Lost Hours

Chapter 1

I looked intently at the image trapped inside the rearview mirror and saw a man drained of fortitude. Dark lines charted a timeline beneath his eyes like rings of a tree. I could almost map the long weeks of restlessness to the very minute. Blowing out a long breath, I shifted my gaze to the house. I stayed put within the safe haven of the car, watching the home we once shared. I was indecisive on whether I should remain inside or leave its warmth for the cold response I would most certainly receive at the door. Everything I cherished lay before me. All I had to do was swallow my pride and step out.

On the second floor, light escaped through a bedroom blind that had suddenly been cracked. Someone was at the window peering out. It was still black outside, and the dark tone of the Mustang made it invisible. I waited until the upstairs light had faded before turning the key and starting the car. I was confident my being there had never been detected.

I drove downtown and pulled over beside a broken parking meter near the corner of Washington Boulevard not far from the convention centers or from the meeting I had later. I felt a need to get some air before my engagement and decided a stroll would clear the dust from my head. It wasn’t the first time I’d done this—in the many months since the separation, it had become a place for me to think and to enjoy the stars. Civic Center Drive was peaceful at that hour. There was the occasional shuffling of homeless people that slept in dark places, disrupting the quiet, but they were only minor distractions.

Street lamps lit the direction down the walkway. The path had a view of the Detroit River and beyond that, resided Canada. Darkness cloaked the reflective water but across the river the city lights of Windsor glistened as though it were the Emerald City Dorothy had sought. At dock, was the Detroit Princess, its decks dark and quiet. The old styled riverboat, a new attraction to the city, promised entertainment by way of pleasant cruises, spirited music, fine food and drinks. None of which I was in the mood for. I passed the boat with barely a glance.

Stopping close to Hart Plaza, I stared at the stone set of steps that led up to it and remembered the many events Nina, Jamaal and I shared here. We enjoyed ethnic festivals, music concerts, and fireworks. The showground’s desolate, empty seats and the waterless fountain in its center mirrored the seclusion I felt in my heart. I faced away and leaned against the security barricade dividing the pavement and the river. My gaze turned upward beyond Windsor’s towering structures made of steel and mortar, and escaped to the heavens. The translucent sky had surrendered itself to the stars. It was a perfect vista of the cosmos, and I was left breathless. It was a moment I wished to share with my son. Regret began to permeate inside me. I should have gotten out of the car—should have talked to my wife—should be there to wake my son for school.

There was a great deal of things I should have—could have done my entire life. Bad decisions surrounded me like a pack of hungry wolves, and I was so tired of it. I spent a lot of time that morning reflecting and wondered if what I was about to pursue would be another regret piled on top of the others. But how could I avoid it? The nightmares were getting worse. My thoughts were interrupted when I heard the sounds of the city starting to wake. The stars had begun their slow retreat and first light embarked on its ascent into the heavens. A chilly early morning October breeze that I had not noticed before during my walk reminded me I had somewhere to be.

Crossing Hart Plaza, I tried not to think of the past. This was a problem in itself, since the answers about the past were what I actually sought. When I reached Jefferson and Woodward, the streets were congested with traffic and hurried people rushed to work. The solitude I enjoyed retreated with the night. It would have taken me ten or fifteen minutes to walk to police headquarters, but I had walked enough and decided to move the Mustang closer to the station. I turned back toward the water and stared out at Windsor. With the daylight, it had lost its majesty—the yellow brick road led not to a magical place where a wizard could fix my problems, but to another city with troubles of its own.

* * * *

When Detroit Police Sergeant Charles LaForge returned to his desk, he eyed me suspiciously. It had taken him over a week to find the file I requested. Worse yet, I had given him little information as to why I even wanted it. He sat, dropping the folder to the desk. On its face the word SOLVED was stamped across it in large bold red lettering. The hustle of the squad room did little to hide the irritation I heard in his voice.

I went through a lot of trouble looking for this file, Joe. The least you can do is to tell me why?

I understood his frustration. The closed investigation was over twenty-three years old. Most current case files were electronically stored and easy to retrieve, while older ones were on the waiting list for eventual data archiving—a time consuming process that could take years to complete. The fact that he found the file at all was a miracle in itself. Accepting the fact that I could no longer avoid telling him the unfortunate truth, I embarked on my reasons.

Twenty-three years ago a twelve-year-old boy was discovered with a bloody knife in his hand. The boy lay only inches away from his father who was in a bloody heap on the floor, dead. He was found guilty of his father’s murder, I explained.

LaForge shrugged, narrowing his eyes. I knew that much from reading the file. I want to know why you’re interested in it, he insisted.

