No Time to Die Read online

  Praise for Grace F. Edwards’s

  Mali Anderson Mysteries

  “This excellent series spearheaded by engaging Mali Anderson, a tough ex-cop sister who knows Harlem’s streets and rhythms like the back of her palm, is remarkable for its richly rendered portraits and cityscapes.”

  —Booknews from The Poisoned Pen

  IF I SHOULD DIE

  “A lush and riveting mystery.”

  —Mystery Lovers Bookshop News

  “Excellent … Edwards expertly creates characters who leap to instant, long-remembered life.”

  —Chicago Tribune Books

  “Grace is a gifted writer who has mastered her craft. This is the best crime fiction about Harlem since Chester Himes.”

  —Eleanor Taylor Bland

  “A gorgeous, sassy heroine and a plot that doesn’t quit … V. I. Warshawski, look out!”

  —Woman’s Own

  “With style, and her wise and elegant sleuth, Grace Edwards captures the mood and bittersweet flavor of contemporary Harlem.”

  —Varlie Wilson Wesley, author of Where Evil Sleeps

  “Hard-hitting … vibrant … gritty.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  A TOAST BEFORE DYING

  “Impressive … The story is tense and expertly crafted.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “The action is hot and the background cool, with the kind of down-home details only a native would know.”

  —Belle

  “A vividly told story bringing alive the streets of Harlem.”

  —The Skanner, Portland

  “In her second mystery, Grace F. Edwards shows a great flair for the genre as well as an ability to plunge into the depths of human emotions and bonds.”

  —Sun-Sentinel, Fort Lauderdale

  “Keeps readers wondering until the very end.”

  —Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

  “A Toast Before Dying is proof that Edwards is a writer worth watching—and reading.”

  —St. Louis Post-Dispatch

  also by grace f. edwards

  In the Shadow of the Peacock

  If I Should Die

  A Toast Before Dying

  This edition contains the complete text of the original hardcover edition.

  NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.

  NO TIME TO DIE

  A Bantam Book

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Doubleday hardcover edition published July 1999 Bantam paperback edition / March 2000

  All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1999 by Grace F. Edwards.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 98-56014. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc., 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-78532-9

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

  v3.1

  for the members of

  the harlem writers guild

  and

  perri and simone

  My thanks to the Harlem Writers Guild, Inc., especially Donis Ford, Bill Banks, Sarah Elizabeth Wright, Betty Ann Jackson, Sheila Doyle, and Alphonso Nicks for their insight, support, and friendship.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgement

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  About the Author

  At eight o’clock 140th Street was unusually quiet for a Wednesday evening in June. And empty. The man made his way past the Mahalia Jackson school cradling the small package in the crook of his arm like a gift. He was of average height but his arms were well developed, unusually muscular in contrast to his thin, dark brown frame.

  The light from the vacant school yard shone through the high chain-link fence to cast his fractured image on the pavement. His shadow stretched before him, longer and thinner, then faded altogether as he moved beyond the light.

  Take it easy, Ache. Ain’t no need to rush. You know how you get. Nearly got caught last time. Easy …

  He turned onto Edgecombe Avenue and, except for a couple walking a small dog near St. Mark’s Church two blocks away, the avenue was also empty. Then he remembered the storm everyone said was coming. This made him smile as he approached the house, a well-kept five-story red brick walkup with a marble entrance.

  He made his way up the short flight of steps carefully, then paused in the lobby as if he had come for a visit.

  Here’s the bell. Check the time. Little past eight. Late, but not too. Intercom working …

  “Yes, Miss Hastings? I’m from the supermarket. A package was left out of your delivery and I thought I’d bring it over … No, ma’am. No trouble at all.”

  The sound in his left ear seemed louder now, more distinct.

  You see, Ache. She told you ain’t no trouble at all. Just open the door. Buzz us in … Yes.

  Carpeted hallway. Bitch livin’ large. But this is it. Walk slow. Quiet. Nobody’ll hear nuthin’ …

  Not a sound … Now, don’t rush. Her door’s opening before we even knock.

  He stared at the woman standing before him, inhaled her faint jasmine scent, then felt the sweat gather again at the small of his back and in the folds of his shrunken scrotum.

  Man, what a fine sister. Beautiful. Just the way I—

  “Why, that’s very thoughtful of you. I didn’t even realize the box was missing.”

  You hear that, Ache? She ain’t even know the box was missin’. Like she supposed to know. Shit! Take care of the bitch …

  “Okay! Okay!”

  “What? Are you all right?”

  He blinked, trying to bring her back in focus. Trying to remember what he’d come to do. The perfume, it threw him off.

  “I mean—yes, ma’am, it happens like that sometimes. We forget things when we rushing. You probably woulda noticed it in the morning though—at breakfast.”

