Five Minutes Read online

  FIVE MINUTES

  A Jonelle Sweet Mystery

  R. Lanier Clemons

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 R. Lanier Clemons

  Published in the United States by Journey Well Books

  ISBN: 978-0-9967554-4-3 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-0-9967554-5-0 (Paperback)

  Book design by ebooklaunch.com

  Books by R. Lanier Clemons

  Burial Plot (ebook only)

  Gone Missing

  The Trickster

  Five Minutes

  Who’s Riley? A JSM Amazon Short Read: Book 1

  Contents

  Books by R. Lanier Clemons

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Acknowledgments

  About The Author

  CHAPTER 1

  “They say the new boyfriend don’t like kids,” said the one in the yellow top. “They say he snatched that little girl.”

  “Boyfriend ain’t got nuthin’ to do with it. She didn’t wanna be a mama no more,” added the one bursting out of lime green pants. “You ask me. That girl took her own kid. Hid her someplace I bet.”

  Jonelle Sweet overheard the two women as she poured coffee from the convenience store’s urn and tried not to think about when the container was last cleaned. What child were they talking about? It sounded as if they knew something about the mother which meant the incident probably happened nearby.

  “So you say, Francie. So why didn’t she let that child stay with her daddy if she didn’t wanna be bothered?”

  A child abducted. The mother accused.

  She trailed close behind as Francie and friend went down the chip aisle, past the candy display and stopped in front of the pastries.

  Francie picked up a box of donuts, peered through the cellophane, shook the container and placed it back on the shelf. “What I heard was that she didn’t want to give the baby daddy the satisfaction of taking away the one thing left from the relationship.”

  “That little girl ain’t property.”

  “True that.”

  When they looked her way, frowns plastered on their faces, Jonelle smiled. “Can never make up my mind when I come in here. Think I’ll buy a lottery ticket. You never know.”

  With her cover blown, she walked away, aware of two pairs of eyes burning into her back. Their comments piqued her interest. Especially since new criminal cases at Shorter Investigative Services had slowed to a trickle. Nothing nearly as stimulating as last year’s case of murdered twins came across her desk.

  Instead, for the past month she’d served a summons on a deadbeat dad, photographed a woman cheating on her husband and confirmed the beloved Pug of a divorced couple was holed up with the husband in a Best Western off Interstate 95 near White Marsh.

  This was the first time she’d heard of an abduction and her scalp tingled with excitement. With coffee in hand she grabbed the Sun newspaper from the rack near the door and took the publication over to the corner. She flipped through it searching for any news. Nothing. Leaving the paper on the shelf next to the chips display she walked over and stood in line behind three day laborers—two Hispanic, one African American. Dressed in hard hat, jeans and tee shirt, and smelling like the dirt that covered his clothes, the man closest to her juggled two pre-wrapped sandwiches, and a pint of chocolate milk.

  She cleared her throat, but kept her voice low. “Say, what do you think about what happened to that poor child?”

  He turned and looked directly into her eyes. They both had the same nut brown complexion, but his build was slim and hers was not. Jonelle figured he was probably around her age, somewhere in his mid-thirties.

  She smiled and he smiled back. “Yeah. We all heard about that,” he said. “Damn shame, you ask me. That young lady and her little girl come in here all the time. Looked like a good mother to me. Could ’a knocked me over when I heard what happened. ’Course some of the guys”—he indicated the two other laborers now standing by the door— “claim if she didn’t do it herself, she probably paid somebody to do it for her. My opinion? Didn’t nobody snatch that kid. You ask me . . .” Instead of finishing the sentence, he shrugged and placed his things on the counter.

  “She live around here?”

  “Sure. That there building across the street.”

  “I don’t suppose you know her name?”

  He paid for his items, and Jonelle set her coffee on the counter.

  “Naw. Don’t know her name. We never got friendly, though I wouldn’t’ve minded if you know what I mean?” He winked at her.

  One of the Hispanic men yelled for him to hurry.

  He tilted his head and smiled again. “Maybe I’ll see you soon.”

  “Maybe so,” she replied.

  “You holdin’ up the line, Miss,” said the woman behind the register.

  “Sorry. I’d, uh, also like a couple two dollar scratch-offs and, um, six dollars’ worth of Mega Millions tickets.”

  Several people groaned.

  As the cashier tore off the cards and printed out the tickets, Jonelle said, “I’m curious if you know the name of the young lady with the abducted daughter. Sounds like something I’d hate to go through.”

  “Only know first name. Tamora. Little girl real cute.” Lines formed between her eyes. “Stuff like that doesn’t happen ’round here.”

  Except it did, Jonelle thought as she placed money in the woman’s hand. Standing outside, she stared at the building across the street. Jonelle checked her watch. Still early and she had nothing else on her schedule.

