No One Knows You're Here by Rachel Howzell

Author:Rachel Howzell [Howzell, Rachel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: African American, Fiction, Literature, Mystery & Detective, Suspense, Thriller, United States, Women Sleuths
ISBN: 9781937349202
Amazon: B00PWO0S4W
Published: 2014-11-19T00:00:00+00:00

5

It took thirty minutes to flat-iron the rest of my hair. I showered, then changed into a cranberry sweater dress, gray tights and high-heeled boots. I resisted the urge to slick on lip gloss and swipe bronzer across my cheeks. Nor did I dare to dab Chanel No. 5 on my pulse points. Couldn’t bring the sexy to an evening visit to Great Redeemer. Didn’t want to start a Holy War with the Righteous Borg.

I didn’t plan to talk to the Reverend or his wife, mindful of Adam’s warning. I just wanted to talk to that security guard, the one who had offered his help the other day. He was an adult, and not a member of the Haist family. Fair game.

With Friday night traffic, it took close to an hour to reach the church. Angelenos wanted to get home before the alleged storm a’comin’. But the clouds hanging over the city didn’t look menacing. I’d seen worse in this city—cloud-cover that came straight out of Stephen King novels, with fierce winds that knocked down 100 year-old live oaks.

To my surprise, the grounds of Great Redeemer were brightly-lit and the parking lot was filled with people. Folks were walking to the church empty-handed and leaving the grounds with foil-wrapped plates. There were no spaces in the lot, so I circled the block. Hookers, dealers, and brown-skinned day workers eyed my car, cruising in a neighborhood where liquor store cashiers stood behind bullet-proof glass and motels charged by the hour.

I didn’t completely halt at stop signs. I wasn’t scared, just cautious. Everyone should be cautious.

Half a block away from the church, I slipped into a spot on the street vacated by a VW Beetle. As soon as I opened the car door, I smelled hot oil and fish. Friday night fish fry. The air was so heavy with grease, you could scoop it and dump it on a plate as a side.

I threw a few glances around to let any Bad Guys watching me know that I knew they were watching me. But the slinger on the corner was collecting money from a crack-head and didn’t notice me. A middle-aged Hispanic man was peering into the open hood of his broken-down Chevy. He didn’t notice me, either. A police helicopter hovered over a neighborhood two blocks over, its spotlight trained on the tops of houses and apartment buildings. Three patrol cars cruised up and down Western, not stopping to make busts or to help a man fix his truck. I was invisible.

Gospel music blasted from speakers in the church’s lot. A long line snaked from the sidewalks to fold-up tables set up near the back gates of the parking lot, a few feet from the alley where Tamar Haist had been shot and killed. The tables were loaded with steel trays stuffed with fried fish, Tupperware filled with loaves of Wonder bread and potato salad, and jumbo coolers jammed with ice and cans of soda. A long strip of white poster paper had been taped to the gate behind the food stations.

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