alexander. I was told he reported to this location.” Suspicion seemed to fill the policeman’s eyes.

  “I can help you if you need to file a report.”

  “This is personal.” The incredulous look that crossed the policewoman’s face wasn’t lost on Angela. She took exception to the knowing look the officer threw her cohorts. “If he doesn’t report to this location, tell me and I’ll continue with my search.”

  “Mrs.—”

  “Miss Munso. Angela Munso.”

  “Miss Munso, there’s a Chance Alexander here but no Brock.”

  Uncertainty flared, for hers was an ambiguous belief that Brock was the name of Mrs. Thatcher’s nephew and not a personal pseudonym for him. She dug in her purse, extracted a business card, “Please give him this,” writing on the back as she spoke. “If he’s the correct person he’ll know what it means.”

  Unintelligible voices from outside intruded while the policewoman perused the cryptic message.

  “Chance, you’re on someone’s APB list! I wouldn’t mind being on that list from the looks of her.” A wave of laughter rolled up the staircase.

  “So everyone keeps calling to tell me.”

  Lt. Chance Alexander made his appearance on the second floor stopping dead in his tracks at the sight before him. He was a man of the world, a self-claimed connoisseur of beauty. Her effervescence sparkled brilliantly in the drab windowless department, the aura spreading his way like slow, sweet molasses. Although presented with her back, for she was in deep conversation with an officer, there wasn’t a doubt she had more lures than the outdoor sportsmen’s shop he sometimes frequented as was obvious when she swayed to a one hipped stance; a good assist when hooking her man.

  His growing enchantment had him take in everything about her such as her attire. She dressed to kill, and effectively succeeded. Overhead lighting bounced off the reddish highlights in her hair, upswept on her head that was balanced by a slender, graceful neck.. Her proud carriage accentuated perfect posture, a flattering waistline contouring to rounded hips and the prettiest legs that ever graced a pair of designer footwear. She stood flanked by a leather bound instrument case, a reptile-skin attaché and a staple for this time of year, an umbrella.

  Chance’s presence caught the officer’s eyes and he held an index finger to his lips before giving her the keep-it-going sign. He wanted to get a feel for the real person without his presence being an influencing factor.

  “Angela Munso: Professional Violist. Music Instructor. Academy School of the Arts.” She recited the credentials aloud. “Miss Munso, if there’s a problem, I’m confident I can help.”

  She didn’t look like any school marm he ever had growing up and was certainly more stunning than any teacher he was acquainted with in today’s school system.

  Angela took a deep breath, tired of repeating herself, but, mostly fatigued by the discomfort in her body and said, “Forgive me if I seem stubbornly adamant about this, Officer,” she read the ID badge, “Smith. Again, it’s personal. No offense intended.”

  Watching the background, the officer assured, “None taken.”

  “Will you deliver my business card?” A hand clamped down on her shoulder, the injured one and she reacted sharply.

  He knew as soon as he did it that it was the wrong thing to do for she recoiled and turned all at one time, facing him with striking lioness eyes, narrowing suspiciously from beneath luxurious black lashes. Not the reception he normally received from women.

  “I apologize if I’ve overstepped my bounds. I understand you’ve been looking for me.” It was really more of a question than a statement.

  The giant with thunder for a voice standing before her, in her face while gnashing on a yellow toothpick, looked more the part of a rakish motorcycle rider rather than an officer of the law. Her stare fused on his beard. It was short, cropped like a two day’s growth, trimmed to perfection and blended its way up to the wavy black hair falling carelessly on either side of his prominent forehead. His hair hung long enough in back to just breathe on the top of his shirt collar; if he wore a shirt with a collar.

  Angela’s eyes locked on the knuckles s
troking the whiskers on his chin. What stapled her feet to the flooring were his hypnotic, penetrating eyes, a meadowland green squinting at her from under equally dark brows—deep-set and starkly contrasting his God-given bronzed skin. He and his tattooed chiseled biceps towered over her, casting off such male magnetism she found it hard to ignore the way the t-shirt and jeans fit his body. His overbearing persona sucked the oxygen from the room, relegating all present to insignificant masses of matter, utterly of no importance.

