A Witness Above (22 page)

“Curious ain't the word for it. Guy I talked to says it was weirdness all around.”

“Weirdness?”

“Yeah. This greaseball who's worked for Boog Morelli for years shows up downtown and presents them with this weapon. Says it needs to be sent to Rashid Fuad's lab, for Fuad to check the serial numbers and he'd know what to do with it.”

“That's it? Nothing else?”

“That's it.”

“What's the latest on Morelli?”

“Ain't no latest. Guy's been in and out of the joint, you know, for years. Now, word on the street is he's creeped out.”

“Creeped out?”

“Yeah, you know. He's gettin’ older. Remember Howard Hughes?”

“Still doing business?”

“What do you think?”

I recognized the pale Caprice. It was parked among the dozen or so cars, including Priscilla Thomasen's Saab, in the lot outside the municipal building with the engine still plinking, a little puddle of liquid dribbling from beneath the front bumper. Early morning sunshine had given way to a bank of steel-gray clouds advancing from the west. Ferrier and Spain would be a little saddle-sore if they had driven all the way from Richmond.

The sheriff's department buzzed with activity. People came and went through the glass doors. Two deputies were in the office, one on the phone, the other doing paperwork.

“Pavlicek. Suprised to see you up so early this morning,” Cowan said. He was standing in a doorway holding a clipboard against his hip with his other hand resting atop his gun. He was back in his work clothes today. The muscles in his forearms flexed like he was showing for Mr. Universe. “After that little party out at the Rhodes's house last night, I was afraid we might need to issue you a wake-up call.”

“I could say the same about you. How was New York?”

“Interestin’,” he said. “Real interestin’. Your state police pals are finally here. Just arrived, in fact, but I guess maybe you already knew that.”

I nodded. Call me Sherlock Holmes.

I followed him down a corridor that led to a stairway door and a set of concrete steps. We went up half a flight to another door that led down another hallway with yet more doors.

“Will I be able to get in to see my daughter again this morning?” I asked.

He stopped and turned and looked at me before he spoke. “We'll see.”

We entered a door with a sign next to it that read:
CONFERENCE ROOM B.
Agents Ferrier and Spain sat talking with Priscilla Thomasen at a long table. They all stopped speaking when we walked in.

“Look who's come to join us this morning,” the sheriff said. “Guess there's no need for introductions.”

I nodded at the two investigators and Priscilla. Priscilla was the only one who gave me any sign of recognition.

Cowan and I took chairs across the table.

Cowan said: “Agent Ferrier here was just about to tell us how you said you found the Turner boy's body.”

I looked at Ferrier. “I thought we'd been through all that already,” I said.

“Yes we have,” he said. He gave me a funny look.

“You've got a choice to make, Pavlicek,” the sheriff said.

We stared at one another. No one else said anything. Priscilla was looking down at her notes.

At last Ferrier said: “What the sheriff's leading up to, Frank, is—you either back off now or he'll have to take you into custody on suspicion of obstructing justice … and for your own protection. These people have already tried to kill you once. We all just need to do our jobs here.” There was no change to his expression as he said this.

So that was it. Either Cowan had managed to convince them they needed to watch out for me, or Nicole might be going down, and for obvious reasons they didn't want me to be part of it. I needed to talk to Priscilla alone. But right now that seemed impossible.

“Did you find something out in New York? Is Morelli involved?”

No one volunteered any answers.

“When family's involved, easy for anyone to lose their objectivity,” Cowan said. He'd produced a toothpick from somewhere, stuck it between his teeth, and pursed his lips. If I could have, I would have reached across the table and smacked it out of his mouth.

“I tampered with evidence,” I said. “I've admitted as much. But every one of you, in my shoes, would've done the same thing.”

“It's not just that,” Priscilla finally said. Her look seemed to be telling me,
Shut up for your own good.

I waited. No one else offered anything.

“Okay,” I said, placing my hands on the table. “You guys say back off, I back off.”

Cowan looked surprised. “Just that simple?”

“Just that simple.”

