the next one. “Yikes!” I definitely hoped this one was not the work of a kid: It depicted a heart with a dagger thrust through it.
“Ah! Erzulie Dantor,” Max said, as if encountering an old acquaintance.
“Who?”
“Erzulie is the goddess of love, beauty, and sensuality.”
I looked again at the stabbed heart. “No way.”
“Erzulie Dantor, however, is the Petro aspect of Erzulie. Her dark side, you might say. Vodou has a complex and practical view of the world and of human nature.” He gestured to the dark goddess’ symbol. “She represents the feelings of jealousy, heartbreak, and vengeance that can be wrought by love.”
“Wow, and I thought Yahweh was a vengeful god,” I said, looking again at the cruel image.
I wasn’t surprised that Max knew something about voodoo. After three hundred fifty years of travel and study, he knew about a lot of things—particularly mystical, magical, and spiritual things.
I turned away from the exotic voodoo art to look at the opposite wall, which was lined with photographs. There were pictures of Martin Livingston, several of which were already familiar to me, since they had been reproduced on the foundation’s Web site. There were also pictures of the foundation’s board of directors, its most important donors, and it employees. I noticed that there was a photo of Jeff in which he still had hair.
And there was a photo of Darius Phelps.
“Max,” I said, trying to drag his attention away from the drapeaux. “Max.”
“Hmm?”
I pointed to Darius’ picture.
“We’re in the right place.” I felt a chill creep over my damp skin as I stared at the familiar face in the photograph. “No doubt about it. This is the man I saw last night.”
7
I flinched in surprise when a nearby door was flung open.
“There you are!” said Jeff with false brightness. I could tell he was annoyed that I had spent so long on the phone. He’d probably been stalling, trying to convince his boss I was reliable while simultaneously wondering why I hadn’t come upstairs yet. “Did you get lost?”
Max said quietly to me, “I’ll wait here.”
I took one more look at Darius Phelps’ photograph, noting that he had been a handsome man in life—something that hadn’t been so readily apparent last night, when he was three weeks dead and physically maimed.
Then I turned and walked through the door that Jeff was holding open for me. Using my ace- in-the-hole immediately, in hopes of compensating for my tardiness, I said in a clear voice as I entered his boss’ office, “I’m sorry that call took so long. I was talking to the production office of The Dirty Thirty . Michael Nolan, the show’s star, has had a heart attack, and they’ve got to reschedule the filming of my scenes.” I handed Jeff his cell phone. “Thanks for letting me borrow this.”
“No problem.” Jeff closed the door and turned to the woman who was rising from her chair behind her desk and extending her hand to greet me. “Catherine, this is Esther Diamond.”
My first surprise was that she was white. I had just sort of assumed that Jeff’s boss at this important African-American institution in Harlem would be black.
She was also younger than I expected, given that her husband would be about sixty- five now, if he had lived. She was a very well-groomed woman, which made her age hard to guess accurately, but I thought she was probably in her early forties.
I reached across the desk to shake her hand and smiled. “Dr. Livingston, I presume?”
“How witty,” she said, stone- faced. “I never hear that.”
I glanced at Jeff. He gave me a pained look.
“Do call me Catherine,” she said in a cool voice as she withdrew her hand. “I insist.” She looked down at her well-manicured fingers with a barely perceptible expression of distaste, then reached for a tissue.
“It’s very hot outside,” I said by way of apology as she wiped my sweat from her hand. “And I’m not dressed for
“Ah! Erzulie Dantor,” Max said, as if encountering an old acquaintance.
“Who?”
“Erzulie is the goddess of love, beauty, and sensuality.”
I looked again at the stabbed heart. “No way.”
“Erzulie Dantor, however, is the Petro aspect of Erzulie. Her dark side, you might say. Vodou has a complex and practical view of the world and of human nature.” He gestured to the dark goddess’ symbol. “She represents the feelings of jealousy, heartbreak, and vengeance that can be wrought by love.”
“Wow, and I thought Yahweh was a vengeful god,” I said, looking again at the cruel image.
I wasn’t surprised that Max knew something about voodoo. After three hundred fifty years of travel and study, he knew about a lot of things—particularly mystical, magical, and spiritual things.
I turned away from the exotic voodoo art to look at the opposite wall, which was lined with photographs. There were pictures of Martin Livingston, several of which were already familiar to me, since they had been reproduced on the foundation’s Web site. There were also pictures of the foundation’s board of directors, its most important donors, and it employees. I noticed that there was a photo of Jeff in which he still had hair.
And there was a photo of Darius Phelps.
“Max,” I said, trying to drag his attention away from the drapeaux. “Max.”
“Hmm?”
I pointed to Darius’ picture.
“We’re in the right place.” I felt a chill creep over my damp skin as I stared at the familiar face in the photograph. “No doubt about it. This is the man I saw last night.”
7
I flinched in surprise when a nearby door was flung open.
“There you are!” said Jeff with false brightness. I could tell he was annoyed that I had spent so long on the phone. He’d probably been stalling, trying to convince his boss I was reliable while simultaneously wondering why I hadn’t come upstairs yet. “Did you get lost?”
Max said quietly to me, “I’ll wait here.”
I took one more look at Darius Phelps’ photograph, noting that he had been a handsome man in life—something that hadn’t been so readily apparent last night, when he was three weeks dead and physically maimed.
Then I turned and walked through the door that Jeff was holding open for me. Using my ace- in-the-hole immediately, in hopes of compensating for my tardiness, I said in a clear voice as I entered his boss’ office, “I’m sorry that call took so long. I was talking to the production office of The Dirty Thirty . Michael Nolan, the show’s star, has had a heart attack, and they’ve got to reschedule the filming of my scenes.” I handed Jeff his cell phone. “Thanks for letting me borrow this.”
“No problem.” Jeff closed the door and turned to the woman who was rising from her chair behind her desk and extending her hand to greet me. “Catherine, this is Esther Diamond.”
My first surprise was that she was white. I had just sort of assumed that Jeff’s boss at this important African-American institution in Harlem would be black.
She was also younger than I expected, given that her husband would be about sixty- five now, if he had lived. She was a very well-groomed woman, which made her age hard to guess accurately, but I thought she was probably in her early forties.
I reached across the desk to shake her hand and smiled. “Dr. Livingston, I presume?”
“How witty,” she said, stone- faced. “I never hear that.”
I glanced at Jeff. He gave me a pained look.
“Do call me Catherine,” she said in a cool voice as she withdrew her hand. “I insist.” She looked down at her well-manicured fingers with a barely perceptible expression of distaste, then reached for a tissue.
“It’s very hot outside,” I said by way of apology as she wiped my sweat from her hand. “And I’m not dressed for
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