A Witness Above (23 page)

“Honey, you don't have to—”

“I told you before, I don't use drugs. That's the truth.”

She shuddered then, a tremor so violent that it seemed to take both of us off guard. Her face dissolved into tears. Maybe because she thought for a moment I didn't believe her, even though the truth was, I did. I took her into my arms and held her head against my shoulder. Her own arms were strong and easily wrapped around me. I could only begin to imagine the pain she felt. The hard part was knowing that some of it was because of me.

After awhile the crying stopped. We were running out of time.

“Okay now?” I asked.

She pulled away and nodded.

“We've only got a couple minutes, babe,” I said, standing and looking down at her. “I want you to know—I believe you.”

“Yeah, well great.” She half choked on a sob. “At least somebody does.”

“This is very important. Can you think of any reason why your mother would want to accuse you of using drugs?”

“Mom?” Suddenly, her face turned to stone. “Maybe.”

“What is it?”

She folded her arms and looked at the floor. She said nothing.

“Are you scared. Nicky, is that it?”

“Not scared, but …”

“But what, honey? You've got to tell me everything you know right now, otherwise I may not be able to help you.”

The cell was silent, except for the sound of water running through pipes, coming from the corridor overhead. She considered my words for a long moment, but then she began to slowly shake her head. I was losing her. Whatever torn loyalties she was haunted by, whatever spell her mother or Weems or Dewayne Turner or whoever else had over her, I wasn't going to break it in just a couple brief jail cell talks.

“All right, listen,” I said. “I want you to do one thing for me right now. If you feel ready to tell me more, or if you think of anything else, ask to see me or the prosecutor, Miss Thomasen. Don't talk to anyone else.”

“Now you're scaring me,” she said.

“No reason to be afraid. But do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“One more thing. Was Regan Quinn who you were going to meet at Cat's the other night when you were arrested?”

“Uh-huh. She doesn't work on Sundays.”

“Did anybody else know you were going to meet her there?”

She shrugged. “I don't think so. Maybe someone Regan talked to, maybe Uncle Cat.”

“Okay.” I reached in my pocket. “Look … something I brought you,” I said. I pulled out the Polaroid I had pulled from her dresser and handed it to her.

“You took it from the mirror in my room,” she said.

“Right. Thought you might like it down here.”

“Can I ask you something else?” she said.

I glanced at my watch. “Sure, but you better make it quick.”

“What really made you come all the way back down here to help me?”

I looked at her figure stretched out on the bunk, how much she had grown. “There was a spring afternoon about ten years ago,” I said, “not long after we moved down here. Your mother and I were still married, but I knew not for long. I don't think you realized what was happening. I took you in the company car I had at the time and we drove way up on the Blue Ridge Parkway to do some hiking. You were only five or six then. You remember?”

“I think I remember … a little.”

“That afternoon it hit me—not only was the marriage over, but I was probably going to lose you too.”

She reached up and placed her hand gently on my arm.

“Anyway, I've always remembered that hike. The Winnie-the-Pooh sneakers and the little T-shirt that you wore. The way you ran all around and giggled and collected sticks. We had to hurry because your mother wanted you back by supper. …”

The door to the cell block clanked open, and a second or two later the deputy fiddled with his keys on the other side of the bars.

“I wish I could remember more of it,” she said.

26

“So what was all that about? The little maneuver with the card at the end was pretty nifty,” I said.

“I used to pass notes in class,” Priscilla said.

I held the receiver in one hand while I tried to balance the twin-blade and foam gel in the other. I had headed straight from the jail back to the farm, figuring if I were going to be stonewalled for awhile, I might as well catch up on some of the sleep I had missed the night before. Jake had gone into town to visit the bank and post office. Calling Priscilla at her office was easier after the nap.

“Something's up,” I said. “Why else would Cowan want me off the case?”

“C'mon, Frank. You know as well as I do that you're lucky they put up with you this long.”

“That doesn't make it any easier to stomach. I was the one who started this whole thing. Remember?”