“Look, sheriff,” Ferrier said. “Frank here is a pro. Let's cut him some slack.”

“I prefer you stick around town though,” the sheriff said to me. His tone was the bland one he probably used at county meetings and on speeders.

I looked at Priscilla. “What about the meeting Warren Turner set up for us tonight?”

“I was just getting to that,” Cowan said. “My opinion is, and I'll say it again—absolutely no way. I don't want any cowboy civilians killed on my watch. Whole thing seems like a fiasco, you ask me. But the Commonwealth's attorney here feels strongly otherwise.”

“We've agreed to let the meeting proceed, on the condition that the sheriff and his deputies, as well as Chad and myself, are there to track your every move and to provide full backup and support,” Ferrier said.

That sounded reasonable, under the circumstances. Except it probably wouldn't work.

“You think Warren's going to sit still for that?” I said, looking at Priscilla.

“He will if we don't tell him,” Cowan said.

Priscilla said nothing.

“Either way,” the sheriff added. “Like I said, the whole thing's most likely goin’ to turn out to be a wild-goose chase. This office's investigation has, um, taken off on some more productive tangents. …” His eyes tried to outstare mine.

“If you've got something concrete of which you want to accuse me, Sheriff, I wish you'd quit beating around the bush.”

“Just wonderin’ what you were plannin’ on doin’ today, that's all.”

“After this discussion, not much,” I said.

“Good.” He tried to stop himself, but a little smile was beginning to creep across his authoritative demeanor.

“You gave the sheriff's deputies your statement about your conversation last night with Mrs. … Rhodes, is it? The revelation of your daughter's, um, substance abuse. Anything else you've found out you need to share with us?” Ferrier said. His eyes flicked almost imperceptibly toward Cowan then back to me. I didn't think the sheriff caught it. He was too busy enjoying himself.

“No.”

“Okay. We'll be in touch then.”

Priscilla said: “In the meantime, Mr. Pavlicek, anything changes, you be sure and contact us … Any questions?” She slid one of her cards across the table to me as she said this, which seemed unnecessary. I was about to turn it down, but the odd stare she gave me convinced me otherwise. When I turned the card over I saw she had written in small letters on the back so that only I could read them:
Don't worry. This is all b.s.

I looked at her for a moment, then said: “What about visiting Nicky?”

“I don't see any problem with that,” she said. “You, sheriff?”

Cowan clearly had been thinking about something else. “Um, no. I guess not.”

Cowan and I pushed our chairs from the table and stood up. Priscilla returned to her notes. Ferrier and his partner sat stone-faced as before.

“You've stirred up the pot some,” Cowan said. “Appreciate that.” He was actually grinning now. He stuck his hand across the table for me to shake. Maybe it was just my imagination, but he seemed to squeeze mine extra hard, as if he needed to drive home the point that he was still in command of the situation, that nothing could penetrate that perfect cop persona he had spent so much time developing. I had an eerie feeling the sheriff might genuinely be on to something, but I worried those in the room had yet to truly appreciate how virulent it might become.

25

A deputy led me down the corridor and through the by-now-familiar entrance to the cells.

“I'll give you ten minutes. Can't get away with no more,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said. “I understand.”

Nicole was lying prone on her bunk, flipping through an old
Good Housekeeping.
When the deputy left she looked up at me with a frown. “Don't they have anything good to read in this place? I feel like I'm in an episode of the
Twilight Zone.”

“You know the show?”

“Sure. Mom and I used to watch tapes.” She continued flipping.

“I guess you must feel a little like
Twilight Zone
whenever you're around me too, huh?” I said.

“You're not
that
bad.” She gave a poor imitation of a smile.

“They treating you okay?”

“You mean besides the fact the food tastes like microwave mush and there's nothing to do? Yeah. But you can tell Mommie Dearest I've learned my lesson.” She closed the magazine and tossed it on the floor.

“She hasn't been in to see you?”

“Nope. Not since that first night.”

I moved across from her and stood with my back against the wall. “We need to talk about a couple things.”

She sat up and crossed her legs, Indian-style. “Great.

