Deceived (A Hannah Smith Novel) (17 page)

Too late. Birdy answered, saying, “You better not be backing out. My friend loaned me his night vision dealie.” She was talking about the plans we’d made for tonight.

I remained formal. “Deputy Tupplemeyer, you said I should call if I had any problems at the junkyard.”

Mica groaned and spun away while the redhead became all business. “If you’re in trouble, give me a landmark, I’m on my way. In danger, say something about—shit, I don’t know—say your watch broke, that’s why you’re late. Then pretend to hang up—but
don’t
.”

Looking at Mica, I said, “No trouble so far, but you asked me to check in. Can I call you back in twenty?”

“Is this about that charity scam?”

“Seems so.”

“You’re trying to scare some asshole,” Birdy guessed. “No problem. I’ll call
you
back in five. Put your phone on
Speaker
before you answer.”

I replied, “Well, if you’re already in Glades City, that’s fine,” and hung up.

Mica was lighting another cigarette, his nerves and starving brain on overload. “Shit, that’s just dandy. I give you a chance to make some real money, but you go crying to the cops anyway!”

I pointed to the metal building and said, “Not if we find Loretta’s things in there. Otherwise, the deputy and I are just meeting for lunch.”

“Lunch! With a
cop
?” Mica studied me, suddenly suspicious. “You stay away from that storage barn. Hear me? It’s up to Harris whether he gives us the keys or not.”

For the first time, I took a real look at the building: corrugated roof and siding, with sliding doors like a garage but bigger, and they were padlocked. Against an outside wall was a stack of car batteries and piles of trash that included metal cans—the kind that hold paint thinner. I sniffed the air and suddenly understood why the area had a nasty chemical smell. The building was probably a meth lab.

“Don’t get any stupid ideas,” Mica warned softly.

I was moving away from him when Birdy, whose internal clock runs fast, called back. I touched
Speaker
and turned the volume loud so Mica wouldn’t miss a word.

“Ms. Smith? Deputy Tupplemeyer here. We’ve got a couple of K-nine units in the area, and I know how much you like dogs. Mind if we stop and say hello?”

When my eyes shifted to Mica, he was waving his hands to focus my attention and mouthing the words
Okay! . . . Okay!
meaning he would open the storage barn, answer my questions, anything I wanted. I didn’t believe him but the K-9 unit was a fiction, too, so I went along with it, telling Birdy I would call back in a few minutes.

Mica was lying, as expected. But it gave Harris Spooner time to appear, the ZZ Top giant who moved methodically despite the pit bull that was pulling him along by its leash.

“I’m betting on that Chevy again!” he called to us, grinning. “Or she can pay me twenty bucks and walk out like a lady. Her choice.”

The man had added an extra ten as interest, apparently, but it was actually extortion because I was terrified of the dog, which he could read in my reaction. It caused Spooner’s grin to broaden, a grin so wide and wild it spread his beard like a curtain and laid his teeth bare on a face that was the size of a yeti and just as hairy.

I didn’t freeze but didn’t argue back either. Just stood there numbly while Harris knelt to slap the dog’s neck while saying to Mica, “You talk too much, dickweed.”

Mica feigned indignation. “You know I wouldn’t do that!”

“I
heard
you, boy. Piles of money and unpaid taxes. You didn’t say that?” Harris’s head pivoted slowly until his eyes found Mica. “You ever bring another stranger back here, keep flapping your lips way you do, I’ll turn you into something Vixxy can lap from a bowl.”

Mica’s expression became glassy, but he tried to save face by saying, “This girl, she’s almost like family. You knew her people!”

Spooner nailed him with another look that read
I’ll deal with you later,
then got back to me and his wager, saying, “I don’t see no money in your hand, girl, so you must be real proud of those legs of yours. Well, if that’s the way you want it.” He reached to unsnap the dog’s collar. “You get a five-second head start. Damn it, girl, better run!”

The threat shocked me out of my daze and I replied with a threat of my own. “Mister, I’ve got a sheriff’s deputy waiting outside—ask Mica, if you don’t believe me. A whole team, plus a K-nine unit!”

