A Witness Above (13 page)

“Our
daughter now, is it? Well there's a switch.”

I let the dig pass. “She says she didn't know anything about the cocaine. Anyone could have put that stuff under her car.”

“Anyone could have, but did they?” she said. The look told me she thought she already knew the answer. “I think I know her a little bit better than you, Frank. Nicole's always had this rebellious side to her.”

“I've never seen it when she's been with me.”

“Well I might as well tell you because I know you'll find out sooner or later anyway. A couple of years ago she was caught with a few friends out behind the school. They were smoking marijuana.”

More revelations. Just great. At this rate, pretty soon the little ragdoll girl would mutate into a teenaged hatchet murderer.

I looked at Kevin who was staring out the window again. “Why wasn't I told anything about it at the time?”

“It was when George was still alive. We went down to the sheriff's office and he dealt with it. They agreed to let her off with a warning. As punishment, we didn't allow her to drive her car for a week.”

Whoopee. Big hardship there.

“But getting caught with a bunch of kids smoking grass, Camille, is hardly the same as—”

“Maybe being in prison for a few days will cure her of it.”

I stared at my ex-wife. There was a new detachment to her voice I didn't like. “The county jail's not prison, Camille. Prison is a lot worse.”

She waved the point away as if it were meaningless.

“What does Radley have to say about the situation?” I asked.

“I spoke with him last evening down at the sheriff's office. He says they really don't have that much evidence just yet. He's looking into things.”

That was the approach then. Spend some money to hire an attorney. Try to go back to your life and forget about your daughter in jail. For Shelton Radley, “looking into things” meant he was probably planted in his office with a bottle close by, waiting for the sheriff to call. Had things between mother and daughter grown so bad it had come down to this?

“I'm sorry, but don't you think Nicky would be better off with a lawyer who has a little more criminal experience?” I said.

“Don't you think you're a little late to be offering advice?”

Camille. Always one up. We stared at one another. The tea needed sweetening. Kevin looked as if it were all he could do to sit there, let alone pay attention to the conversation.

“Okay,” I said. “Let's try to get along. We both want what's best for Nicole. You're her mother and she's grown up with you, so I'll bend to your judgment, for now. But I'm here to tell you I think she didn't know about the coke on the car, until I'm proven wrong.”

“You mean Daddy's little girl couldn't have been involved in such a thing?”

“I mean a beautiful young woman with our daughter's honesty and potential wouldn't. She may be caught up in an unfortunate situation right now. But don't underestimate her, Camille.”

“Oh I'd never do that. But don't, overestimate your daughter either.”

I wasn't sure what she meant by that so I waited. She fluffed the pillows on the couch next to her. I set my glass on a coaster in the middle of a reading table next to my chair.

“There's another reason why I drove down here this morning,” I said. “Has the sheriff or anyone spoken with either of you today?”

“No. I haven't talked to anyone since I was down there last night.” She looked at Weems. “Kev?”

He shook his head. “Un-uh.”

“You don't know about the body then?”

“Body? What body?”

I told them about finding Dewayne Turner. They both claimed they had never heard of him before. Maybe they were lying. Maybe when you're busy remodeling or playing tennis, you don't have time to read the papers or listen to news. At some point, Kevin's eyes glazed over, but Camille listened intently.

“So what does this have to do with Nicole?” she said.

“The police and the prosecutor may be trying to link her to Turner's disappearance and murder.”

“I need something stronger to drink. Kev, would you mind fixing me something, darling?”

Kevin came to attention, stood, and made for the bar.

“You, Frank?” he asked.

1 shook my head.

I waited to see if she would have him go fetch a little chewy toy or something too, but it didn't happen.

“God,” Camille said. “Now you've got me, Frank. I can't believe Nicole would do such a thing. How would she have even known this—this person?”

“She says from school.”

“Well maybe, but that doesn't … look, Frank, why don't I just hire you to prove that she had nothing to do with this boy's death? Wouldn't that just help solve everything?”

My ex as a client. No thank you. “I didn't come down here to be paid, Camille.”

