Temptation: The Aftermath Read online

  And then, I didn’t know why, but this time I was the one who pulled Hosea into a hug. This time I was the one who held him. It took him a few seconds, but he put his arms around me. And held me.

  Right there, in front of God.

  When I stepped back, I said, “Thank you,” to Hosea and to the One who had sent him.

  Again, Hosea used no words, but the way he said, “You’re welcome,” was by taking my hand and leading me from the chapel, back down the hall and to my husband’s hospital room.

  chapter 15

  Jasmine

  It had taken me two days to get into the back of this Uber. That was the amount of time I needed not only to put together a plan, but I needed the time to lay kind of low. My feelings were still hurt by what Kyla had said and what she’d done on Wednesday. She had shut me down, shut me out, shut me up.

  So even though I’d wanted to spend some time with Nicole, I’d only gone back yesterday with Hosea. We’d stayed for about an hour and I’d spent most of my time talking to Nicole. But while I had stayed in my place, I was only biding my time. My desire to heal our friendship would be forever futile — unless I figured out this thing with that woman and Jefferson. I wasn’t quite sure why I felt that way; but I just knew somehow that was a key.

  “Miss, is this where you wanted to go?”

  I didn’t even realize the driver had stopped and I peeked out the window of the Corolla. We were high up in Manhattan on 178th Street, a neighborhood called Washington Heights that I had visited a few times with Hosea — once when he spoke at a church, and another time when we visited the mother of one of our church members.

  Eyeing the bodega where Jefferson had been shot, I nodded to the driver. “Yes,” I said before I thanked him, then opened the door, slipped out of the car and stepped into the Dominican flavor of this neighborhood.

  It was Manhattan, but almost like another land. The Dominican Republic gyrated through the streets in this part of the city. From the bachata that filled my ears and caressed my soul, almost making me want to raise my hands high above my head and shift my feet in the little bit of the merengue that I’d learned from watching Dancing with the Stars to the aromas that tickled my nostrils, then made my stomach growl in hopes that I would satisfy my appetite with just a taste of the spicy stew whose scent sailed from an open apartment window.

  I had come in the middle of the day, thinking this would be a quiet time. But I should have known that there was nothing muted about the pulse of Washington Heights. It was always lit, as my eleven-year-old would say. Even now, at just a bit before three on a Friday, the block was packed with people: parents walking their young children home from school, teens in clusters, boys checking out girls who pretended like they didn’t even care to notice.

  The driver had let me off between two older Chevys parked at the curb where a bunch of guys stood, leaning against the cars that blasted music through their rolled-down windows.

  “Excuse me,” I said, as I passed them. “Que lo que es,” one of them sang.

  I paused, settled my eyes on the one who’d called out to me, looked him up and down, before I gave him a little nod of my head. “What’s up with you?”

  His eyes got big as if he couldn’t believe that one: I’d stopped to speak, and two: I understood what he’d said, and three: that I’d responded appropriately. His boys cracked up and I smiled as I pivoted and marched toward the store that I’d seen on the news.

  My attention was already back to my objective. I had my questions ready — kind of. No, the truth was, I didn’t really know what I was looking for. Yes, the woman, but I was working on so many assumptions, not even knowing what I would do once I found her. Shaking my head, I brushed those thoughts aside. No need to second-third-fourth guess myself now. I’d figure it out as I went along. This was the first step — find the woman who’d been with Jefferson in this store that night.

  Before I could step to the glass door of the bodega, a hand came around and pushed the door open for me.“Thanks,” I said glancing over my shoulder at the teen who’d just spoken to me.

  He nodded his ‘You’re welcome,’ with a lopsided grin that would have been sexy if he didn’t have his mother’s breast milk still on his breath. Then, once we stepped inside, he shouted, “Hey Luka,” before he headed to the other side of the small store.

  “What’s up, Jamal?” the man who stood behind the counter replied.

