BooksBarbecue
Back Blood Grove
Chapters (55)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Dedication
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. Discover More
  53. Praise for Walter Mosley andBlood Grove
  54. About the Author
  55. Also by Walter Mosley

“Sit with it. Think about it. And know that I will always be there with you and you will be safe.”

“Could he make me go with him?”

“Absolutely not.”

20

20

That afternoon bowl of creole stew felt like an end point of sorts. I called Milo and told him that his niece needed a little time; that I’d call back in a few days. I guess he’d settled in pretty well at the hippie house and so voiced no complaint.

Niska was working her mantra in Redlands. Their own cases kept Saul and Whisper out of town. And I stood at my back office window a couple of early mornings watching bare-chested Stache carrying his watering can out to the greenhouse.

On Friday Feather was off with some girlfriends at a swimming event and I was at the office reading a slender text on the theory of relativity so I could keep up with her junior high school classes.

“Anybody home?” a gravelly voice called from the front office.

I had decided that I wouldn’t allow Craig Kilian to make me so fearful that I’d start locking doors.

“Back here!” I called.

I could hear his footsteps, heavy and hard soled, as he marched toward and then into my office. He wore a gray suit that had the mildest of pink patinas running under the surface, a shirt white enough to shine, and a bloodred tie that had been woven at the neck into a perfect square knot.

He was short for a man, five seven or so, and had once been fat. When I met him he was a homicide detective in South Central LA. After solving a couple of high-profile cases, with my help, he was now the number two or three cop in the city, depending on how you judged influence versus rank.

This last detail was what surprised me about the unexpected visit: a man in Melvin Suggs’s position did not make house calls.

“Easy,” he said. “You’re looking prosperous.”

“And I can see that Mary Donovan is keeping your shit together. Have a seat.”

Melvin didn’t hesitate. He grabbed a chair and pulled it close enough to my grand desktop that he could rest his beefy fingers on the ledge.

“Why you say that?” he asked.

“No wrinkles on the suit or shirt, a tie that the king’s butler could have knotted, and fat gut still gone the way of the steam engine.”

Mel didn’t want to smile but did anyway.