  “You’re right. Thank you.”

  She’s about to close the door … What you waitin’ for? Move in. Now.

  “Could I trouble you for a glass of water, please?”

&nbs
p; “Not at all. I remember seeing you at the checkout. Would you like some ice? Today was a real scorcher and that storm still hasn’t come. We need some relief soon. So hot so early in the season. This heat is a killer.”

  Yeah, it sure is. Smile and say yeah. Follow through the living room. Make sure she’s alone. But you can feel it. You can usually tell … Not like that last place. When that dude answered the hall phone, had to back the fuck outta there fast … Yeah, so this is the kitchen … Shit, she lookin’ kinda solid, bigger than you thought, but not too tall. You can handle her … Wait till she turns her back, opens the freezer. Get her hands on the ice tray. That’s it. Now!

  Piano. Wire. The. Best. Way. Loop it twice so ain’t no sound. Shit, she stronger … than she looked. Up against the fridge. Knee in her back. That’s it. Pull … tight.

  But she continued to struggle, twist, flail, and the man felt his grip loosening on the wire. The pounding in his throat reached his ears. His arms ached and for a split second he thought about letting go and using his razor, but he quickly reconsidered. Piano wire was the best. Soldier of Fortune said so. Always the best. Besides, it had worked all those other times …

  Then the moment he’d planned, schemed, and dreamed about: he heard the hard snap and saw the spray of saliva streak red across the door of the fridge and the hood of the stove next to it. It painted the yellow canisters of sugar, flour, tea, and coffee and finally she dropped her arms and he felt her knees give way. A second later she sagged heavily against him.

  That’s it, that’s it, that’s it. Tongue’s out. Purple. Way it supposed to be … Now things’ll be quiet again. Right, Ache? Things’ll be quiet. Go on, Ache. Let’s see how she do with her tongue hangin’ out. Remember how that last bitch did you? Go on. Show her.

  I rested my arms on the window and glanced out at a late afternoon sky that resembled rusted steel. Threatening clouds had been hanging low for three days now and so far the weatherman had not earned his keep.

  The Saturday crowd moving along 125th Street probably had as little faith in the forecast as I and went about business as usual, ignoring the heat and the haze.

  I sneaked another glance at my watch and wondered how long Elizabeth was going to wait. It was nearly 6:30.

  “Claudine should’ve been here by now,” I said, trying but failing to hide my impatience. “As long as we’ve known her, she’s always been late, but this is something special.”

  I was annoyed because we three had arranged a week ago to go out to dinner to celebrate her impending liberation. I knew James Thomas, her soon-to-be ex, and I had detested him from the day we confronted each other three years ago at their wedding reception.

  Now I pictured his smooth face and silky soft voice and felt a fleeting panic, imagining that he might have talked Claudine into changing her mind about the divorce, that he would get a job again, stop drinking, stop blaming and beating her for what he imagined the world was doing to him.

  I turned from the window and faced into the office to watch Elizabeth lean back in her chair, an old swivel model of glossy dark walnut and vintage leather upholstery. The chair had belonged to her father when he’d had his own law practice uptown over the old Smalls Paradise next door to the Poro School of Beauty Culture. That was years ago. Elizabeth’s office was smaller, and probably a lot more expensive. Space on 125th Street near the Apollo didn’t come cheap.

  The coil beneath the chair squeaked as she leaned forward. She pushed her cascade of brown dreadlocks away from her face and folded her arms on the desk.

  “Calm down, Mali. I don’t know if you’re annoyed because Claudine’s late or because of the advice I just offered you. We can discuss this another time if you’d like. I only want you to understand that if you have to attend another hearing, you may very well lose the case. There’s a new police commissioner on the job; the city claims it’s trying to save money, and the cop—the principal in your lawsuit—is now dead. The department’s offering you reinstatement and a possible promotion for helping break that drug ring.”

  I listened and allowed her voice to trail into a familiar silence before I answered. As an attorney, Elizabeth Jackson had a very good reputation and a practice lucrative enough to afford a four-story brownstone near Marcus Garvey Park. My dad knew her father and she and I had gone to school together. She went into law and I opted for social work—except I’d taken a short detour into the NYPD and gotten fired for punching out a racist cop.

  When I answered, it was the same reply she’d heard since taking the case.

  “Possible promotion? Possible? Sounds like a word game to me. That’s not the best they can do and they know it. I’m not backing down and I’m not compromising. You know as well as I that I have no intention of rejoining the department.”

  I watched her shrug. “I can understand that. Why you joined in the first place will always be a mystery to me.”

  She caught my stare and quickly said, “Okay, I’m just letting you know what the situation is; what you stand to lose.”

