BEVERLY JENKINS
THE EDGE OF MIDNIGHT
In 1985,
Mary Henson, Joyce Puckett,
Sharon Lehman, and Monica Ninteman
read a draft of this book and loved it.
Many years have passed,
but I’ve never forgotten them
or their help and encouragement.
Here’s your book, ladies. Thanks.
Contents
Prologue
At midnight, wealthy industrialist, Marvin Rand lay asleep in his…
One
Shivering with cold, thirty-three-year-old Sarita Grayson walked over to the…
Two
Sarita slammed down the phone. She’d spent the past two…
Three
When Sarita awakened the next morning, the clock on her…
Four
It was raining in the city of Chicago; a gray…
Five
At noon Sarita was still simmering over the outcome of…
Six
When the taillights of the car taking Lily to the…
Seven
The next morning, Sarita headed out of her bedroom intent…
Eight
Faye Riley hated Sarita the moment she laid eyes on…
Nine
Needless to say, Mykal Chandler was a lot more man…
Ten
Faye resettled herself elegantly in the big recliner, while Myk…
Eleven
Sarita came downstairs unsure where she and Chandler stood after…
Twelve
After school, the center’s parking lot was usually packed with…
Thirteen
When Walter McGhee came downstairs the next morning, he found…
Fourteen
The weeks leading up to Thanks giving were hectic ones…
Fifteen
The moment he set her on her feet, time seemed…
Sixteen
At the end of the business day, Myk swung by…
Seventeen
Myk returned home from his night’s work weary in both…
Eighteen
The phone company wasn’t able to give Myk an exact…
Nineteen
Myk stood outside the operating room in clothes still covered…
Twenty
Myk and Sarita were married again at the center on…
About the Author
Other Books by Beverly Jenkins
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Oakland County, Michigan
May 2003
At midnight, wealthy industrialist, Marvin Rand lay asleep in his Oakland County mansion dreaming of his long-legged mistress. In bed beside him, Rand’s wife Marilyn, dreamed of divorce. Neither was aware that outside, five men dressed in black were overriding the mansion’s state-of-the-art security system. The estate’s six guard dogs had alerted no one. The animal tranq slipped into their dinner had the fierce Dobermans sleeping as soundly as their owners.
The men outside waited expectantly while their leader quickly attached the wires of a small device to the base works of the alarm box the Rands had been guaranteed no one could access. He then used a gloved finger to punch a coded number into the palm-sized computer in his hand and waited. When its tiny red light flashed, he waved his men on in.
They entered the house through the deck’s huge screen door. Senses alert, they moved through the shadowy rooms on steps silent as heartbeats. Their handheld penlights traveled over priceless antiques, expensive state-of-the-art electronics, and the wall vault that held Marilyn Rand’s famous gems. The contents of the Rands’ million-dollar home would be Paradise Found to an ordinary gang of thieves, but these men were extraordinary.
The information provided to the intruders on the house’s layout proved accurate; the mansion was huge, and more than a few of the Rands’ guests had gotten themselves lost in its vastness during the couple’s many well-attended dinner parties. Tonight’s uninvited guests had no such difficulties. At the expansive staircase that led to the upper regions of the house, the leader peeled off from the main group. He had business upstairs with Rand.
The rest of the men moved on. Their map led them down one level and directed them past the Olympic-sized pool, a billiard room, and a fifty-seat movie theater to their destination—the twelve-lane bowling alley. While one man knelt to spring the door’s lock, the others used their penlights to sweep the surroundings for unwanted onlookers or surprises. The door was opened and once again the interior quickly swept with light. No one. Marvin Rand had an extensive stock of expensive liquor displayed behind the wall-long bar—he also had 5 million dollars’ worth of blood diamonds in the bar’s freezer. The stones were called blood diamonds because of the bloodshed surrounding their mining and illegal exportation.
The men made short work of the freezer’s inadequate padlock and pulled up on the heavy door. The cold air swirled foglike around the thin beams of their lights. The seven packages were all wrapped in brown paper and placed exactly where the maid said they’d be. The men allowed themselves only a moment of satisfaction at the find. Then they lifted out the parcels and began to ready them for transport.
Upstairs, the leader silently entered the Rands’ bedroom. He crossed the plush imported carpet over to the bed and stood above them for a moment while they slept. Although the couple was ignorant of his presence, he was certain that would change when Rand woke up in the morning and found the diamonds gone. To make sure he had a really bad day, the leader placed a parting gift on Mrs. Rand’s pillow. It was a sealed mailer containing a videocassette detailing her husband’s involvement with the diamonds and their links to international drug cartels and terrorist organizations, and, fifteen minutes of a fairly graphic encounter starring Rand and his long-legged mistress.
Satisfied, the tall man quietly moved around to the other side of the king-size bed so he could leave Rand a gift, too. It was a common, everyday playing card. A black ace of spades.