“Oh don't get insulted. It's what you do for a living, isn't it? Investigate things?” Kevin came over and handed her a Bloody Mary, then retreated to his chair.

“All I want right now is some answers. Have you and Nicole not been getting along?”

“Did she tell you that? … I don't know how she could say such a thing. Why, she's not even here most of the time. She's either at school or out with her friends.” She took a long sip of her drink.

“But you support her financially, pay for her car and clothes and all that?”

“Of course.”

“Ever get the idea she feels trapped?”

She laughed. “You're really reaching. I shouldn't think a young woman with her opportunities would ever feel such a thing.”

I made a point of looking around the room. “How about George?”

Kevin finally chimed in, dropping the charm: “What's he got to do with anything?”

“How was his relationship with Nicole?”

“Fine,” Camille said. “It was just fine.”

“She talk about him much anymore? I mean … I'm sorry, now that he's gone?”

“Not much.”

“How about
your
relationship with George?”

“Listen, pal, you got no right to be asking these questions.” Kevin must have experienced a sudden testosterone rush. He fixed me with a threatening glare.

“It's okay, Kev. Frank's just doing what he does best.” She pursed her lips and turned partly away, wiping her cheek beneath one eye. “I loved George, of course. You, of all people, ought to know that. Do we need to get into this? His death was … his death was … almost impossibly hard.”

What did it take to be possibly hard? Maybe a few million dollars would do it.

“He leave everything to you?”

Kevin was close to the boiling point now. Camille took another sip of her drink. “I don't think that's any of your business, Frank, but since you're trying to help Nicole I'll tell you that he left the bulk of his estate to me. As you know, there's a sizable trust for our child.”

“He have any other children from previous marriages?”

“No.”

“Okay.” I fumbled for the chain in my pocket. “I have something to show both of you.” I held up the necklace with the wooden cross.

She stared blankly at it for a moment. Weems looked at it as well.

“Ever seen this before?”

“No,” Camille said. “Why? Is it Nicole's?”

“No. Just something I found … How about you?” I held it closer for Weems to examine. He shook his head.

“All right then, is there anything else either of you can tell me? Anything that might tie Dewayne Turner with Nicole and the cocaine?”

Neither spoke. Then, almost as an afterthought she said: “The only thing might be her friends. … One in particular … she's a year or two older.”

“Regan Quinn.”

“Yes,” she said. “How did you know?”

“Sheriff Cowan mentioned her,” I said. “Everybody seems to be reading from the same playbook.”

“Yes, I suppose she has a reputation. Did he tell you where she works?”

“White Spade,” I said.

She nodded. Then she snickered. “George used to go down there once in awhile, you know. He knew I wasn't too happy about it.”

“I'm surprised you would put up with that,” I said.

“Oh, I never expected him to be a saint, Frank … like you. Just that he'd always come back to my bed … He always did.” She glanced at Weems and seemed to smile to herself before taking another drink. Could you taste a Faustian bargain?

“Okay,” I said. “One more thing. Has the sheriff's office been out here with a search warrant yet?”

“Yes they have. It was embarrassing. They came last night and searched Nicole's room.”

“Mind if I have a peek myself?”

“No … I suppose not. Was there something in particular you were looking for?”

“Just want to check things out,” I said.

“Well they already spent a couple hours pawing through everything, so I guess it's okay,” she said.

We all rose. Kevin, still seething, had apparently seen enough to satisfy whatever anxiety or curiosity he bore. “I've got to get down to the office, Camille.”

“Sure, darling.” She bent toward him, he encircled her in his arms, and they briefly kissed. “I'll be by later,” she said. “We'll do lunch.”

Weems disappeared. Camille, still carrying her drink, led me through a spacious kitchen and up a narrow rear staircase to the second floor. I heard the Porsche roar to life and peel away down the drive.

“Nicky moved into this back bedroom when she was in high school,” she said. “She likes the privacy.”