  It seemed an unlikely exchange between the middle-aged East Indian man who wore a gorgeous purple turban and the teen, whose pants were barely above the crack in his butt. But Mr. Luka spoke to Jamal like they were buddies.

  While Jamal went one way, I moved straight to the counter. There were two young girls standing in front of me, and I waited as they paid for their candy. Then, I stepped forward to the man who was protected by the thick plexiglass. “Hi, Mr. Luka?” Although I knew that was his name, it still came out as a question.

  “May I help you?” he replied in a thick accent.

  My first thought was that he’d forgotten to say hello to me. Then, I said, “I have a couple of questions about the shooting that happened here Monday night.”

  He shook his head and waved his hands. “I don’t know nothing,” Mr. Luka said. “I already spoke to the police.”

  “I know you did,” I said, seeing already that this was not going to be easy. Not with the way he reacted. Like he wanted me out of his store right now.“And I thank you for that. I’m here because I’m trying to get some information.”

  He had never stopped shaking his head.“I have no information.

  Just a bunch of kids.”

  We’d only exchanged a few words, but I could tell that he was determined not to give me anything. Well, what he needed to know was that I wasn’t going to be deterred either. He was going to answer a question, give me a clue, tell me something. “The police said your surveillance camera wasn’t working that night?”

  He grunted, then glanced over my shoulder and I couldn’t believe it.That quickly, four people had lined up behind me. I stepped to the side; I wasn’t trying to mess with the man’s business.

  As he took care of the customers (who all looked me up and down as if I didn’t belong in their store) I studied the small space which seemed to have been put back together from the chaos of Monday. It was jammed with four rows of the kinds of products you found in all convenience stores: candy, cakes, and cookies. Lots of potato chips and plantain chips, and stacks of other nondescript edible products and household goods. Of course, there was one wall lined with refrigerated shelves for the sodas, juices and beer — lots of beer. It hardly looked like there’d been a mob robbery or a shooting in this store at all.

  As I took it all in, I tried to imagine Jefferson before the shooting in this store … with that woman. Why was he even here? This was the place a man like him would stop for a pack of cigarettes or a six-pack, but Jefferson didn’t indulge in either — at least he didn’t back when I knew him. Yet, he was here, and he was with her. What was he doing so far up in Manhattan, especially that late at night? Why had they stopped at this store?

  Not that it wasn’t safe. Back in the day, Washington Heights had its share of crime, just like the rest of the city. But when many of the gangs had been broken up and driven out, this area was now one of the safest in New York.

  Except for what happened on Monday.

  “Miss, are you going to buy something?” Mr. Luka asked. “Because that’s all I can do for you.”

  I hadn’t noticed that Mr. Luka had cleared the line and now his impatience was back to me.

  “If you don’t want to buy anything ….”

  I knew his next words would be to tell me to go away, so I grabbed a pack of gum from the packages below the counter, dropped it in front of him, then fished in my wallet for my credit card.

  When I handed him my American Express, he gave me a look that in any language shouted ‘what-the-hell’ and I said, “I’m sorry, I don’t have an
y cash.”

  It was only the partition that separated us that stopped his glare from setting me on fire. He tossed my credit card back to me, then grabbed the gum and dumped it behind the counter.

  “Look, I really don’t want any trouble,” I said. “The doctor who was shot here, he’s a good friend.” I sighed. “I was just hoping that you could help.”

  “I don’t know what I can tell you. I didn’t know those people.

  The man, the woman, all of those kids. There were so many.” “Well, what about the woman who was with him? Was she shot?”

  He shook his head. “No. She helped him. She covered his head with paper towels and then she left, right before the police came.” He waved his hands.“Please, I have to get back to my store.” With a nod, he motioned for whoever was standing behind me to step up.

  I blew out a long breath of frustration. Either Mr. Luka was right and he didn’t know anything or I didn’t have much of a future in police investigation nor interrogation. He did confirm, though, that Jefferson had been with a woman — the woman of many hats, if I were into betting. I wondered if I should have asked if the woman had worn a hat that night. Then, I would have known for sure that it was her.