  She sipped a little coffee, grimaced, and threw the cup in the trash. With only a first name to go on and no legitimate reason to pry, she squared her shoulders and headed to the mid-rise gray concrete building.

  Structures often evoked emotions. While clean, the building lacked character. To Jonelle the apartment building seemed sad, even lonely. The absence of balconies meant tenants couldn’t add personal touches to break up the plain façade. Bright-colored flowers might help add interest to the gloomy-looking evergreen bushes that adorned both sides of the uneven walkway. Glass doors in need of cleaning opened easily and faced directly in front of two banks of elevators.
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  The lack of furniture discouraged anyone from lounging around. If someone took the child from here, they’d have easy access in and out.

  Raised voices erupted from an open door on the right. She smoothed her cotton skirt and made sure she hadn’t spilled any coffee on her yellow tunic top. She noted the “Manager” sign on the door and entered to find a man, dressed in khaki pants and shirt, standing next to a desk. Behind the desk sat a large, light-skinned black woman. The name plate read “Mrs. Lorraine Watkins.”

  “When I tell you on Tuesday that I want the toilet fixed in 510, that means Tuesday. Not Wednesday and sure as hell you don’t wait until today.”

  “I already told you Mrs. Spiller grabbed me and said she needed—”

  “I don’t care what she needed. She wasn’t the one complainin’ about the damn toilet. You got a problem you come to me and I’ll handle the tenants. Now get upstairs and . . . help you, Miss?”

  Engrossed in the exchange, Jonelle almost forgot why she was there. “Right. Yes. I was over at Marv’s Mini Mart and heard some of the people talking about a child abduction. I’m a private investigator, and . . .” She dug in her purse for a business card and handed it to the woman. “And I thought maybe I could see if the mother needed any help with her case.”

  Mrs. Watkins’ eyes narrowed. Without breaking eye contact, she said, “Go on up to 510 and don’t come back until that toilet is fixed.”

  The man shuffled around Jonelle.

  “And shut the door on your way out. Please.”

  Over the past few years Jonelle had learned to deal with all kinds of people and hadn’t felt intimidated. Until now.

  “You people go around drumming up business like this?”

  “No. But the little I heard made me curious. I know her first name is Tamora, so if you’d give her my card, I’d like to help.”

  The manager leaned back in the chair, which protested loudly under her bulk. “Last I heard she was still in jail, though her sister told me she got an attorney. Court appointed.”

  “Jail? Somebody took the child from here, and the cops think she did it?”

  The woman’s voice rose. “I’ve known Tamora for almost five years. She’s good people. She didn’t do nothing to that girl. That damn child’s daddy called the cops.”

  “Then, why—?”

  “Because . . . they’re claiming she lied. What she told the cops is not what they say the surveillance tape at the store shows.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Apartment Manager Mrs. Watkins was unable—unwilling?—to give Jonelle any more details of Tamora’s arrest. She dismissed Jonelle with a wave of the hand and “I’ll pass your info on to Tamora . . . if I get the chance.”

  Jonelle made a beeline back to the minimart for her Jeep, now sandwiched between an Utz potato chip delivery truck and an HVAC service vehicle. She headed up Interstate 95 all the while drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, unable to get the child’s kidnapping out of her mind.

  She parked her Jeep in one of the agency’s five reserved spots in the small, gravel lot on the corner. The only office building on the block wouldn’t rate a second look. Small, blocky and beige, only the menu board outside the secured entrance provided any indication of what was inside. Jonelle punched in her code and made her way up the back stairs to the second floor.

  At the end of the hall stood glass double doors. “Shorter Investigative Services” stenciled in large letters in the glass took up over half the space. Below that, in smaller script, “Private Investigations.” She entered and waved a quick hello to secretary slash receptionist Rainey Gottzchek and said, on her way to her office, “Served the guy and now I’m gonna make a few calls.” She punched in the number for Detective Thelonius Burton before her butt hit the chair.

  Burt answered on the third ring, so she got right to the point. “Hey. It’s Jonelle. What do you know about a recent abduction of a small child over in Maryland City?”

  “And a good morning to you, too.” His smile came through the line.

  “Good morning. So what do you know? I was across the street from the mother’s apartment and overheard some women talking. Do you have any information?”

  He sighed. “All business this morning, huh? Okay. I think something popped up on an alert,” Burt said, his deep voice echoing through the phone. “Hold on.”

  She opened her computer and checked emails while waiting for him to come back. Nothing interesting needed her immediate attention . . . big surprise. For a brief moment she thought about walking into her uncle Marvin’s office to tell him about Tamora and the child. And quickly dismissed the idea. No sense telling him about the kidnapping before she knew any details.

