Page 28 of The Black Wife Blessing

I walk back to the main dining room, my steps more purposeful. The police are taking statements, my staff is working efficiently, and somewhere out there, Benjamin or whoever did this probably thinks they've won. They expect the same Monica who used to shrink away from confrontation, who'd rather hide than fight.

But that Monica is gone.

"Mrs. Blackwood?" One of the officers approaches with his notepad. "We'd like to ask you a few more questions."

I straighten my shoulders, channeling the confidence I've seen Henry display in difficult situations. "Of course, officer. And while we talk, I'd like to know what additional patrolscan be arranged for this area. I'm sure the precinct would want to prevent any further incidents at such a prominent establishment."

The officer's demeanor shifts subtly at my tone - more attentive, less routine. This is what Henry meant about carrying yourself with authority, about not letting others diminish your worth.

I may not have been born into power, but I've earned every bit of success in this restaurant. And now, with the Blackwood name backing me, I have the leverage to protect it. Benjamin's tactics might have worked on the old Monica, but Mrs. Blackwood? She's done being intimidated.

20

HENRY

Itrace my fingers along the rim of my scotch glass, staring at the thick manila folder Detective Martinez just dropped off. The comprehensive dossier on Benjamin Jenson sits heavy in front of me, a testament to what money and connections can accomplish in just a few days.

"Everything you need to know is in there, Mr. Blackwood. Background checks, financial records, employment history, criminal records—if there was dirt to find, I found it."

"Criminal records?" My attention snaps to the detective's weathered face.

"Nothing major yet, but there's a pattern of complaints from previous employers and a restraining order from another ex-girlfriend that was later dropped." Martinez points to specific tabs in the folder. "I've organized it chronologically. Pay special attention to the last few years."

I flip through the pages, my jaw clenching tighter with each revelation. Benjamin's history unfolds like a roadmap of red flags—jobs left under suspicious circumstances, unpaid debts, and a string of toxic relationships.

"This incident here." Martinez leans over, pointing to a police report. "Bar fight three years ago. He claimed self-defense, but witnesses said he was the aggressor. Charges were dropped when the other guy refused to press charges."

The more I read, the clearer the picture becomes. Benjamin isn't just Monica's troubled ex—he's a ticking time bomb. His bank statements show irregular deposits, suggesting under-the-table work. Multiple addresses in the past year hint at instability.

"What about his current whereabouts?"

"That's where it gets interesting." Martinez pulls out recent surveillance photos. "He's been spotted near Taste Of Heaven three times this week alone, always during off-hours. Never goes in, just watches."

My blood runs cold. The timing matches perfectly with the vandalism at Monica's restaurant.

"There's more," Martinez continues. "He's been making calls to several of Taste of Heaven's suppliers. Can't prove he's trying to sabotage anything, but the pattern is there."

I close the folder, my decision already made. "Keep tabs on him. I want to know every move he makes near that restaurant."

Martinez nods, gathering his things. "I'll keep you updated. And Mr. Blackwood? Be careful with this one. Guys like him—they've got nothing to lose."

I memorize Benjamin's current address from the file. East Harlem. A far cry from the polished streets Monica and I frequent, but exactly where I'd expect to find someone like him.

The drive takes twenty minutes. I park my Aston Martin between a rusted Honda missing its bumper and what appears to be an abandoned delivery van. The building looms ahead—a five-story walk-up with graffiti-covered walls and missing window screens.

A group of teenagers smoking on the stoop eye my tailored suit and watch. I meet their stares head-on, my stride purposefulas I climb the crumbling steps. They scatter, muttering under their breath.

The interior reeks of stale cigarettes and mildew. Paint peels from the walls in long strips, and the fluorescent lights flicker with an annoying buzz. Third floor, apartment 3C.

Each step up the narrow stairwell echoes. A baby cries somewhere on the second floor. Through thin walls, I hear the cacophony of various TV shows bleeding together.

Benjamin's door stands out—newer than the others, recently replaced. Interesting. The surveillance photos showed him working odd jobs, yet he's spending money on home improvements.

I knock three times, hard enough to make the frame rattle.

Footsteps shuffle behind the door. The lock clicks, and Benjamin Jenson's face appears in the gap—exactly as he looked in the surveillance photos. His easy smile falters when he sees me.

"Can I help you?"

---