Dead Silence (40 page)

The way the dash lights framed Palmer’s eyes and dark hair brought back the image of the female victim, one side of her face showing an articulate beauty, the other a grotesque mask.

I said, “It was that bad, huh?”

Her silence communicated confusion, so I repeated myself.

She said, “What are you talking about now? I was telling you how Heller tricked the woman. He followed her out of a 7-Eleven waving a twenty-dollar bill, saying it fell out of her purse. Suddenly, you’re on a whole different subject. Whatever it is, I don’t care to hear—”

“The cop who dumped you,” I said, “that’s what I’m talking about. Or did his wife figure it out?”

The woman was a solid driver. Hands comfortably at ten and two, when there was traffic. No abrupt lane changes, nothing to surprise the civilians. Now, though, the car veered slightly, as her hands went white gripping the wheel. Lips barely moving, she snapped, “That bastard Durell, he said you two hadn’t spoken in years. How much did he tell you?”

I said, “Nothing.” Thought about it a few seconds, decided I’d stepped over the line, so explained why I said what I’d said.

Palmer sat fuming in silence as we took the Venice Beach exit and turned west, toward the Gulf. Minutes later, after maneuvering through a red light, she said, “You hit a raw spot. It’s been almost two years. But I’m over it now.”

“I can see that.”

“I
am.
The detective . . . the
man
I was involved with went back to his wife. He didn’t want to. I insisted. Then she got pregnant, trapped him, although he was too damn dumb to see it. This was in Pittsburgh, before I transferred. He still calls, wants me back. So I changed my number. I’ve gone on with my life.”

Before I could stop myself, I said, “Who are you trying to convince, me or you?,” but then held up my hands before she could respond. I said, “It’s your business, Detective Palmer. That was unfair, and I apologize. I should concentrate on what I’m doing. And you still have a report to write.”

I was surprised by her smile. It was one of those self-damning smiles that says
To hell with it.

“Truce,” she said. “Okay? And don’t worry about my report. I have Sundays and Mondays off, so I can finish in the morning. Officially, I’ve been off duty since eleven-thirty, so I can take all night if I want.” When she realized how that sounded, she amended quickly, “Don’t take that the wrong way. It wasn’t an invitation.”

“For the record?” I asked.

Palmer said, “Isn’t everything?,” with a bitterness that told me no, she had few friends outside the profession.

People in the emergency services are good at what they do. They have to be. Lives depend on it. They’re far smarter than the caricatures fronted by popular media and seldom credited with the sacrifices they make or the emotional dues exacted. The job is thankless, dangerous and underpaid. They deal with the worst imaginable people under the worst imaginable circumstances. Yet it is the toll—the emotional toll—that in the end is the most dangerous occupational hazard of all.

There was nothing I could say to make Detective Shelly Palmer feel better or to bridge the chasm between us. So I returned to business. Business at least guaranteed the comfortable formality of strangers.

“Mind if I use your phone? Myles told me to call.” It was only 12:45. The lady’s driving skills had exceeded expectations.

On the third ring, someone picked up, then hung up without a word. I touched REDIAL and got the recorder.

I was thinking about a noise I’d heard when I was talking to Myles, a sound that resembled someone knocking on a door, as I asked Palmer, “Do you have another number?”

She didn’t. “The guy’s not answering?”

I said, “He’s got my cell phone,” meaning I’d try that next.

This time, Nelson Myles answered. I wouldn’t have recognized him if I hadn’t already heard the way his voice changed when he was afraid. It was a note higher. He spoke with a frantic, tonal precision.

He said,
“What?”

“Nelson?”

“What do you want?”

I heard a click, and the background silence became cavernous. Someone had switched to speakerphone.

I tapped Palmer’s arm as I also switched to speaker, then said, “I called about our appointment. Are we still on?”

“No! You . . . should call back tomorrow.”

Spacing my words, I said, “Are you . . . all right?,” then added, “What
time
should I call?,” emphasizing the word, hoping he would use a number.

“I’m fine! Stop bothering me. I’m . . . I’m trying to sleep!”