Three days later, noted architect Mykal Chandler sat in his expensive, riverfront home eating breakfast and reading the city’s morning edition. The drapes on the wallwide windows had been pulled back to let in the still-rising sun. On page three, a small news item caught his eye: Industrialist Marvin Rand and his wife, Marilyn, were divorcing. Mrs. Rand’s lawyer cited, “irreconcilable differences” as the cause of the action. Chandler turned the page and went back to his eggs.
One
Detroit, Michigan
October 2003
Shivering with cold, thirty-three-year-old Sarita Grayson walked over to the worn pea coat hanging on a nail behind her desk and put it on. Even though it was only mid-October, the temperature inside her office in the old warehouse felt like below freezing. During the day, if the sun was out, being inside the drafty old eyesore wasn’t too bad, but once evening rolled around, the temperature dropped like a stone, and cold ruled. The building’s ancient heating system was kept running with duct tape, hairpins, and prayer. It was two-faced, however, and would cut off at a moment’s notice, so Sarita and her staff didn’t like turning it on until the weather outside made it absolutely necessary.
She blew on her hands to keep them warm, then dug through the mountain of papers atop her lopsided desk looking for the notice from the city. She picked it up and read it again for maybe the fiftieth time since it had arrived in the mail three days earlier. The words had not changed. Block red letters, three inches high screamed EVICTION PROCEEDINGS across the top like a tabloid headline. The day it arrived the shock had paralyzed her. Even now, her hands shook a bit. She and her people had been using this abandoned warehouse for many years, working hard to transform
the abandoned hulking structure into the hub of the struggling community surrounding it. The space offered the children a safe environment in which to learn and play and gave the senior citizens a place where they could meet and stay connected to life and the neighborhood.
But now, because the city wanted to auction off the property, they were being threatened with eviction.
The building had originally housed a food distribution company. After the owners moved the operation to the suburbs back in the early eighties, it sat empty, attracting gang graffiti, rats, and crackheads. One summer night in 1990, the local Baptist church down the street caught fire and burned to the ground. Having no place for the congregation to worship, Pastor Otis Washington and the elders approached the city about moving into the vacant building temporarily until money could be raised for a new church. The city gave its permission on the condition that if the building were sold, the church would move its services and neighborhood programs elsewhere. Washington and the congregation agreed. The new church was built, but the outreach programs dedicated to kids, seniors, and unwed mothers remained housed in the old warehouse. Because of all the neighborhood crack and crime, neither the city nor the congregation envisioned anyone’s buying the place.
Obviously, times had changed; the city received a bid for the property two weeks ago. Sarita had taken over the running of the William Lambert Community Center after Pastor Washington’s death in 1998, and if she could come up with the money to match the seventeen-thousand-dollar offer, then she and her people could stay—if not, they were on the street. How in the world the city expected her to come up with that much cash, and in six days no less, was beyond her.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Silas Devine sticking his gray head in the doorway. After the death of Sarita’s grandmother and great-uncles, Silas had become the elder in her life. She loved him dearly.
“Afternoon, General,” he said to her.
It was his pet name for her, and she gave him a smile. “Afternoon, Silas. How are you?”
“I’m okay. Any luck?”
She knew he was talking about the seventeen-thousand-dollar dilemma. She shook her head. “So far, nothing.”
Silas was her right-hand man. He looked after the plumbing, mowed the grass, helped out with driving the homebound seniors wherever they needed to go; anything Sarita needed, Silas did. He was also the only person she’d told about the eviction notice.
“Something will come up,” he said confidently. “This place is too important to shut down. You’ll see.”
Sarita agreed with him on the Lambert Center’s importance to the neighborhood, but wasn’t sure the city officials who’d sent the eviction notice felt the same way. “How’s the van this morning?”
Their donated van was fifteen years old and on its last legs. It needed a new engine, muffler, and struts, and the floor was almost rusted through; but, somehow, Silas kept it running.
“It woke up in a pretty good mood,” he told her. “Started right up.”
They shared a grin, and Silas added, “I’m on my way to take Mrs. Black over to the train station so she can get to Chicago for her brother’s funeral.”
“Okay. I’ll see you when you get back.”
He nodded, then studied her silently for a moment, before saying, “Don’t give up. Somewhere up in heaven, Pastor Washington and that grand-mamma of yours are all pulling strings. We’ll get through this, I know we will.”
She shook her head in agreement, but in reality, didn’t share his optimism.
