The slender sixty-six-year-old black woman walked briskly along the sidewalk toward city hall, her head tilted down as if she were depressed, or lost in thought, or perhaps trying to avoid catching anyone’s eye. Although it was early June, the noon temperature seventy-eight degrees by the digital thermometer that hung outside the Bank of America building, she was still wearing that red cloth coat.
Gloria had just photographed some kids flying a kite in Burnside Park when she spotted the woman and decided, on impulse, to follow her. The woman continued past city hall, climbed the three steps to Charlie’s greasy spoon, and slipped inside.
Gloria stopped on the sidewalk outside the diner and asked herself what the hell she was doing. She and Mulligan were supposed to be partners on the Diggs investigation, but he’d excluded her from his conversations with Jennings, claiming the ex-cop might not talk freely in the presence of someone he didn’t know. She suspected he was just shielding her from the grizzly details of the old murders. She was sick of him treating her like an invalid. And she was eager to do something useful on her own.
Would talking to Kwame Diggs’s mother be useful? Probably not, but Gloria couldn’t be sure.
Inside, the counter, stools, and booths were all occupied by the lunch crowd, most of them regulars from the paper, city hall, and the surrounding office buildings. Esther Diggs was seated alone by a window overlooking the park, her coat now removed, folded neatly, and placed beside her on the booth’s cracked vinyl seat.
“Excuse me,” Gloria said. “All of the other seats are taken. Would you mind if I join you?”
The woman raised her eyes from the menu, looked Gloria up and down, and frowned. “Well… I suppose it would be all right.”
“Thank you so much,” Gloria said. She slid into the other side of the booth and placed her camera bag on the table.
“Are you a photographer?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I hope you’re not planning to take my picture.”
“No. I was shooting pictures in the park. I just came in to grab a bite.”
“You work for the paper?”
“For the Dispatch, yes,” Gloria said.
“Because I don’t want my picture in that rag,” the woman said, her tone suddenly snappish. Then she smiled apologetically and added, “Not when my hair is such a mess.”
“I think you look very nice,” Gloria said.
Charlie wandered over to take their orders-a bacon cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke for Gloria and a garden salad, light Italian dressing on the side, and a glass of water for Mrs. Diggs. The older woman reached into her purse, pulled out her wallet, and looked inside, perhaps checking to be sure she had enough cash to pay for her meal.
“Are those your grandchildren?” Gloria asked.
“No,” Mrs. Diggs said, turning the open wallet toward Gloria. “Those are my children, Amina and Sekou. Of course, they’re all grown now.”
“Are they your only kids?”
“Yes, they are.”
“Do they live nearby?”
“No. Amina’s out in Oakland, California. Got herself a fine husband, two sweet little girls, and a good job as a software developer for a computer company. Sekou lives in Tuscaloosa. He’s still single, but not for much longer, God willing. If you watch college football, you can see him sometimes on the TV. He’s the defensive backs coach at the University of Alabama.”
“You must be proud of them.”
“Oh, yes.”
“I imagine you don’t get to see them often.”
“Not as much as I’d like to, but they call their mother most every week, thank the Lord.”
“Amina and Sekou. Are those African names?”
“Why, yes, they are. Most people these days think they’re Muslim names, but that’s not so. Amina is Swahili. It means ‘truthful.’ Sekou is Guinean. It means ‘wise.’”
“I’m curious,” Gloria said. “You’re obviously a Christian woman.”
“Yes, I am, but how did you know?”
“You’ve mentioned God a couple of times, and you’re wearing a gold cross around your neck.”
The woman smiled and caressed the cross with her right hand.
“So I was wondering,” Gloria said. “Why didn’t you give your children biblical names like yours?” That was a slip. Gloria knew it the moment it escaped her lips.
Mrs. Diggs’s smile vanished. “You know who I am, don’t you.”
“I do.”
“How?”
“I saw you a couple of months ago when you came to the newsroom.”
“You tricked me.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Gloria lied.
“What do you want?”
“Nothing, really. I was just making conversation.”
“Are you tape-recording this?”
“No, of course not.”
“Are you going to put what I’ve told you in the newspaper?”
“Do you think you have said anything newsworthy, Mrs. Diggs?”
She thought about it for a moment.
“No, I don’t suppose I have.”
“Well, all right, then,” Gloria said. “We’re just a couple of girls making small talk, okay?”
The older woman frowned, thinking it over, and then startled Gloria by saying, “I apologize.”
“Whatever for?” Gloria said.
“For telling a lie.”
“About not having any other children?”
“Yes.”
“That’s all right, Mrs. Diggs. I understand why you might not want to talk about Kwame.”
The woman ate a forkful of her salad, took a sip of water, and looked out the window.
“Did you just come from visiting him?” Gloria asked.
“Yes. We had one of our nice little talks.” Then the frail old woman simply sat there, eyes fixed on the world outside, her tiny hand circling the water glass. Gloria was afraid Esther Diggs was signaling an end to their conversation until she suddenly said, “Kwame’s an African name too. It comes from Ghana and means ‘born on a Saturday,’ although he wasn’t. We just liked the way it sounds, or rather my late husband, John, did.”
“Didn’t you?”
“I would have named our daughter Hannah and our sons Aaron and Daniel, but John called them slave names. According to him, Diggs is a slave name, too. He always wanted to change it to Mandela or Mobutu, but you have to hire a lawyer and go to court for that, and we never could spare the money for such foolishness.”
She finished her salad and pushed the plate to the side.
“If you work at the Dispatch, you must know that reporter Mulligan.”
“I do.”
“He’s a terrible man.”
“He certainly can be sometimes,” Gloria said.
“You must know Edward Mason, too.”
“Of course.”
“Edward is a respectful young fellow. He’s the only person I’ve met in years who cares about what happens to Kwame. He told me he’s trying to help him, but I don’t think he’s getting anywhere.”
“Don’t give up, Mrs. Diggs,” Gloria said, although she hoped the woman was right. “Edward is a very good reporter, and he’s just getting started. These things take time.”
Mrs. Diggs nodded uncertainly.
Charlie cleared away the plates and dropped a single check on the table. Mrs. Diggs opened her purse, but Gloria picked up the bill and handed the proprietor her MasterCard.
“No, no, no,” Mrs. Diggs said. “I can pay my own way.”
She counted out ten one-dollar bills and slid them across the tabletop to Gloria. Gloria slid them back.
“Well, at least let me leave the tip,” Mrs. Diggs said, returning six bills to her purse and leaving the other four on the table. “You’re a nice young woman, even though you work for that newspaper. God bless. I’ve enjoyed our little talk.”
“Perhaps we can do it again sometime,” Gloria said.
Mrs. Diggs didn’t reply. She slipped on her coat, clutched her purse, and tottered out of the diner.
Psychologists used to blame serial killers on uncaring or abusive mothers. Some still espouse the theory, but it has largely fallen out of favor. It would be folly to draw conclusions about the household Kwame Diggs grew up in from this one conversation. Gloria knew that. Still, she felt certain that Esther Diggs was exactly the loving, churchgoing woman she appeared to be.