It was the wildest of lies but didn’t matter. Before Spooner could respond, a familiar voice stopped everything by hollering, “Leave her alone, Harris! Mica, back away, and let me see your hands! I’ll shoot that damn dog, if I have to.”

Joel Ransler was there when I turned, a pistol in his left hand and ready but pointed at the ground. Then proved he could bully both men—possibly showing off for my benefit—by asking, “What’s the problem, you fellas miss showering at Raiford? Or just the strip searches?”

A few minutes later, in the parking lot, I told Joel, “Thank god you made me text the address!” which I had to yell out because Mica had resumed shredding tires.

The special prosecutor responded by asking me to lunch, then leading me to his Audi, which was a new A6, it turned out.

Best of all, the car was quiet inside.

That evening, just after sunset, I parked my SUV at the Lowe’s on Pine Island Road, and Birdy drove us inland toward Carnicero, a trip that took less than an hour but seemed longer because the woman enjoyed showing off her driving skills and the speed of her BMW convertible.

“We’ll keep the top down until we’re closer,” she told me, then pretended to respect traffic laws until we were on Route 17, a country road I didn’t remember as curvy, but it
was
curvy
with Birdy Tupplemeyer at the wheel. As she drove, she questioned me about what had happened at the junkyard—especially Joel Ransler’s role—but often interrupted my answers to demonstrate driving advice, such as, “The trick is to maintain speed into a curve . . .
then
accelerate.” And, “You never want to surprise a drunk from behind, so I’ll flash my high beams before passing that asshole. Then downshift . . . always check your mirrors . . . then
floor
it!”

Finally, I had to ask, “Are we in a hurry? I thought the later we searched that field, the better.”

I was referring to our destination. It was a rectangular lot between the rehab clinic and a church the deputy had located on Google Earth. She had printed out copies for both of us. The photos suggested that cypress trees screened the field from the clinic, which made me more optimistic about trespassing on property owned by Dr. Alice Candor but no less nervous.

“I’d hardly call it a field,” Birdy said. “It’s less than a quarter acre. We hop out of the car, take a quick look, then we’re out of there. This far inland, even a few big conch shells will tell us we found the right place. After that, we’ll get serious.”

When I didn’t reply, she laughed, “You are so uptight! Next time Rance the Lance asks you out for dinner, you’d better say yes before you explode.”

Apparently, assigning nicknames to people she’d never met was something else the woman enjoyed. Even with the top down, the BMW was fairly quiet, but I still had to raise my voice to ask, “How’d you come up with that?”

“From the look on your face when you talk about him. He shows up out of nowhere, like a knight in shining armor, and saves your butt. Rance the Lance, see? Admit it. You’ve got the hots for the guy.”

“Oh,” I said, “
that
kind of lance. No . . . all we did was stop at Denny’s for iced tea. We talked, it was fun, sure. I figured I owed him at least that.”

“At the very least,” she scolded. “You said he scared the hell out of those rednecks. So he must be a pretty big guy, a hardass but classy, you said. The guy knows how to dress, how to behave around women, but you turned him down anyway. How many times you think he’ll ask before saying to hell with you?”

I said, “He’s tall, but not big compared to Harris Spooner. You’d have to see Spooner to understand. That man’s got something missing in his brain, and he’s a bully, too—until Joel showed up. I haven’t figured that part out yet.”

“One of the rednecks, yeah,” Birdy said. “That’s my point. The guy’s intimidating when he needs to be. But also an attorney, a man who’s made something of himself.”

I was reviewing the scene in my head, trying to understand why Mica and his uncle had reacted so meekly. “Joel didn’t wave the gun around or threaten to have them arrested. He even cracked a joke about them taking showers together—you know, after he sends them back to prison. I grew up around hard cases like Harris Spooner and I’ve never met a one who would tolerate being called a homosexual.”

“They just stood there and took it, huh?”

“Hardly said a word until Joel made them apologize.”

“Apologize?”
Birdy slapped the steering wheel, delighted. “I’ve got to meet this Rance the Lance.”

“You mind not calling him that?” I said. “It wasn’t until we were at Denny’s that I mentioned there might be a meth lab on the property. Oh, and that Spooner supposedly cut his wife into pieces.”

“What?”