I straightened in my seat, my eyes no longer able to lock onto his. I know the child in the file. I don’t think he murdered his father. I’m trying to find the true murderer.

The case is closed, Joe. The evidence was overwhelming against him. How could you possibly believe the kid was innocent? he asked.

Here’s the part I was dreading. A bead of sweat formed on my brow. My eyes returned to his. The murder victim was my father, Roger Valentine. The boy…is me, I said. The backdrop of the loud squad room suddenly seemed quiet.

I explained to LaForge that I had no memory of what transpired those many years ago. Doctors at the psychological medical institute to which I was committed after the trial said that I was overcoming a catastrophic event, which resulted in my impaired hippocampus-encoded memory. In layman’s words, I was suffering from selective memory loss or amnesia.

My father was not a kind man and often beat me and my siblings after a night of hard drinking. With no evidence stating otherwise and with my unfortunate memory loss, a jury of my peers found me guilty but took into account my father’s brutal past. It was deemed self-defense after two years of sitting in Wayne County Juvenile Detention and going back and forth to Recorders Court.

The name in the file was Joseph Valentine, which is why LaForge did not associate the child with me. I changed my name at age twenty to Joseph Hooks, my mother’s maiden name. I tried to erase my past and start over. Now thirty-five, I’m a private detective and am always haunted by thoughts of that past life. Yes, my father beat me. Yes, I was angry with him. But, would I kill him? I had to know. I had to be sure.

LaForge slid the folder toward me, saying, I can see why this is so important to you. I don’t know what you’ll be able to find. The file is short, but it’s cut-and-dry. You may not like what you find, Joe.

After photocopying the contents of the folder, I left the downtown precinct with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. What would I do if I find I did murder my father? What would I do if I find that someone else had killed him? That day, twenty-three years ago, changed the direction of my life. There was no telling what I would have become if not for its influence. I stuffed my copy into the folds of my coat and headed to the parking garage.

Later that day at the office, I reviewed the file. Posted on my corkboard I had created a timeline and a list of suspects to interview. Some of the interviewees were related to me. I hadn’t spoken to them in years—not since that day. The thought of speaking to them after all this time was unnerving. But it had to be done.

The interviewees would be my brother, Larry, my two sisters, Joyce and Michele, my Aunt Barbara, my father’s old girlfriend, Andrea Goode, and his best friend, Reggie Crouch. None of them were plausible suspects, but they might recall something that could assist me in finding the truth. Now it was only a matter of tracking each one of them down.

* * * *

I spent most of the night at work in search of their addresses. Luckily, they all lived either in Detroit or one of the surrounding suburbs. Rather than go home, I decided to spend the remainder of my time in the office. I always kept a spare suit on hand in the closet for long nights.

When my secretary, Patricia Harris, arrived the next morning, she was surprised to see me. She always beat me in by a half hour. Trish stood at five feet, seven inches. She had a caramel complexion and dark brown eyes. She wore her black hair short, similar to Halle Berry’s past style, and had a body to match.

She flashed a pleasant smile. Am I running late?

No, Trish, I’m running early. I pulled an all-nighter. Hot case, I answered.

She looked at me oddly. I knew what she was thinking. She had a copy of all my case files and generally reviewed which assignments I took on in any given day. This had been a slow month; and, currently, I had completed my caseload. I should not have been working on anything at all. I debated whether I should tell her about it. I knew she would not ask. Trish knew when to question me and when not to.

* * * *

I departed without telling her anything. In retaliation Trish would, of course, go into my office, spot the filled corkboard and scan the contents of the folder on my desk before I returned. Trish never liked being kept in the dark, and I generally left things out for her to find. She forgets that I’m the one who’s the private detective, not her. But, bless her heart, I do love her in a platonic sense.

I inputted all the addresses and pertinent information into my PDA. Before visiting Andrea Goode, my father’s former girlfriend, I stopped by my old house—where it all happened. The house was still in relatively good condition and was owned by my older brother, Larry. He maintained it for rental. For the time being, it was not rented to anyone. The neighborhood was hardly recognizable. Most of the old houses had been torn down. An empty lot stood next to every third house. The residents regarded me with distrust as I walked up to the door. Many drug dealers rented the home in the past, and I suspected they might have thought I might be one looking for a temporary stay.

My key still fit into the lock. I turned it and opened the door. Walking inside, I felt a sense of nostalgia; and the memories of my family came flooding back. I could see Larry, Joyce and Michele sitting in front of the black and white thirteen-inch television that sat on top of a larger broken color TV. My father, drinking his beer in his favorite chair, was ordering me to turn the channel. I was his equivalent to a modern day remote control back then. My mother was in the kitchen preparing dinner. Then I glanced up the stairs and the happy memories faded.