  He invaded her space but she refused to back down. Her look said as much. “Are you Brock Alexander?”

  “Who wants to know?” he queried, looking down his nose as he swung to dispose of the slither of wood in the nearest wastebasket.

  “I’m Angela Munso. Your aunt’s neighbor, if you’re he.”

  He frowned, his brows furrowing warily and cocked sideways. “Aunt Belle?”

  “Bella Thatcher,” she supplied. “The flower lady? Is she your aunt?” He smiled, she believed at her description, the treat lighting up the room like sunshine.

  “Yes, she is,” he confirmed.

  “What kind of relative are you? She’s an elderly lady.” Angela belittling him, moved closer to stand toe to toe with the Goliath, “who needs you to check on her periodically. You’re a negligent nephew!”

  Her get-in-his-face style of conversing turned him off. Before he realized what he did, both of her elbows were entrenched in his huge hands and he bodily toted her generous frame to his private office off to one side of the squad room, to the absolute amazement of the entire audience, and kicked the door shut. “You, lady, are out of control,” he hurled while unceremoniously setting her on her feet.

  Shivering in anger, a rosy hue built under her velvety toffee skin, alerting him to her ill temper.

  “You, Brock…Chance or whatever you’re called—” she said, jumping him with both stilettos, gouging at his pride, baited his retaliation before she finished her sentence.

  “Don’t let the name fool you, Miss Munso.” His dark head leaned towards her a notch. “They don’t call me Chance around here for meekness sake,” he said, his words lathered in derision.

  “…are borderline psycho!” She completed her thought giving no regard to his nose in her face. “How dare you…”

  “I dare because no one speaks to me in that tone, especially not in front of my peers and subordinates.” Chance demonstrated how well the nickname fit his explosive personality, scolding mentally his quickness on the draw. He couldn’t help but notice how she unconsciously massaged the same shoulder he touched earlier. “Uh-oh,” he thought, “A lawsuit in the making.” He took a risk, asking the next question while putting a yardstick’s worth of space between them. However, it was better to know up front if he had any worries.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  She was mad and didn’t care if he knew. “Indirectly, I guess you did.” Instead of pursuing that topic, she changed the subject. “She needs your help,” With a little blow to ward off the increasing pain, “Your aunt is having trouble with a man who got physical with her yesterday.”

  “What?”

  “I said your aunt needs your help!” She repeated in quantum volume with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

  “Forgive me if I gave you the impression I’m deaf.” His cynical intonation charged the air with animosity. “I heard you, loud and clear, Miss Munso. The first time.” Ruling out any more physical contact between them, because the urge to wring her lovely neck was too great, his strong fingers gripped the back of the closest chair, plugging grooves in the upholstery. “Tell me what happened.”

  “You should ask Mrs. Thatcher, Lt. Alexander. Please, do it ASAP. She has a shotgun, you know.” His rude guffaw incensed her. “White people and their guns,” she muttered under her breath, turning to sashay from the room only to stop short when snagged by the whirlwind his hand motions generated as he detained her. His brazen act underscored the perilous territory they were about to explore.

  “Tell me I didn’t hear you right.”

  It was completely unfair and absolutely uncalled for, Angela realized, as soon as the slur slid across her tongue, through her pearly whites and passed her plum tinted lips. She was angry with her family and the man from yesterday. Not him. She committed a cardinal sin by degrading an entire race based upon the actions of a few, the way society, in some cases, applied the rules condemning all people of color for one person’s infraction. In particular, if that person happened to be Black.

  Their eyes clashed and it was her turn to apologize to him.

  “You did. And I’m sorry for offending you. You…personally, did nothing to me.”

  Her look begged him for her release.

  He watched her glide from the small office, all eyes on him as he tailed her, believing she was sincerely contrite. She gathered her things, punched in a number on her cell and disappeared out of the squad room door. Following her escape, Chance tracked her all the way to the building’s entry where he covertly observed her, wondering what delayed her departure, until his name called on the front steps of the station got him busted.

  “Brock! Hey, Bro!” The lanky black man yelled, attacking the steps a couple at a time. “Wait up.”

  Chance moved out into the roasting humidity to meet him half-way.