I said it again, and added, “Or put her in a tire shredder—I didn’t want the details.”

“You don’t really believe that?” she said.

“Maybe. I hope Mica was just trying to scare me, but Harris’s wife disappeared, that much is true. Joel told me a little bit, and I checked the records, too. Seven, almost eight years ago, Spooner went to prison for attempted murder, but it was a totally unrelated case. Hopefully, I’ll find out more when I get back to the office.”

“Thank god you’ve got this guy Rance looking out for you.”

“He’s good at his job,” I conceded. “That’s why I think he asked me out to dinner—you know, so I could give him more details. He’s especially interested in what Mica said about older property owners not paying taxes. You know, on illegal income, money they earned hauling marijuana. But I’d already made plans with you for tonight. And Marion’s dog arrives tomorrow, so I’ll be busy.”

Birdy smiled and said, “Pot hauling,” amused by the term, which I had used earlier. Then got serious. “What’s wrong with you? Turn down a dinner date to babysit a dog?”

“I’m already in a relationship,” I said patiently. “Even if I weren’t, Joel’s not my type.”

Birdy kept pushing, but in a friendly way that was more like a game. We traded a few barbs before she said, “You think Tomlinson is
my
type? It didn’t stop us from having a fun night, though, did it? Haven’t you noticed how much more relaxed I am?”

“Not from your driving,” I replied.

“You know what I mean. Basic female physiology, particularly in women our age—it’s total puritanical bullshit to deny ourselves. You’re not even engaged, right? So why act like you’re married?”

“The subject of marriage hasn’t come up,” I answered. “It’s more of an understanding.” I felt no obligation to add that I’d had only two dates with Ford unless counting the times we’d gone jogging together, which I
did—
apparently because I was full of puritanical bullshit. Why else would my conscience demand it?

Birdy said, “It’s
your
understanding, not his, Smithie, that’s what I’m telling you! If you meet a good-looking guy who’s single and not some kind of psych job or an ego freak, there’s no harm in having fun. Psychologically, it’s healthy. Tomlinson happens to agree, by the way.”

“Bless his philandering heart,” I said. “The man’s finally coming out of his shell.”

My deputy friend thought that was funny and called me smartass
but kept her eyes focused on the road. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she offered, then proceeded to share information about Tomlinson that was in poor taste and much too personal, but I listened to every word. While I was laughing, I tilted my head up to enjoy the odor of a citrus grove we were traveling through. Rows of trees, their canopies black, streamed by, while, above, a waxing moon floated on a bubble of pollen-scented air. We drove in silence for a few minutes before Birdy added, “God, the scariest thing is, my mother would
love
Tomlinson. Talk about not my type. But he’s so sweet and perceptive, I wouldn’t mind getting to know him better. It’s not just about the sex.”

“Weird how it works,” I said. “I don’t know much about Ford, either—and it doesn’t matter. But Joel, I don’t know anything about him and it
does
matter. That’s what’s strange.”

As I spoke, the gray asphalt road changed, becoming black and uneven. At the same instant, the BMW’s headlights sparked off a sign that read
Welcome to Sematee County
.

“I know a clerk who works for the sheriff’s department,” Birdy said, referring to the sign. “We both went to BU—a total coincidence—but she’s a lot of fun and smart when it comes to men. If you want, I’ll call her right now and find out what she knows about Rance the”—she caught herself—“about Joel.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” I said.

“You didn’t ask, I’m offering,” Birdy replied, meaning she was going to call her friend anyway.

My eyes moved to the car’s GPS screen. To make finding the spot easier, Tupplemeyer had entered the address of the rehab clinic as our destination, and I could see that we had only seven miles to go.

Birdy’s busy brain jumped ahead of me. “You’re right. We should pull over and put the top up before anyone sees us. Then I’ll call.”

•   •   •

PHONE TO HER EAR,
Birdy turned north onto County Road 731, which skirted Glades City and the Brighton Indian Reservation, while I listened to a one-sided conversation with her friend Gail. The BMW smelled new, it had hands-free calling, but she had opted to keep the call private. Why?

I wasn’t going to interrupt to ask.