  “Called over to a detective I know in Anne Arundel County’s western district,” Burt said. “There’s a recent abduction of a child named Lark Phelps, aged four, from her apartment. Of the people interviewed that night, no one saw or heard anything unusual.”

  Jonelle groaned. So young. “The mother is Tamora Phelps. Right?”

  “Yep. They arrested her because her story didn’t add up.”

  “She still in jail?”

  “Yep.” He cleared his throat. “By the way, how’d you wind up across the street?”

  “Overheard people talking in Marv’s Mini Mart when I stopped for a coffee.” She hurried on before he could ask for specifics. “Do you have the attorney’s name?”

  “Why the interest? Kids go missing every day.”

  A knot in her stomach formed at his cavalier attitude. Not wanting to alienate the detective before she got more information, she pushed the feeling aside. “I want to talk to the lawyer, see if I can help.”

  “You didn’t answer the ‘why’”.

  “I’m not sure. Call it concern for a child’s welfare, curiosity, or . . . truth is I love everything about my job, but what I’m doing now is grunt work. I hate that. Plus, everything I’ve heard so far, from different kinds of people, says Tamora was, is, a good mother.”

  Burt mumbled something.

  “What’d you say?”

  “Nothing. The attorney is Paul Langford. Don’t have his number but I’m pretty sure you know how to find it.”

  “Thanks, Burt.” She clicked off before he could ask any more questions. It only took a few minutes before she had Attorney Langford’s telephone number in the Public Defender’s office.

  She punched in the numbers and immediately got voicemail. She left a message stating that if he needed investigative work she wanted to offer her services to him and his client Tamora Phelps. After leaving both her office and private cellphone numbers, she went around checking the plants to make sure they had enough water. She stopped in front of the large window and gazed over at the Johns Hopkins medical center complex. Her view was somewhat clouded, not by the sky—the day was filled with bright sunshine—but with the accumulation of dust and grime on the window. She made a mental note to ask Rainey about getting the windows washed.

  Another circuit of the room landed her back in her chair. She jumped at the sound of the office intercom buzzing on her desk.

  She stabbed the button. “Yes, Rainey?”

  “Got a few more summonses for you to deliver.”

  “Damn!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry. Why don’t the guys get these?” Jonelle asked, raising her voice.

  “Stop complainin’, Hon. Fact is, I already gave a few to Ben. Omar is still on that cyber security whatsit. You know the rules. You agents all handle whatever comes in. That’s how your uncle keeps this business floatin’.”

  Jonelle lay her forehead on the desk. “Yeah, sure. I’ll come out and grab them in a minute.”

  “They’ll be waitin’.”

  She raked her fingers through her hair and glared at the phone, willing it to ring and praying for the attorney’s voice to come through. Nothing happened. She moved the volume control back and forth, making sure the ringtone was set at its highest mark. That don
e, she trudged down the hall to retrieve the dreaded assignments.

  Jonelle plastered a smile on her face as she came around to the desk. She held out her hand as the phone rang on the receptionist desk.

  “Shorter Investigative Services.” Rainey listened for a bit. “She just walked up. I’ll put you on hold.”

  Jonelle lifted an eyebrow.

  Rainey slapped the papers into her outstretched hand with more force than necessary. The stinging sensation, coupled with the scowl on the secretary’s face, spoke volumes.

  “Sorry for what I said earlier, Rainey. Feeling bummed is all. But I’ll get over it, like I always do. Friends?”

  The secretary’s face softened. She nodded, which set two pencils—already lodged in her white-blond bouffant hair—dancing, and pointed to the blinking light on her phone. “That’s for you. Guy says his name’s Langford and he’s returning your call.”

  “Thanks.” She forced herself to walk casually back to her office when every bone in her body screamed hurry and grab the phone as quickly as possible, as if she were drowning and Langford held some kind of lifeline.

  Before picking up, she breathed in for five counts and breathed out for five counts. “Hello? This is Jonelle Sweet.”

  “Langford here, returning your call,” came the harried voice on the other end. Rustling papers and muffled voices made up the background noises, and for the briefest of moments Jonelle felt a little guilty.

  “I know you’re busy, but I’ve heard a little about the Tamora Phelps case and understand you’re her attorney. I’d like to offer my services.” She squeezed her eyes shut and plunged ahead, “To help in your case. Should you have need for a private investigator.” Marvin won’t like her going behind his back.

  Several seconds passed without comment. Noises in the background continued. Although she wanted to sell herself to this man, she held her tongue.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “I always like a face-to-face meet, so come on over to my office. Gotta be today, though. In fact—hold a second.” Langford made no attempt to hide his words to whoever was in the room. “Hey guys. What time are we needed in court?”

  A female voice answered. “One o’clock. Sharp. Judge Connelly is on the bench, and he doesn’t dick around.”