“Yeah, well I wouldn't keep harping on that, if I were you. It only makes Cowan more suspicious. He's worried that you and Jake are running some kind of scam.”

“Right. And we're also working for the CIA.”

“Did you talk with your daughter again?”

“Yes.”

“How'd it go?”

“Very well, actually.”

She paused, just long enough to telegraph that she didn't have time for games. “You confront her about the drug use?”

“I did, and she swears on a stack of Bibles she's not using and I believe her.”

“Which would make your ex-wife a liar.”

“Exactly.”

“Which doesn't surprise you.”

“Not really.”

“Why would she falsely accuse her own daughter of being an addict, risk bringing shame and embarrassment on the family?”

I finally wiped off with a towel and made my way with the portable phone from the door of the bathroom to the kitchen and sat down. “I haven't figured that one out yet. Besides, I'm off the case.”

“You think this guy Weems was into something? Maybe that's another reason he did the ghost?”

“I wouldn't rule it out. The guy was moling for someone. My gut says he turned tail and ran. Wouldn't be surprised if he turned up dead too before long.”

“You're starting to sound more like Jake.”

“Batman and Robin. We used to fight crime by night.”

“Is he there, by the way? I'd like to talk to him.”

“No. He's probably right down the street from you. Went into the bank and the p.o.”

“Maybe I should have a talk with Camille Rhodes.”

“Might not be a bad idea.”

“But I'm sure Cowan or Ferrier will talk to her. They don't exactly appreciate my interference.”

“What do you expect? Cops have to stick together.”

“Cowan tell you what he found out in New York?”

“No. I don't even think he's told Ferrier and Spain that much. He and Ferrier got into an argument over jurisdiction.”

“Great. Just what we need. A glory hound.”

The line was-silent for a moment. She said: “You know, it just occurred to me. What you said about cops. That might be the reason Dewayne Turner was killed. Maybe because of loyalty to someone, or something.”

“Someone in the gang?”

“Maybe.”

“Interesting theory. The only way we're going to be able to test it, is if we go through with the meeting tonight.”

“That's not the only way. Cowan and Ferrier have been arguing all morning about whether or not to drag Warren in here and question him, maybe round up some of the suspected gang members. The sheriff says he already knows who most of them are.”

“Sure. That would just convince Warren even more that the sheriff has something to hide. Speaking of which, where are you on that angle?”

“Nowhere. I've talked informally with almost everyone who works here, including the two deputies who were on duty in the office the night Dewayne and your daughter were arrested. Even a cleaning lady who was in the building at the time. They all swear Warren Turner left the building sometime after Nicole did, safe and sound.”

“Anyone see where he went?” I looked out the window. A gunmetal sky muted the brilliance of the red and gold leaves.

“Just walked away, they said, down Main Street.”

“Dewayne have a car?”

I heard her flipping through some papers. “Yeah. Blue Audi, a leftover from his dealing days. It's still parked in his mother's garage. Looks like the sheriff and his people went over it long ago, after he was first reported missing.”

“So we're back to the gang theory,” I said.

“Don't forget your daughter. I know you believe her, but Cowan and Ferrier sure aren't necessarily inclined to. And if it were up to the sheriff alone, you'd be cooling your heels down here in his jail along with her.”

“But, hopefully, they'll need me to go with you tonight.”

“Hopefully.”

“Why not send Ferrier or his partner? The gang members might not make them for cops.”

“It's been discussed. Ferrier convinced Cowan to let you stay in the picture.”

“Is that right? Nice to know I've earned a little bit of trust.”

“Yes. But, don't abuse it.”

“You talk to Warren about when and where we're supposed to get together?” I said.

“Yes. He wants us to meet him in the newpaper's parking lot at seven-thirty.”

“It'll be dark by then. Ferrier and Cowan and their people going to be able to stay with us?”

“I hope so.”

“You okay with deceiving the old boyfriend?”

“No, but I guess it comes with the job.”

“Sometimes,” I said.

After we hung up I fixed myself a quick turkey sandwich with a glass of milk from Jake's refrigerator, then went out to the mews to check on Armistead.