Chapter 2

Andrea Goode lived in a plush neighborhood in Detroit called Sherwood Forest. The homes were huge, beautiful, and well kept. When I was younger, I always dreamed of living in this community. Unfortunately, over the years, the crime and poverty-stricken scenery that surrounded the neighborhood had taken away some of its luster.

After my father’s death, Andrea, who was smart, beautiful and shapely, had quickly found someone else to support her financially. She made a wise pick for herself. The home belonged to James Gains of Gains Music, a former Detroit disc jockey, who made it big after opening a chain of music stores. I called before driving over to their home. Andrea agreed to meet with me.

The three-storied home had a long driveway that looped around to the front entryway of the house. My 2002 gray Mustang looked like a junk heap compared to the shiny silver blue 2005 Lexus and the silver 2004 BMW I parked next to. The cars’ personal license plates were labeled Music1 on the BMW and Music2 on the other. I glanced at my car. Awash in dark winterized soot, the lettering on the license plate was illegible.

When I rang the doorbell, it was answered almost immediately by Andrea. Except for a few wrinkles around her eyes and lips, she looked much the same. Andrea gave me a huge hug and seemed pleased to see me. Returning her hug, I felt like a pervert when her ample breast pressed hard against me and I became aroused. Either the cold weather had her chest saluting or she had some medical enhancements. I suspected the latter. I backed away, embarrassed. Luckily, she didn’t seem to notice either my stimulation or my mortification. I chalked my arousal off to the fact that I haven’t made love in over a year.

Andrea was wearing an elaborate weave, and her hair waved in the cold wind as she spoke. Hey you, long time no see. How are you, honey?

Her brightness was disturbing considering I was the one convicted of killing her boyfriend. A man she supposedly loved.

I gave her a cordial smile. Hello, Andrea. Can I come in?

She stepped back and held the door open. The inside of her house was dazzling. The white marble floor in the foyer reflected an angelic brilliance from the sun shining through the windows. We crossed through the entrance hall into the living room—a room decorated in antique seventeenth and eighteenth century furniture. We sat on one of the wood sofas, a late seventeenth century French Louis XIII period chimney bench. I knew this only because she told me as I made a great effort to get comfortable. I tried to look impressed by the information.

Getting to the subject at hand, I asked her how much she remembered about my father’s death. Her account was much the same as in the original report. When she asked why I had the sudden interest, I lied. I’m writing my memoirs. Andrea seemed to buy it.

We spoke for another twenty minutes before I decided this was going nowhere. Out of some morbid curiosity, I asked how long after my father’s death the relationship began with her husband.

Andrea blurted out her answer before thinking about it. We dated before his death… she began. I’m sorry, I meant, we started dating a month or two after Roger’s death.

We said our goodbyes. When I got into my car, I recorded Andrea’s first answer into my PDA. "We dated before his death." I looked up and saw her peering out from one of the foyer’s windows. I wondered if she was just being polite by seeing me off or if she was worried about the purpose of reinvestigating my father’s death.

The thought of speaking with my family after so many years made me think of my son, Jamaal. I hadn’t visited or called him in over a month. His mother was furious at me. The last time we spoke it led to an argument, and the police escorted me out of their home. In truth, for the past year, we rarely exchanged many words even when we weren’t arguing. For months, Nina tended to bottle up her feelings, preferring to enter her thoughts into personal journals. What would I discover if I were to read them?

It was after ten a.m. Jamaal would be in school. Nina, however, would be there. Since she opened her own business, the house had become her office. If I wanted to see Jamaal, I would have to mend things with Nina first.

I arrived at the house a half hour later. My key still worked, but I decided to ring the doorbell instead of barging in. I felt somewhat silly. After all, Nina and I were still legally married. Since neither of us ever cheated on one another, I could not justify granting her a divorce. I cannot seem to shake my old Christian beliefs. We’ve been living apart for more than six months. Every now and then, I drove into the neighborhood to watch the activities of the house. I don’t know if it was to make sure they were safe or to see if Nina was secretly seeing someone.

On each side of the front door there were lengthy slender windows covered by curtains. The curtain on the right window was pushed aside, and I could see Nina peering out at me. I shrugged uncomfortably. I heard the locks disengaging on the door and it opened slightly. Her light brown eyes scanned me from head to toe before she spoke.

What do you want? she questioned. Her voice was sharp.

I want to speak with you. Apologize, I offered.