In the background was a strange whirring noise, high-pitched, like a beehive . . . or a dentist’s drill. I looked at Palmer. She was puzzling over it, too.

Again, I said carefully, “Are you sure you’re okay? What
time
should I call, Nelson? The time’s important, if you’re okay. Seven? Or eight?”

It took a moment but he caught on. “Oh! Call at . . . seven. Definitely, seven. That’s when you should call. Seven.”

Skull and Bones code.
Seven
meant
no
. No, he wasn’t okay.

I said, “Will you be alone?,” hoping he understood I wasn’t talking about tomorrow.

“What does it matter who I’m with! Seven. Didn’t you hear me? Call at seven.”

No, he wasn’t alone.

Palmer was giving me an odd look now, confused but aware something wasn’t right. She mouthed the words
What’s that sound?
The whirring noise was getting louder.

I shook my head and said into the phone, “I was hoping to meet the other investors, the men from Spain. Did they stop by earlier?”

“Why are you asking so many questions? No! No one has been here. Call at eight, if you want. Eight’s fine, but leave me alone until then.”

Yes, the Cuban interrogators—the
Malvados
—were there.

“Look, buddy,” I said, sounding indignant, “I’ve invested a quarter million in this project, you need to show me some respect! Should I meet you at the boat or—”

I heard Myles grunt and start to say something but then heard
click.
Line dead.

Palmer said, “What the hell was that all about?”

I told her, “Let’s move! The kidnappers have him. Cubans—Spaniards—that’s what I was asking about. But I don’t know if he’s at home or aboard his boat.” I was about to add, “You didn’t hear his answers?,” but realized all she’d gotten from the conversation was that Myles wanted me to leave him alone.

We were a hundred yards from the palm-lined corridor that led to the Falcon Landing entrance. Rental cops would be there. I didn’t want them anywhere near me if the Cubans were waiting. Palmer was already slowing to turn, but I slapped the dash and said, “Straight ahead. Drive straight to the beach, I’ll climb over the wall. You can cut me loose.”

“Ford, have you gone crazy? The man told you to get lost!”

I said, “You heard his voice, and whatever the hell that was in the background. A drill?”

“Drills aren’t illegal. Trespassing is.”

“Shelly,” I said, “something’s wrong, and you know it. Get on the radio, call for backup.”

“And tell them what? I’m worried about dangerous hand tools?”

I didn’t want to wait while she thought it over. “Goddamn it, trust me. Do it! You want proof I’m serious?” My mouth was moving before I’d thought it out. “Okay, here’s proof: I killed Bern Heller, I’m confessing. I dumped him two miles offshore. I told him to swim for shore but knew he wouldn’t make it.”

I expected some word or gesture of surprise. Instead, she took a long, slow breath, before she flipped off the emergency lights, then accelerated through the intersection. “I know that,” she said, her voice calm. “It’s why I tipped you off about the witness . . . and offered you the chance to cancel. When you stepped out into that parking lot, I thought you were an idiot.”

I said, “I thought you’d slipped up.”

Palmer shook her head. “I was giving you a chance to put it together. Did you?”

“You tell me. The woman’s a physician at Memorial Hospital, right?”

That did surprise her. “How did you know?”

I said, “You told me. The rest I figured out. Mid-twenties, brown hair, attractive. Emotionally traumatized, which is no surprise—”

“No . . .
early thirties,
just finishing her internship. Her name is . . .” Palmer hesitated. Sharing information went against her cop instincts. “Her name’s Leslie DiAngelo. She’s got the looks, and all the brains in the world. That’s why, I guess, it makes me mad, how stupid she was.”

Her flat inflection said she knew the price of throwing something good away.

“Call for backup, Shelly. Trust me.”

As we skidded into the beach parking lot, Palmer said, “I’ll call in our location and schedule recontact every half hour. That’s the best I can do,” then surprised me by locking her vehicle as I returned from my rental car carrying a foul-weather jacket and the little ASP Triad flashlight.

“I’m going with you,” she told me.

Meaning, over the wall.

W
ater was beginning to seep into Will Chaser’s coffin. He had told himself things couldn’t possibly get any worse, but here it was.