You want to play twenty questions again, I've got nothing better going on.”

“Not twenty questions … First of all, I had a talk with your friend Regan.”

She nibbled at one of her fingernails. I don't think she even realized she was doing it. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy around the edges. Hard not to cry when you're not even out of your teens and cooped up all day in a place like this.

“I know about her baby,” I said.

She shifted uneasily on her bunk for an instant, sat up, then nodded. “Okay.”

“Was that what you and Dewayne were arguing about the night you two were arrested?”

She stared at me for several seconds without moving. Then another nod.

“He wanted Regan to have an abortion …” I said. “and you didn't. …”

She made a funny noise, like she was blowing air out between her teeth, and frowned again. “You got it, Dick Tracy. That's … correct.”

“I'm sorry.”

“What would you know about it?” Her eyes burned defiantly.

“You're right. Not much, I guess.”

She said nothing.

“How'd you and Regan get so close?”

“Since grade school … we were always chums. Gonna go to college together too. But her parents … well … I kind of went one way … she went the other.”

“But you stayed friends anyway.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And your mother doesn't like it.”

“You kidding? She told me she ever caught me down at that place where Regan works, she'd kick me out of the house.”

“Hard to stay friends with someone when they go down like that. Sometimes you have to let go,” I said.

“But Regan's not going to stay that way, Dad. She's not like the other girls down there. You watch … after she has her baby and everything.”

“She says she has money, and a place to stay afterward.”

“That's right,” she said, almost proudly.

I nodded, waiting for her to go on, but she didn't elaborate. “You think Regan's pregnancy might have anything to do with Dewayne's murder?”

“What, you mean like, ‘cause she's white and he was black?”

“Yes.”

She thought about it and gave a little shrug. “Maybe you oughta be asking the sheriff.”

I nodded. She wasn't giving me anything new I could use.

“Something else,” I said. “Kevin Weems is gone.”

“Gone?”

“Right. Weems isn't his real name, either, or at least it didn't used to be. Turns out he's a child-support fugitive from Georgia. Probably moves from situation to situation. Always trying to stay one step ahead of the authorities.”

“Big surprise there,” she smirked. “Hey, do you think he put that stuff in my car, I mean, to get back at me because I wouldn't. … ?”

“No, I don't think so. I think it may have been someone else altogether. Ever hear of a man from New York named Morelli?”

“No. Why?”

“I'm beginning to think he or someone who works for him is behind Dewayne's murder.”

“Over drugs.”

“Probably.”

“So they put the drugs in my car?”

“Maybe. We'll see.”

Well … I'm glad Weems the Sponge is out of here,” she said. “Mom sick?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“She always gets sick when something bad happens.”

I thought about that. “She drinking a lot?”

“Probably. Who knows?”

“Regan's baby and Weems—that what you and your mother been fighting about?”

“Right.” She laughed bitterly. “Now you know all my little secrets.”

“Maybe not all …” I moved toward the bunk. “May I sit down?”

“Sure.”

“Let's talk some more about you.”

“Okay.” She pushed an errant strand of hair from her face.

“All these problems—Weems, Regan and Dewayne, your mother's drinking—how's that affected you?”

“What do you mean?”

I said nothing. I tried to search my daughter's face for some trace of deceit, some sign that she had become what her mother had said she was, but I saw nothing. Was I that blind?

She narrowed her gaze. “What's wrong, Daddy?”

“I think you may already know, or at least suspect.”

“Suspect what? What are you talking about?”

I looked at my watch. Only a few more minutes. I reached in my pocket and pulled out a syringe, one I'd taken from the cigar box in Camille's safe. I'd had to clear it with the guard to allow me to bring it in.

“Ever seen one of these before?”

Her top lip was quivering. “It's a needle, isn't it? Like the ones doctors use.”

“Yes, but this one didn't come from any doctor. Your mother says she found it along with a lot of other drug paraphernalia in a cigar box in your room.”

“What? What are you saying?” she said.

“I think you already know.”

“I swear, I don't know what you're talking about, Daddy.”