“Gailstrom, it’s me, Bertie!” she exclaimed when her friend answered. She had to say it twice due to the poor reception, enunciating so clearly I realized I’d been calling Tupplemeyer by the wrong nickname. Maybe I made a wincing noise because she covered the phone long enough to whisper, “Would you
stop
?
Birdy’s cool!” then went back to Gail, first discussing a college friend, then Gail’s recent breakup, Birdy Tupplemeyer offering comfort by saying, “You just dodged the big Loser Bullet, sister. And Loser Bullets aren’t made out of silver, trust me.”

It provided the opening she needed to ask about single men and then mention Joel by name. A moment later, an
Oh my god
look appeared on her face and she included me in the conversation long enough to say, “That’s what they call him!”

Rance the Lance, I assumed she meant but didn’t want to provide another distraction—not at sixty-five on a bad two-lane road. Birdy returned to the phone, still grinning in the dash lights, but the grin faded as she listened and said things like, “Small towns, yeah, of course you do . . . Gail, I
understand
. Sure, sure . . . so when can we get together? Yes, I’m curious as hell now.”

Several seconds after Birdy had put away the phone, I broke the silence, saying, “Is something wrong? Your friend probably has sense enough not to gossip about people she works with.”

The deputy shook her head. “That was the excuse she used. But it wasn’t the reason.”

“What did she say?”

Tupplemeyer slowed to fifty and touched the
Cruise Control
button while her mind worked at something. Finally, she answered, “I think Gail’s scared.”

“Of Joel?”

“Maybe not him, exactly, but she’s afraid her phone’s bugged. I’d bet on it. And she’s a tough girl—grew up in some tenement shit factory with pimps and ghetto monsters. I wouldn’t think the local cowboys could scratch the paint on a girl like her.”

Maybe she’s doing something illegal.
That’s what I was thinking.

“You said Ransler made those two rednecks apologize?” Birdy asked. “Were those his actual words? I mean, was it a suggestion or did he say, ‘You assholes, apologize,’ more like an order?”

The question jogged the memory of the way Joel had spoken to Delmont Chatham on my boat, telling an older man, and a member of a wealthy family,
Del, you’re going to apologize to Captain Smith.
Not loud or bossy, but saying it in a way that left no doubt it was going to happen.

“He didn’t call them assholes,” I said. “But he was firm.”

“Two tough ex-cons,” she said, still puzzled, then had an idea. “What about the pit bull? Why didn’t Ransler call animal control and have the damn thing taken away?”

“First thing in the morning, that’s what’s going to happen,” I said. “Joel’s going to have the sheriff’s department check on the meth lab, too. Because I was trespassing, who knows what animal control will do? But Joel’s taking care of it. I believe him. Why wouldn’t I?”

While she thought about that, I decided to add, “Maybe there’s another reason Gail thinks someone is listening to her conversations. How much do you know about her?”

We had come to a flashing yellow light, a plywood fruit stand on one corner, a Hess station straight ahead. The windows and gas pumps created a circle of neon in an area where citrus grew on both sides of the road, no streetlights for miles in either direction.

“The local hangout,” Birdy said, referring to a couple of men talking across the bed of a pickup and kids sitting beneath a
Florida Lottery
sign, their bikes parked near a coil of air hose. She downshifted and turned east before answering, “I think Gail’s too smart to be dealing in bad shit when she’s working for the same people who would arrest her.”

The GPS prompted me to say, “Maybe that’s something you should think about before we do any trespassing.” Our destination was less than a mile away, and it was only eight-thirty. Traffic was spotty—trucks hauling sugarcane and citrus, mostly—but still there were people around who might notice two women in a sporty white Beamer.

The deputy was unfazed. “She sure clammed up when I mentioned Ransler’s name. Said we’d have to talk in private. You know . . . very careful about her wording. Scared? Yeah, I really think she is.”

“But nothing bad about Joel personally,” I said.

Tupplemeyer liked energy drinks—Lord knows why she would add fuel to the fire but she did—and had opened a fresh can when we’d stopped to put the car’s top up. She took a gulp now and glanced at me, her expression serious. “The dumbest thing two friends can do is pass along third-party information—especially when it comes from a mutual friend. It’s the sort of bullshit I hate.”