Page 148 of Secrets Along the Shore

“Youneedto get the…” Reggie launches into more cursing and some very specific, descriptive threats about what he’s going to do to the man he believes is responsible for Kamden’s death.

“Hey,” I shout, matching his volume. That makes him pause, and I jump in. “Believe me, I want to get the person responsible. I need your help to do that, but you’re gonna have to calm down first.”

“The person responsible is L.A. Haynes and youwillget him. Or I’ll get him myself.”

I groan internally. The last thing I need is some vigilante drug dealer shooting up some guy whomightbe connected to Kamden’s murder. “Reggie, do not take care of this yourself. We can handle it, but I do need to meet with you and have you tell me about Kamden and this L.A. Haynes. You up for that?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m up for that. I’m up for that right now.”

When Reggie agreesto meet me that afternoon, I jump in my car and haul it to Birmingham. Could I have had the conversation on the phone? Sure. But it wouldn’t be the same as seeing him face to face. It wouldn’t be the same as looking into his eyes and gauging whether he’s being honest or not, whether he’s hiding something, or whether he’s got an ulterior motive.

Whetherhemight be Kamden’s killer.

An hour and a half later—speed limits are really just strong suggestions, right?—I’m weaving through a neighborhood in northwest Birmingham following Google Maps to the address Reggie gave me. The route takes me through a sea of run-down homes in various states of disrepair. Some have nearly collapsed. I’m guessing this area has seen better days, probably sometime in the ’40s or ’50s. What little landscaping exists is scrubby and mismatched, a fair amount of litter is peppered around, and a parade of chain link fences holds back barking dogs.

When I reach 202 West Debra Street, two men in jeans and T-shirts with logos I don’t recognize are in the driveway, leaning against a glossy red Chevy Impala with a suspension elevated to a physics-defying height. A steady bass booms from the car, which displays a bumper decal that reads “You See Me Now.”

I whip to the curb. The two men push off the Impala, move several feet toward me, then take a guarded stance.

Praying for protection and common sense to prevail, I step out. “Hi. I’m here to see Reggie.” They say nothing, their silent, intense stares continuing to bore through me. “He asked me to come. Is he home?”

“This ain’t Reggie’s home,” one of the men says, crossing his arms across his chest as the other slips his hand behind his back.

I do not like that.

Suddenly, I am much more aware of the gun in my shoulder holster. “Would it be okay if I just check that?—”

“Yo! She good!” A young man, who looks exactly as I pictured Reggie during our phone call, pushes through the front screen door. He steps onto the dilapidated porch, occupied by a sole, weathered rattan rocker.

“Reggie?” I ask.

He nods, jerks his head toward the house, then disappears inside. Taking this as an invitation, I follow.

My first thought when I step into the living room is thata lotis going on here. Voices drift into the room from somewhere farther back in the house. A child is crying upstairs, and a loud clatter of pots and pans sounds in what I think is the kitchen, one room over.

Reggie drops into a dingy floral couch, and I ease into a worn brown suede recliner opposite him. The leg rest is already extended, so I sit diagonally in the seat so I don’t have to try to lower it.

“Reggie, thank you for talking to me. I’m hoping you can shed some light on what happened to Kamden.”

“I told you, I know exactly what happened to her.”

“You said this ‘L.A.’ is responsible? Tell me about him. Does he have a first name other than L.A.?”

“Leonard Haynes.”

“Why is he called L.A.?” I ask.

Reggie eyes me like I’ve never done this before. “’Cause he’s always talkin’ ’bout movin’ out there when he makes his big score.What difference does that make? That doesn’t have nothin’ to do with Kamden.”

“I’m just trying to get a full picture of him. I need that if I’m going to find him.”

“Oh, I can find him. He’s always back and forth from here to the ATL.”

“Atlanta?”

Again with the condescending look.“Is that where he is now?”

Reggie shrugs. “I asked around and nobody’s sure where he is,at the moment.”