  “I’ll take the chance,” I said, and turned to look out of the window again.

  I’d planned to enter the social work doctoral program at NYU. To hell with rejoining NYPD. Just show me Mr. Benjamin Franklin and all of his brothers. They’ll help with my tuition.

  I gazed at the Apollo’s marquee, which hung like a dark outcropping over the crowd moving below. The theater was once known as Hurtig and Seaman’s Music Hall, a vaudeville house catering to white audiences. It reopened in 1934 as a showcase for black entertainment, and the new owners renamed it the Apollo. Benny Carter’s band played the opening, Ralph Cooper was the M.C., and there were sixteen dancers called the Hot Steppers.

  My father, a self-named Harlem historian as well as a jazz musician, tells me this stuff. He remembers a lot and spends his free time entertaining me with information he says I should have if I’m to be an authentic Harlemite. I thought I was authentic enough, having been born thirty-two years ago in Harlem Hospital and raised on Strivers’ Row.

  In addition to the big bands that played the Apollo, Dad also loved the comedy of Moms Mabley, Pigmeat (“Here Comes the Judge”) Markham, and early Redd Foxx, who later sanitized his act for TV. Ella Fitzgerald got her start here, winning the Amateur Hour with “A-Tisket, A-Tasket,” a song someone advised her not to sing because “it didn’t have enough rhythm for black folks.”

  I turned away from the marquee and stared down the street, looking for Claudine in the crowd. The thoroughfare was clogged with the end-of-day confusion of buses and cars. I did not spot her familiar face and I glanced at my watch again. Nearly seven o’clock. Two hours overdue. Elizabeth had left three messages on Claudine’s machine.

  “When did you last speak to her?” I asked.

  “Few days ago. To confirm dinner.”

  “I think we should head on up to her place,” I sighed. “See what’s going on.”

  The temperature had dropped a few degrees but the humidity still hung like a blanket as we strolled up Frederick Douglass Boulevard. Before we approached the Sugar Shack near 139th Street, my silk dress was clinging in all the wrong places and I regretted having worn it. Cotton would have deflected some of the more pointed observations of the stoop loungers. We passed the restaurant and waved to the manager, who was chatting with a crowd of Asian tourists.

  “We’ll be a bit late,” I said to him, smiling.

  “Don’t worry about it. We’ll hold your reservation. Seven o’ clock, right?”

  At 140th Street young girls were jumping rope in the Mahalia Jackson school yard, ignoring the heat radiating up through their Keds. Two teams—one jumping double Dutch and the other jumping straight rope—tried to outperform each other with in-the-air splits, double skips, and what looked like pretzel twists before feet touched the ground again. They performed like Olympic aspirants and I wondered why they had no audience.

  We turned the corner onto Edgecombe Avenue and the crowd around Claudine’s building su
rprised me.

  No one, for the short time she’d lived here, had ever sat, leaned, lounged, or otherwise “hung” on her stoop. The kids played in the school yard and the grown-ups lounged on the benches in St. Nicholas Park a block away.

  Perhaps it was the polished brass trim around the doors, the ornate knobs, or the trace of the arc in the stonework above the entrance that suggested an elegant canopy had once stretched to the curb. Now the entrance was so crowded we had to work our way through.

  Several people looked at us expectantly and I felt a pull in the pit of my stomach. In the lobby the odor hit like a fist in the face. It was the smell of something or someone rotting and I began to sweat even as I rushed up the stairs. I wanted to shut down all my senses against that peculiar odor that let me know there was a body near.

  On the fourth floor Mr. William, the super, held out his arms. “Miss Mali, I guess you don’t want to go any further.”

  “What happened?”

  He shook his head and I stared at him, my throat suddenly gone dry. “Mr. William, what happened?”

  “I don’t know, but somethin’ ain’t right in your friend’s apartment. I ain’t seen her in a couple a days now—usually see her go joggin’ when I’m out sweepin’, you know—but for a couple days now, people been complainin’ about the smell. I ain’t got a key so I called the cops. Oughtta be here any minute.”

  I looked at Elizabeth leaning against the wall. Her eyes were closed and beads of sweat covered her forehead. Mr. William saw her also. “Whyn’t y’all go on back downstairs and wait.” His voice was soft and consoling, as if he already knew what I refused to even imagine.

  “Ain’t nuthin’ else to do …” he said gently.

  I held onto Elizabeth’s arm, not so much to guide her as to steady myself, and retreated down the stairs and into the street.

  “Maybe it’s from another apartment,” Elizabeth whispered as we moved back through the crowd. I didn’t answer because I knew better. Of the four apartments on the floor, only Claudine’s had the mat of flies covering the door.