The air was getting colder with what felt like the beginnings of a winter wind. I wore my work boots and zipped my three-quarter jacket around me. Armistead seemed full of energy, fanning her wings and footing her perch.

“I know, girl. You're busting to get out. Don't worry. Jake will be back a little later, and we'll all walk out together. In the meantime, I've got a couple little errands to run myself.”

I might have been officially told to bug off the investigation, but that didn't stop me from talking to family, even ex-family for that matter.

Lucita answered the front door at the Rhodes estate again. She understood English perfectly, despite the accent and halting speech, which was helpful because, from the way she described things, Señorita Rhodes still didn't seem to be doing all that well.

“Is she awake?” I asked.

“Oh yes, señor, but like I told you, she is crazy. I think she is ill.” She led me into the house.

“Did you call a doctor?”

“No. No, she say no doctors.”

“Have other men been out to talk to her yet today? The sheriff?”

“Sí señor.
A couple hours ago.”

We made our way to the same atrium where Camille and I had spoken the night before. The room had taken on a different quality now, much brighter, from all the windows. On the Oriental rug Camille lay shivering under a heavy comforter. Her forehead was bathed in sweat. I helped Lucita get her onto the couch.

“Hello, Frank,” she managed to say.

“You need a doctor, Camille.”

“Oh hogwash … Thank you, Lucita. That'll be all for now. I'll call for you if I need you.”

“You sure, Mrs. Rhodes?” The maid hesitated.

“Yes, of course I'm sure. Go ahead. Mr. Pavlicek is here and if something drastic happens, I'm sure he can manage the situation.”

Lucita disappeared into another part of the house.

“Come and sit next to me, Frank,” Camille said. She gestured toward the end of the couch.

“You remember our visit last night?” I asked.

“Yes. Yes, I'm sorry I fell asleep on you, but as you can see, I haven't been feeling too well. I've been under a great deal of stress lately.” There was a box of tissues, a big pitcher of orange juice, and an empty glass on the table in front of her. I smelled the juice. No booze.

“Well, I wasn't really referring to the falling asleep part. I thought you might remember stripping back your dress and grabbing hold of me in the dark.”

She lowered her head, crossed one arm under the other, and put a hand to her brow. “I'm sorry, Frank, I …”

“Nothing happened. I put you to bed.”

“I guess I should thank you for that.” Or maybe not, she seemed to be thinking.

“Did the sheriff and the state police come talk with you this morning?”

She nodded. “They asked me a lot of stupid questions.”

“About Nicky?”

“Yes.”

“I talked with Nicky in her cell again this morning. She says you haven't been in to see her.”

“No. I've been busy, and, as you can see, I haven't been feeling up to the trip.”

“She claims she's not using any drugs, Camille.”

She pulled the comforter up around her more and squeezed it with her fingers. “Well, of course she would, wouldn't she. That's what kids usually do when they've been discovered.”

“The needles and stuff you showed me,” I said, “the cops confirmed it's methamphetamine. On the street they call it crank.”

“It sounds … it sounds awful.”

I sat down and, before she could react, reached beneath the comforter, took hold of her arm, and twisted it out and up for her to see.

“Ouch!” she said. “What are you doing?”

“Don't try to tell me you've been donating a lot of blood.”

She stared at her arm with an almost surprised look. Then she began to smile.

“Well, that—those marks mean nothing. I mean, every once in awhile I—”

“More than every once in awhile, if I don't miss my guess.”

“What do you know? You have no right invading my privacy. I …” She turned on her side and curled into a fetal position, staring blankly at the sofa.

“There's treatment, Camille. I want to help. Nicole will too, if you would just—”

“Nicole.” She laughed hoarsely. “That daughter of yours is turning out to be more trouble than she's worth.”

“You don't need to let this stuff destroy you,” I said.

“It's not destroying me, for chrissake. What do you know about it? I'm just a little under the weather. I can quit anytime I like.” Her eyes avoided mine.

“I need to know who's supplying you,” I said.

“What for? You back to working Narcotics now? I didn't know they let private detectives do that kind of work.”