  Angela quickly swiveled, studying the handsome duo whose features were as opposite as mid-day to mid-night, to read a bond of some sort in their behavior. The two took dominant cop stances—the newcomer with a hand on his hip while stabbing at his teeth with a toothpick; the other’s arms crisscrossing his broad chest as they shared words in front of the precinct. Both watched her watch them, laughing aloud at what she guessed was the audacity of her visit, the undulating sound not at all unpleasant to her ears. A horn blew attracting her attention to the street where a checkered taxi, double-parked to await its fare, blocked the progression of a horse-drawn tour carriage. Her obligation fulfilled, she climbed into the back seat without a backwards glance and her driver chauffeured her out of sight.

  The days shortened as September lined up to replace August as the reigning month of the year. August had no choice but to relinquish its position. Nevertheless, it refused to take along all the stifling humidity. She attributed the sparseness of the French Quarter crowd this late in the evening to the Katrina fiasco and not the humidity. New Orleans still tackled an army of problems related to housing inadequacies and basic needs, among numerous other shortcomings.

  Any other time, on any day six years ago, you’d have to wade through the sea of people soaking up the culture. The high decibels of noise in the background would have hardly attracted attention. That wasn’t the case today as she heard a motor throttle in the distance. The city was trying to make a comeback without its many inhabitants. The very ones who made the city’s heartbeat hum lived in exile, spread like many miles of uneven asphalt, from east to west and north to south. Tourism was back but not in the great quantity needed or expected to make an astronomical impact on the economy. Looking out of her window as the few tourists meandered along told the unfinished story. Like the phoenix, New Orleans would also arise from the ashes—given time.

  One more school day existed before the long Labor Day weekend. The thought brought a flutter of apprehension to the pit of her stomach. She had a lot of soul-searching to do because of the bomb dropped on her, not by her parents, but an outsider with an ulterior motive. Reminiscing about her unfortunate attack on Lt. Alexander shamed her. He was collateral damage in the impending war to regulate her tumultuous life. Angela found it so hard to let it go that she sparred with two different white men in less than twenty-four hours for related reasons.

  What was her world coming to?

  The cabbie’s voice shook her out of her revelry. She was home and exited on the street side standing in the shadows of the massive shade trees gracing the thoroughfare. That’s what she loved most of all about her new multi-ethnic community. The mature trees’ luxuriant overhead ca
nopy sketched an enthralling sight to behold.

  The calming view up and down the avenue put her in the zone to wash her anxieties down the drain. The departing taxi cleared a pathway. Her pace quickened until, unexpectedly, she nearly tripped over her own feet, instantly brought to a screeching halt by the magnificent iridescent motorcycle, chromed out and shining in front of Mrs. Thatcher’s. Emeralds to grass greens glinted depending on the slant of the sunrays streaking through the tree limbs. If she had to guess who the visitor was, she’d speculate it was the wickedly handsome policeman—whom she’d just left, and who hoisted her as if she weighed no more than, as she spied him in the doorway, the saddlebags draped across his shoulder.

  A stagnant breeze tickled wisps of hair around her cheeks tempting her to smooth strands behind each ear with a one-finger swoop.

  Chance held the screened door to his aunt’s house ajar on his way out. He still had time to catch his club members at their scheduled rest stop during the first leg of the weekend trip. As he said his goodbyes, a motion in the middle of the street lassoed his attention. He had high hopes of catching a glimpse of her because she manipulated his every thought since their encounter.

  Glued to the spot, he stood mesmerized by her beauty now indelibly branded on his brain. His Aunt Belle explained away Angela Munso’s animosity towards him that provoked her to lash out, with her excerpt of Angela’s caning, for lack of a better description, which occurred the previous day. He figured Angela probably incurred a painful reminder with each move of her luscious body. Chance now knew the reason she flinched at his touch and felt it was nothing personal.

  Angela bounced up the walkway steps on her way to her front door cognizant his watchful eyes not only cataloged but also stored all of her mundane movements in his memory database. Instantly, her flight mechanism kicked in urging her to speedily unlock the door to enter her safe domain. It was a long time since a man unnerved her. Why on earth did it have to be this man? And a white man, at that?