Because his jeans were already soaked, he hadn’t noticed the water until it began sloshing at his earlobes. He had been dozing, or drifting, or hallucinating—Will could no longer differentiate—but the sudden reality that the box was flooding caused him to flinch so hard that he’d banged his face against the lid. The thing was only inches from his nose.

He had banged the lid before but intentionally. This was as Buffalo-head began shoveling dirt, filling the grave. That steady drumming of earth on wood was a Sunday sound, a sound that smelled of greenhouse flowers—or suffocation—and Will had reacted by slamming his head against the coffin over and over and over, ramming it with his forehead.

Will had continued hammering until the coffin vibrated like a drum skin. He timed the blows to countersynch with Buffalo-head’s shoveling as he shrieked for the Cuban to stop, please stop!

Incredibly, the man did. After a minute of silence, Will could hardly believe his good fortune when the lid creaked open, sunlight streaming in, and there was Buffalo-head’s massive face.

“You have chewed through the tape already?” For some reason, the man had cast a furtive, guilty look over his shoulder, as if fearful Metal-eyes was watching.

“Don’t tape my mouth again,” Will had pleaded. “Please. I can’t breath. Do you want to kill me?”

Hump said, “Yes, of course. But Farfel won’t let me. I’m sorry.” Again, the man glanced over his shoulder.

Will had almost asked why but decided not to risk a long list of reasons. Hump was an idiot but he had a temper, and it was a bad move to remind him.

Instead, Will had asked, “Why are you burying me if you’re not allowed to kill me?”

“We all have our own reasons,” Hump had replied. “The
maricon
from Venezuela wants to protect the church from scandal. Farfel wants to protect us from Nazi hunters. And the American—well, who knows? He is a silent one, that man, and I don’t trust him.”

Will had no idea what Buffalo-head was talking about, but he spoke so earnestly Will didn’t doubt the truth of it. But the information wasn’t going to help him escape from the damn coffin.

“I have my own reasons for not wanting to die,” Will said. “Let me out—only for a minute or two—and I’ll tell you.”

“Can’t you think of anyone but yourself?” Buffalo-head said, then took another quick look around before leaning closer to whisper, “May I ask you a question?”

Will wanted to spit in the man’s face but sensed an opening. “We’re friends. You said so yourself, at the horse ranch.”

Before Hump could respond with “Where you chewed my ear off?,” Will had added quickly, “I would like to be friends. This is a competitive situation, like a baseball game . . . or a gunfight like in the westerns on TV. Of course, we both fight hard to win, but I’ve come to admire your great strength, and your”—Will couldn’t think of another reason—“and your great strength. Ask me anything.”

Hump had caught himself leaning yet closer but pulled away when he remembered Farfel’s bloody hand. “In Havana,” he said, “I know many Santería priests. It is why I wear these beads.”

Will hadn’t noticed the string of red, black and blue beads around the man’s neck, but now he saw them and heard them rattle.

“Very beautiful,” Will offered. “Plastic?”

“Yes, and they’ve been blessed. They are supposed to protect me from things that would frighten any man. Snakes, for instance. Or giant alligators. I’ve heard there are many on American golf courses. Mostly, though, the beads protect me from the curse of an evil person.”

Will nodded as if that made sense.

“That is what I want to ask. Have you placed a curse on me? It is nothing to be ashamed of if you have done this thing. I believe the devil is in you. In fact, I call you Devil Child.” The man said it as if Will should be proud.

Will had realized that his answer was important. He glanced at the blue sky, longing to be beneath it. “Yes,” he said, “I’ve placed a curse on your head. The worst curse I know. I’ve cast a secret spell but now would like to remove it. But I can’t—not now.”

“Because . . . because . . .”—Will was thinking,
Shit, try to remember some Indian superstitions—
“because I am an Indian shaman,” he said, “and we can’t remove curses unless we are . . . on a boat . . . on the water. I think of you as my friend now. I want to take back my curse. So if you would only—”

“I can’t,” Hump whispered, suddenly in a rush. “But I’ll come back—I promise. Until then, I thought that if I brought you an offering it would help. Something powerful, such as an object used by the Santería priests, that you would at least reduce this curse.”