  “Yo, Luka,” Jamal called out, “I was about to walk out of here with this soda.”

  “And I would’ve called the police.” Mr. Luka didn’t even crack a smile.

  “Yo, you know I’m only kidding. But dang, you were only paying attention to her.”

  When Jamal jabbed a finger my way, Mr. Luka gave me a you’re-still-here? glare.

  I nodded, letting him know that I got his message, and moved toward the exit.

  But before I could pull the door open, like before, a hand reached around and did it for me.

  Turning to Jamal once again, I said, “Thank you.”

  “Yo, it’s what I do.”

  Stepping back outside into the Caribbean sounds and smells, I glanced down at my phone to open the Uber app once more.

  “Yo.” Jamal’s voice made me look up. “You Five-O?”

  My question was in my frown before I said, “Excuse me?” “The police.” He raised his voice to speak above the music. “Are you the police?”

  I squinted and shook my head. “No. Why in the world would you ask me that?”

  “‘Cause I don’t talk to Five-O, but I’ll talk to you.” “About what?”

  “About what you were asking Mr. Luka.”

  My stomach fluttered just a bit.“Do you know something about the shooting?”

  “You weren’t asking about the shooting. I heard you asking about the woman.”

  I nodded. “Do you know her?”

  “Maybe.” He shrugged, then with a gentle cupping of my elbow, he led me a couple of feet to the side of the store’s entrance. A little bit away from the music that streamed from the car, he lowered his voice. “Depends on how much it’s worth to you.”

  My eyes narrowed as I studied him in his white T-shirt and jeans that looked like they were about to drop to his ankles. This dude thought I, dressed in my tailored navy pants suit, was an easy mark. “You know what? I don’t have time for some scam.”

  He leaned back, like he was offended. “Look, lady, I don’t have a need to scam you. I was trying to help a sistah out.” He grinned. “Provided you help me out.”

  My answer to that came in the way I rolled my eyes, turned, and began my march down the block to the corner. Forget about waiting for an Uber. It would be quicker to hail a cab.

  I hadn’t even taken a dozen steps when Jamal called out, “I got video.”

  I stopped, I hesitated, I turned back to him, but I didn’t move. I waited for Jamal to come to me.

  He was still wearing that grin when he held up his cell phone and tapped the screen. “I don’t know what you can get from it, but it’s better than nothing.”

  “What is it?” I reached for the phone.

  He immediately pulled it away. “Ahhhh, you know this is the concrete jungle. Up here, you don’t get nothin’ ‘less you ready to give somethin’”.

  I hooked my hobo on my shoulder, then crossed my arms. “I don’t have any money, I never travel with money, so unless you take credit cards ….”

  He laughed. “That’s a good one, maybe I should start carrying around one of those things that you can hook up to your phone.”

  “Whatever. ‘Cause if you don’t have one of those now ….”

  I did another one of those stiletto pivots, but before I could take a step, he said, “Okay, okay. I’mma help you out just ‘cause you’re cute.”

  I was smiling when I turned back to him.

  But right before my smile could turn into a grin, he added, “Yeah, you remind me of my great granny.”

  My first thought was to slap him, but my second thought was then, I might not get the chance to check out the video. And what was more important than him insulting me by comparing me to his … not grandmother, but great grandmother — was me seeing this video.

  He lifted the phone so that the screen was eye level.

  “Me and my boys were shooting a rap video outside the bodega. Luka gives us a hard time, but he’s cool people and I hate what those dudes did to him. But anyway, we saw the guy who got shot and a lady go in before the others got here. I remember ‘cause her whip was tight and she wore this big hat.”

  Big hat? Bingo!

  Jamal continued, “She parked right here.” He pointed to the spot where his boys were still blasting music from the car.