The room wasn't large—it had probably been meant to quarter servants—but there was a door with panes of glass leading to a private balcony, a canopy with pink ruffles over the double bed and oversized pillows scattered across an inviting window seat. An iMac computer sat in the middle of her desk connected to a printer. A phone with her own answering machine took up most of one bedside table—there were no new messages according to the display. Fashion magazines and a few popular novels were strewn about.

I took in all of this at once, a glimpse into Nicole's life to which I had never been privy before.

“As you can see, it's nothing spectacular,” Camille said. She leaned against the door frame, seemed embarrassed at my being there.

“Mind if I search the dresser?”

She swirled the remaining ice cubes in her glass. “Be my guest.”

I started with the bottom drawer and worked my way to the top. Skirts, blouses, T-shirts, shorts, socks, bras, and panties were neatly arranged. The top drawer contained jewelry and cosmetics, some travel brochures, and scraps of paper. And folded there, exactly as Nicole had told me, were the Oakley sunglasses.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Find anything?”

“Nothing,” I said.

Camille gave me a curious look. As we turned to leave I glanced at the mirror over the dresser. There was a Polaroid photo tucked in the corner of its frame that I recognized immediately because I was the one who'd snapped the picture: a full-body color shot of Nicole. She was wearing my falconer's glove, standing beside my truck smiling, with Armistead perched on her arm. The sun shone brightly that day and in the background Old Rag was visible, outlined against the clear blue sky.

“Nice picture,” I said.

Camille shrugged.

“Mind if I take it? Maybe Nicky'll want to keep it in her cell.”

“Whatever,” she said. “Not a very good photograph of her if you ask me.”

We made our way, in silence, back down the stairs and through the house until we reached the front door again.

“That's all I have for right now, Camille. But whatever I find out, please give some second thought to hiring Nicole a decent lawyer. I think she feels like you've abandoned her down there.”

“You're suddenly the expert on what my daughter is feeling?”

“Believe it or not, I only want what's best for her too,” I said.

“Oh, of course, of course. Whatever's best for little Nicky. You just do your little job and I'll do mine,” she said.

I wondered what kind of bitterness could have built up in her over the years, why I had ever been attracted to her in the first place. Marcia, for all her imperfections and hurts, seemed to possess no such hate. I suddenly missed her, more than I had thought possible.

“Just what do you think our jobs are, Camille?”

“Our jobs?” She chuckled before pulling open the heavy door again, suddenly a little unsteady on her feet. “Why, I'm the mommy. And you … you're the daddy by default, I guess,” she said, smiling as she showed me out, back into the sun.

14

It was mid-afternoon—just a few hours before Ferrier's deadline—by the time I parked in front of the White Spade. The sky looked more alabaster than blue. The sun had built the day's heat to its zenith and what remained felt even hotter, like coals left after a fire.

Cosmetically, the Spade resembled a giant bread box. Save for the kaleidoscopic sign in front blaring
GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS
—as if the first word weren't enough—the building was about as nondescript as they come: pale clapboard siding, a new-looking roof, no windows facing the road, one door. Four or five pickups, a van with a moonroof, and a couple of cars had already begun to fill the dirt lot—men on their way home early who had stopped by to drink and ogle bodies their wives or girlfriends could never own—the daily beer and leer.

Inside I headed for the bar. Heavy metal thumped from a phalanx of sub-woofers. The room was dark except for one brightened stage, cool, but not so cold as to chill the dancers. Only one was performing at the moment, a long-legged brunette wearing a G-string, spiked heels, and nothing else. She spun around a pole, eyes frozen in the blinding light, her mouth bent to a sensual curl. Eyes were frozen around the room too, anesthetized clumps of men, some smoking, not talking, or if they were, joking and jostling with one another. They glanced at me when I came abreast of them, but if any recognized my face they didn't show it.

“What'll it be, my friend?”

The bartender was a wormy, middle-aged white man with a sunken face scarred by acne. His hair looked as if it had been plastered to the top of his head with a grease gun.

“Looking for an employee. Regan Quinn?” I slid a business card across the bar at him.