After his departure, Sarita got up from her cluttered desk and walked over to look out of her small, wire-screened window. The center’s uncertain future filled her with a sense of helplessness that was totally out of character. In the years she’d been in charge, she’d always, always been able to effect some change in a seemingly unsolvable situation—able to do a fast shuffle here, call in a favor there to keep the ship afloat, but this time she wasn’t so sure. School had let out about an hour ago, and out of her office window she could see the children playing down below on the cracked, broken pavement of the building’s parking lot, which served as the yard. None of the kids were dressed for the weather. They were in the thin jackets, threadbare jeans, and cheap athletic shoes most would still be wearing during the hawk-raging months of January and February, but like most children blessed by love and life, they didn’t seem to mind. Small knots of boys and girls played tag, twirled rope for double dutch and shot hoop at the leaning, no-net backboard.
So far, she hadn’t told anyone but Silas about the city’s notice—not the senior citizens who depended on the center for food and services—not the parents of the children whose only option for recreation might now be the streets. Sarita had kept the information on the down low, hoping beyond hope something would happen, but so far, nothing had.
She went back over to her desk and sat down. There had to be a way out of this mess. It wasn’t like her to go down without a fight. To that end she picked up the phone. Her very last hope lay with the Mayor’s Office. The newly elected mayor, Drake Randolph, had been in office less than a year. She and everyone else she knew had voted for him because of his vision for the future. The promises he’d made during the campaign were actually being kept in the form of working streetlights, more police patrols, and safer public transportation. Randolph’s administration had begun freeing the city from the stagnation of the old regime, and the residents loved him. Sarita was sure that if he were made aware of the situation she and her people were facing, something could be worked out. However, for the last three days she’d been unable to get through to him or any of his people. Her calls to his office, answered by a snippy receptionist, hadn’t been put through. According to the receptionist, the people Sarita needed to speak with were either out of town, in a meeting, or unavailable, and no, the woman had no idea when they might return Sarita’s calls. All this unavailability made Sarita wonder if there were anyone in charge of the city at all because every time she called, she got the same runaround.
But she was determined not to give up. She vowed not to throw in the towel until she’d spoken with someone in the city administration. So to keep that vow (and adding a further vow to be polite and not curse at the receptionist as she’d done that morning), Sarita dialed the number of City Hall. In response, she got the same old song. No, the parties Sarita needed to speak with were still unavailable. And no, no one knew when they were expected to return. Angry, Sarita hung up.
Mykal Chandler waited until the nine men and women who made up the ruling council of the task force took their seats before passing out the folders. They called themselves NIA. In Swahili, the word, Nia, means, purpose, and the purpose of the group was to stop the flow of drugs into the city, by any means necessary.
Some of the people seated around the table in Myk’s finely furnished dining room represented various law enforcement agencies, both federal and local. They were individuals Myk and his half brother Drake Randolph, who also happened to be Detroit’s newly elected mayor, had personally recruited. Tonight’s meeting was only one of the many that would be necessary if NIA were to be as successful as everyone hoped.
Myk had already read the initial reports; NIA’s guerrilla tactics were having an effect. The midnight strikes against known crack houses, coupled with the outing of white-collar, corporate-executive types who handled the distribution and supply were beginning to be felt. NIA had been operating less than six months, and the Marvin Rand episode had been their biggest mission so far. The Blue squad oversaw the city’s west side, while the Green squad operated on the east side. Both teams had included in their reports photos of some of the more well-known dealers, their houses, and their crews. The pictures would be added to NIA photo files and cross-referenced with the Feds’ national and international databases.
Myk waited until the reports were all read, before asking, “Well, what do you think?”
“Everything seems to be going just fine, so far,”
a representative from one of the Federal agencies replied.
Others nodded their agreement.
The mayor tossed the folder he’d been reading back into the center of the table. “If we keep up the heat, maybe we’ll make some progress.”
They discussed some other issues pertinent to the group’s mission, and, an hour later, the meeting ended. Drake stayed behind so he and Myk could talk privately.
Mayor Drake Randolph had been in office for almost a year. He’d been a highly respected orthopedic surgeon before taking on the challenges of running the nation’s sixth largest city, and Myk, owner and CEO of Chandler Works, a multinational architectural firm, had amassed enough wealth through construction and investments to be named one of the most successful Black businessmen in the nation. Each brother had worked hard to make it to the top of his field. They both loved the city. Making it safe and viable once again was proving to be the most challenging undertaking of their lives.
Myk poured them both a small shot of cognac from the crystal decanter he’d purchased in Spain the year before and handed one to Drake. As they each took a small sip, Myk went over to the windows facing the river and looked out at the silent night. “You know, Drake,” he said after a few moments of silence, “we have to be pretty arrogant to believe we can do this. The government has spent how many millions fighting the war on drugs?”
Drake tossed back, “Probably more than even they can count, but since you’re the most arrogant brother I know, who better to be in charge?”
Myk gave his brother a small smile.
Drake grinned in response, “See, you won’t even deny it. Besides, it’s too late to have second thoughts now. The genie is already out of the bottle.”