way is best. Of course, Yewande Berglund’s tea had been made with native roots and barks. Tonight called for double chamomile. The natural relaxant had a way of warding off bad dreams. She didn’t need those after today. Hallie put two scoops of crushed leaves into the strainer.
While the water heated, she went to her bedroom and changed into pajamas. Then she opened the lacquered wood jewelry case on her mirrored dresser and took out a shiny child-sized bracelet. The solid circlet of copper fit on her palm. Engraved elephants, linked trunk to tail, marched around the circumference. On the right rear foot of the hindmost elephant stood the Yoruba tribe’s symbol for blessing, Hallie’s mother’s signature.
The same symbol she’d seen on the bracelet that adorned a dead woman’s wrist.
The teakettle screamed, and Hallie jumped. Man, she was keyed up. Time for that tea…and a little research while she sipped. She checked the bedside clock. Too late to call home and ask Uncle Reese and Aunt Michelle a few questions about the time in her life they rarely discussed—her Africa years. That conversation would have to wait until tomorrow evening after her full day of interviews for her modeling story, which would include plenty of questions about Alicia while she was at it.
“I’m coming,” she called to the whining teakettle as she headed back to the kitchen.
Soon she carried a steaming mug into her living room and perched on the edge of her couch. Savoring the pleasantly pungent taste of chamomile, she transferred her cell phone photos to her computer. Alicia’s bracelet filled the screen. This circlet also featured elephants, but these stood nose-to-nose. Hallie zoomed in until she came to the pivotal part.
The Yoruba symbol for blessing on one of the elephant’s hind feet was clearly visible. Hallie’s mother had made this bracelet. The confirmation raised a million more questions, each more puzzling than the last.
How and when did Alicia get the armband? Had she purchased it by chance at a flea market, a rummage sale, a pawn shop? If so, how had the piece come to be on the market? Yewande Berglund had never sold her work, only gave it to those who would treasure the items. So who had passed the bracelet to Alicia? The model couldn’t have been a year old when Hallie’s parents were killed. Had that person known her mother and father? How? Why?
Was there some mysterious connection between her and the woman she’d found murdered only hours ago? Could more than publicity have been on Alicia’s mind when she requested that Hallie do the interview? What would she have told her if they’d had the chance to talk?
Hallie surged to her feet and marched her empty mug into the kitchen. Those were questions that demanded answers, and as a reporter she was equipped to find them—for herself not the station.
Only one question remained. Hallie leaned on her palms against the countertop. Did she have the courage to face the shadowed fears in her own mind that those answers might disturb?
FIVE
Hallie awoke with an ache throbbing behind her eyes. She shut her alarm clock off before it could shriek at her. At least, she hadn’t been pursued by nightmares. Probably because she’d tossed and turned most of the night, despite the chamomile. Impressions from family life in Africa had haunted her mind. Her mother’s dusky smiling face, displaying the little gap between her top front teeth Hallie’d all but forgotten. The cozy warmth of sitting in her father’s lap while he read her a story. The images were welcome, not frightening, but so fleeting they brought frustration instead of satisfaction.
And questions piled on questions. Why did Uncle R and Auntie M so seldom speak of her parents? Their words were positive—almost reverent—but they were few, careful. Why had she never insisted they discuss her family and Africa…and even that last tragic day? How come she had allowed herself to assimilate so quickly into American life and lose the Nigerian part of her heritage? Was that neglect the source of the confusion she sometimes felt about who she was and where she was headed in life?
Hallie slammed the side of her fist onto her mattress and flung off the covers. Way too many deep questions for a fuzzy-headed morning when she had tons to accomplish. She rolled out of bed and plodded to the shower.
A half hour later, she flipped on the television to catch the morning news. Her hand, bearing a strawberry cream cheese bagel, froze halfway to her open mouth.
There he was! Brody Jordan in the flesh, following a slump-shouldered Damon Lange into the police station. The clip had been filmed late last night. Vince got his scoop, Brody kept his word, Lange was off the streets. This day might not turn out to be such a trial after all.
Humming, Hallie got ready for work. She’d have to compliment Brody on his accomplishment. He’d taken the tough route and seen it through. It’d be even tougher on him when the ball player was found guilty. Note to self: Cut Brody a little slack at the office. Of course, she wouldn’t be able to implement her new benevolence plan until late this afternoon. Brody’s hours didn’t start until midmorning because he worked into the evening, and she had interviews to conduct all day. Hopefully, nice meaty ones, with lots of good dope on Alicia and maybe even Damon Lange—anything she could get to help insure a killer went away forever.
As was her habit on sunny summer days, she ignored the enclosed skyway route to the WDJN building and went out the front door of her apartment complex for the short walk to the station. A tall, solidly built man in a rumpled suit loitered near the sculpture of the leapfrogging boy and girl. His gray gaze lit when she appeared.
“Brody, what are you doing here?” She stopped in front of him. “I thought you’d still be catching some zs after your late night.” She looked him up and down. “Have you been to bed at all? You’re still wearing what you had on yesterday.”
“Haven’t even been home yet.” He fingered his chin and grimaced. “I suppose you can tell I haven’t shaved, either.”
“I wasn’t going to mention it, though 8:00 a.m. shadow doesn’t look half bad on you.”
He grinned, and Hallie glanced away, sobering. She didn’t need to get carried away with the be-nice-to-Brody project. Comments on his personal appeal might give him the wrong idea.
She cleared her throat. “You haven’t answered my original question.”
He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “What am I doing here? Waiting for you. I have a favor to ask.”
“What is it?” Uh-oh. This didn’t sound good. Not when she and Brody were on opposite sides of the Damon issue. She wrapped a hand around the shoulder strap of her purse and narrowed her eyes.
“Please don’t look at me in that tone of voice.” A thready chuckle punctuated his lame attempt at humor. “You and I both want the same thing—the truth. Wayne tells me you’re going to interview Alicia’s modeling agent this morning. I’d like to tag along.”
The purse strap dug into Hallie’s tightened fist. “So you’ve been to the station manager about this, and I’m being ordered to cooperate in your quest to clear a killer.” Why had she ever for one second entertained the notion that she should warm up to Brody Jordan? He was just as arrogant and manipulative as she’d always thought.
He lifted placating hands. “There’s no mandate here. I went to see Wayne at his house early this morning to arrange for the next couple of days off. As a side note, he said it would be okay for me to ask you for permission to go with this morning, but it was up to you if you wanted me underfoot.”
Hallie let out a soft huff, and her shoulder tension eased. “Not looking like yesterday’s leftovers, you’re not.”
The dimple ghosted across Brody’s cheek. “I’ll clean up at the station. Be ready in twenty minutes.”
“Give it half an hour. I need to check my e-mail and organize my notes before we leave. We’re not due at the agency until nine-thirty.” She led the way down the steps and to the intersection, Brody trailing.
“I really appreciate this,” he said as he came up beside her in