  I squinted, trying to see the video through the glare of the sun. On the screen, three boys were preforming some God-awful rap, spouting words I couldn’t understand. Then all of a sudden, they stopped. A man walked into their shot — Jefferson.

  He seemed distracted, as if he wasn’t even aware of what was going on around him.

  “Hey!” one of the boys shouted.

  Jefferson looked up and right into the camera. “Sorry guys.” He waved his hands and quickened his steps away from them.

  The moment Jefferson was out of the shot, the three went back to their singing-rapping-noise-making.

  Looking up at Jamal, I said, “This doesn’t help. I was looking for the woman.”

  “Hold up,” he said. “You just like my great granny. Cute, but impatient.”

  He grinned and I scowled.

  I rolled my eyes right back to the screen.

  As the video played, Jamal said, “Now, I’m not all that sure that ol’ girl was with him. I mean, I think she was because I saw them inside talking to another dude through the window. But the dude who got shot came in another car, I think one of those Ubers. And she drove up right behind him. But she peeped what we were doing and stayed back for a couple of seconds until we stopped rolling. Even then, she told me that she would sue me if I put her on camera.” He gave me that lopsided grin again before he added, “But she ain’t said nothing about me making her car a star.”

  The screen went dark for a moment, then picked up with, “Yo, Jamal, get me spitting these bars on this whip,” one of the boys said.

  “Dawg, you crazy.”That was Jamal’s voice.“Sitting on that lady’s ride? She come back out here and see you ….”

  “Just get the shot.”

  The camera turned as the guy sat on the hood of what looked like a Mercedes, and the three continued their show. Jamal zoomed in on the guy on the car, then dropped his cell lower to show the hood ornament. And right below the Mercedes symbol was … a license plate. A license plate number!

  “Oh, my God,” I squealed, as I tapped the number into my Notes app.

  Jamal had just given me exactly what I needed. I wanted to see more, but then, the video ended.

  “Everything got crazy after that,” Jamal said, his grin gone.“We knew something was going down when all those dudes rushed the store. And then, at the sound of that first shot, we were ghost.”

  That was okay. I had enough.

  I flipped back the flap of my purse, du
g deep into the side zipper and pulled out the one hundred dollar bill that I always carried.

  When I handed it to Jamal, he grinned. “Hey. I thought you said you didn’t have any money.”

  “I guess that makes me a little different from your great granny, huh? I’m like you; I got game, too.”

  He laughed as I walked away. Maybe I did have a future as an investigator.

  Now, I had to get to work.

  chapter 16

  Jasmine

  That was the best insult that I had ever let go by. Because I had a license plate number. The problem was, a license plate was just a license plate when the number was in my hands. But there was someone I knew who could turn license plate information into a full ancestry.com analysis.

  “Mama, where are you?” Jacqueline called out. I could tell she was at the bottom of the staircase.

  I stepped into the hallway from the office. “What’s up?”

  “Can you help me put together a gospel playlist for our Christmas play?” She didn’t give me a chance to say that I would. “‘Cause Susie Gottlieb is in charge of the music, and I just have a feeling that the songs she knows will be boring. I want the music to be poppin’ like at church. So, I’m gonna be proactive and give them a playlist before Susie comes up with hers.”

  My take-charge daughter. “Okay,” I told her. “We’ll do that in a little while. First, I have to make a call. You finish your homework and then, I’ll be down.”

  “Mom, it’s Friday. We don’t have homework.”

  “Well, just let me make this call and then I’ll help you.”

  “Yes!” She pumped her fist into the air. “The play is gonna be lit.”

  I blew out a breath as I watched my daughter dance away. I wasn’t sure that her Christian academy was looking for a lit Christmas play, but I would handle that, right after I made this call.

  I rushed into the office, closed the door, then clicked on my cell and swiped the number. The phone on the other end rang once, and then went right to voicemail.

  For a moment, I just stared at the cell that I held. “Really?” I spoke to the phone as if it were the cell phone’s fault that my best friend had sent my call to voicemail.