The door widened and now I could see more than just her hard stare. Wearing a long cotton robe to cover the sparse red nightshirt underneath, Nina appeared to have recently gotten out of bed. When she noticed my gaze traveling the course of her revealing attire, she quickly fastened the belt of the robe. Her all too familiar scent was intoxicating. I wanted to kiss her. Instead, I nodded my head, saying, It’s good to see you, Nina.

I saw her take a quick look out the door to see if any of the neighbors saw me come in. She acted as though she was sneaking in a suitor in the middle of the night. Nina shut the door and turned toward me. Her arms folded impatiently. On her feet were a pair of Garfield the Cat slippers. One foot was tapping rapidly on the floor.

When she spoke, her words were crisp and to the point. You mentioned an apology, Joseph.

Yes I did. Can we sit? I asked. I didn’t just come over to apologize.

Unfolding her arms, she nodded her agreement. We headed for the dining room rather than the living room. The latter was off limits for family members or guests. We—Nina, had the room beautifully decorated. Apparently, its only function was to serve as a showroom. I waited at the table as Nina fetched coffee from the kitchen. As I sat, I noticed a few oddities. There was an open travel magazine for a cruise line sitting on top of the table. Beside that was an ashtray with a bent cigarette butt in the center of it and a book by Stephen King. Nina didn’t smoke nor did she read horror novels. She preferred mysteries.

Nina walked in, setting the steaming coffee on the table. Taking a chair across from me, she casually removed the items I had noticed, placing them into a chair out of view. Jealousy began welling within me. Was Nina seeing someone? I knew we had our problems. We weren’t currently living together, but I had hoped to one day return. I thought she felt the same. Apparently, I was wrong.

Nina’s eyes narrowed on mine. I’m waiting, Joseph, she said.

I found it hard to focus. I looked over at the chair with the stowed away items. I could hear Nina’s foot tapping on the floor, and I returned my attention to her. Her gaze was much softer now. Did she feel guilty? I wondered what else I would find if I were to search the house. I was a fool to let the time go by without having contact with her and Jamaal. I took a sip of the hot coffee without cooling it with my breath. It burned my tongue, but the hurt did not compare to what my heart was feeling.

I kept my voice as unruffled as I could. I’m sorry for the way I acted last month, I said. Just before Christmas, Nina had told me that she took Jamaal out of public school and placed him into a charter. She and I had always made decisions like these together. That should have been my first sign that she was moving on with her life without me. This led to a shouting match, and we exchanged words that should not have been said. When she asked me to leave, I refused. She called the police.

Nina smiled. I owe you an apology too. I should have talked with you first before making the decision. I promise to keep you in the loop from now on, she offered.

That was my opening. Speaking of keeping me in the loop… I began. Is there something you want to tell me?

Moisture began welling in her eyes and I knew my suspicions were correct.

* * * *

I left Nina’s with a sick feeling to my stomach. I had kept my temper in check in the house, but as I drove back to the office, all I wanted to do was to strike out at something or someone. Nina told me she was seeing her psychologist, Dr. Vincent Lewis, romantically. The worst part is that they met because of me.

A year ago, I took on a case to find William Fancy, a man who faked his own death. His wife never believed he was dead and hired me to find him—I did. In retaliation, Fancy broke into my home and raped Nina—beating her to within an inch of her life. She’d been blaming me since. I worked with Dr. Lewis on a number of cases for psychological insight on some of the people I was paid to investigate. I asked him to speak with Nina to see if he could help her deal with the rape. I never imagined this would happen.

Part of me couldn’t blame her for not forgiving me. That wasn’t the first time any of my cases spilled over into our personal lives. It was just the one, which stepped over the line. Though I could not blame her, I could hold Dr. Lewis responsible for his actions. Nina was vulnerable and he took advantage—betrayed my trust. Nina made me promise not to hurt him. I’m not sure if I could keep this one.

A car blew its horn at me when I ran a red light. I decided to pull over and try to collect my nerves. Sitting there, I asked myself how I let things slip away. What could I do to fix them? Not once since Nina and I separated had I even looked at another woman. The thought hadn’t even occurred to me. But for her, it was different. And yet, she hadn’t asked for a divorce. Even after admitting to me she was seeing someone else. What did this mean?

From out of nowhere a voice spoke, It might not mean anything. I turned and saw my father sitting beside me in the passenger seat. He was wearing the suit he had on in his coffin. His brown skin mixed with the blue complexion of death. He stared at me, his eyes distant and said, Hello, Joseph.

Chapter 3

Nina

Personal Journal Entry:

January 21, 2005

Joseph left saying little after I told him. I couldn’t tell if Joseph was angry or distraught. I used to be