Hurricane House (16 page)

“Not a permanent fix.”

Peterson exhaled, making his lips vibrate. “I’m about to tell you how I’m going to fix the problem, if you’ll be patient.”

In a perfunctory, business-like manner, I opened my folder. Then I grabbed my pen and wrote down what Peterson said about the steel netting. “The netting will be attached to four of the largest cranes made.” Peterson pointed to the top of the complex where a construction crane extended over the top like a lopsided, rugged cross. “Next thing we’ll do is jack up the bottom slab. Then we’ll drill holes and pour concrete in. The concrete will fill in where the sand washed out.” Peterson paused and squinted as if he’d forgotten what he was about to say.

“And,” I prompted.

“And after the concrete starts to set, we’ll remove the jacks. The overlapping concrete will extend out from the building and form a barrier wall. We’ll forge steel posts through that barrier wall on all four corners and bury the posts ten feet beneath the ground. They’ll run all the way to the roof.”

Peterson closed the door of my Silverado. “My owners don’t want me tearing down and starting over from scratch.” He walked toward the high rise. His legs were like a dancer’s, as muscular as Baryshnikov’s in White Nights.

I took long, quick strides to catch up with him. “How do you know the owners don’t want you tearing down and rebuilding?”

“Like I said, they’ve been calling all morning.”

“Are all the units sold?”

“I have twelve three-bedrooms still available.”

Peterson stopped and turned toward me. “Why? You interested in buying? Two-thousand-square-feet, Mexican marble and hardwood floors, every amenity you could ever want or need, view of the gulf and harbor like you wouldn’t believe.”

I laughed. “B. S.”

Peterson jumped in front of me and walked backwards, talking and facing me. “You’re a tough little lady, you know that?” He reminded me of a kid playing games, and I refused to participate. So I raced ahead of him.

“I take it you’re president of the association, collect all the dues?”

Peterson caught up with me. The man didn’t even break a sweat. “Even though I designed that beautiful complex, you know damn well we have a board of directors with a treasurer handling the finances. All legal.”

“If all the units aren’t sold, and you hold the mortgage on those unsold condos, I’d say you have the deciding vote.”

“Believe me, I wish I could give up my decision-making powers and all the stress and shit that go with it.” Peterson waved to the security guard who walked out and handed me a hardhat.

I felt uncomfortable when Peterson nudged my arm and said, “Now for the grand tour.”

I slipped the hard hat over my head then rammed my elbow into his ribs to teach him not to elbow me.

Peterson jumped away, his tiger eyes widened in surprise as he opened the glass double doors to the lobby of Paradise Palms.

I walked ahead of him. Sand and broken glass covered the pink and turquoise marble floor. A chandelier in the center of the lobby sparkled in the sunlight, streaming through triangular windows. Two of the windows in the lobby had imploded.

Peterson opened a glass door leading to the stairwell. “Hope you don’t mind taking the stairs. Elevators don’t work without power, but then you know that, don’t you?” He gave me a condescending smile.
I exaggerated my frown, imitating a clown’s face. “Yes, I know that, Mr. Peterson.”

“I should have given you the choice of taking the crane, you seem macho enough.”

I let Peterson’s rude remark slide as I followed him up to the second floor. Each step on the stairwell vibrated, a collapse waiting to happen. God, how I hate high rises. They monopolize the view and are downright dangerous after a storm. “Have you gotten estimates on what you think your repairs will cost?”

“Do I look like a fool?”

“That’s a loaded question, Mr. Peterson. Out of courtesy, I’ll not answer.”

He smirked. “I prefer ‘John’ if you don’t mind. And yes, I have estimates. The lowest, twenty-nine million, four hundred thou, will barely cover what the insurance will pay. But because I’m in the construction business, I can do it for that.”

“Are you telling me you have an estimate from a reputable company that you’ll need twenty-nine million, four hundred thousand dollars to fix Paradise Palms?”

“Yes, and I have the paperwork to prove it, although I’m baffled as to why you’re complaining, knowing the commission you’ll make.”

When we reached the second floor, I said, “Mr. Peterson, I enjoy claims work, and I want to keep doing it. At the risk of seeming immodest, I have a reputation for being fair and honest, because I carefully document and verify every claim I handle.”

Peterson held up his hands, a cocky, bad guy surrendering to the sheriff. “Please, Maeva, I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday.”
Well, now, there’s a surprise. “Let me finish. Once your insurance company disperses your funds, you must make the repairs and prove to your mortgage holder you’ve done so. Understand?”

He didn’t respond.

I noted all the condos facing the gulf had lost their balconies.

Peterson motioned for me to follow him into one of the bedrooms where a storm window was shattered into a spider web design. “They’re all like this, but getting back to what you said, I’m aware of my responsibilities to my lender.”

“I’m glad to hear it, and I know Sandra Eddelman will be also.”

Peterson screwed up his face. “What?”

“You know, Sandra Eddelman? Lives in your cottage on Mackerel. She’s a single mom. Has a two-year old, named Lexie. You rent to her.”

Peterson grunted. “I know who Sandra Eddelman is.”

“She and her daughter are victims of the storm. There’s black mold everywhere. The carpet is unsanitary. It’s inhumane to expect a young mother and her baby or anyone to live under those conditions. Sandra also tells me your wiring is faulty. As you know, that’s a definite fire hazard, not caused by the hurricane.”

“I beg to differ. There’s nothing wrong with the wiring in that place.” Peterson perched his hands on his hips like Yul Brynner in The King and I. “So what you’re saying is, you’re handling that claim, too. Is that right?”

I withdrew a piece of paper from the back of my folder. “Here’s a rundown.”

Peterson glanced at the itemized list of damages.
“According to this, it’ll cost me almost as much in repairs as I paid for the cottage ten years ago. And guess what? I’ve got an offer from a prospective buyer willing to pay six times that for the property. He plans to tear down and rebuild.”

“What are you saying?”

“Sandra Eddelman is history. I don’t have to rent to her or anybody. She has no binding lease.”

“Okay, so that means you won’t be collecting the insurance money for the repairs?”

“On the contrary, I own the house and land, free and clear. So why shouldn’t I take what’s coming to me.” He winked.

Unbelievable. “Getting an offer on a piece of property is one thing, closing the sale is entirely different.”

Peterson smirked. “The guy who made me the offer is pre-approved.”

“But until you close on the property and until that cottage is torn down, Sandra Eddelman and her baby have squatters’ rights.” I imitated Peterson’s wink. “So, if you don’t make the repairs, you might get busted by the local paper, the health department, FEMA and...”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I’m being realistic, Mr. Peterson. I’m asking you to consider what might happen if FEMA and the county health department condemn your cottage. The media will jump all over the story about how a single mother was forced to live in squalor, especially when reporters find out the condemned cottage is owned by none other than the celebrated John Peterson.”

“Fuck the reporters, fuck the health department, fuck FEMA and funk...” “Me? Is that what you want to say? No thanks, Mr. Peterson. I’ll pass.”

Chapter Twenty-six

A
s I drove away from my meeting with John Peterson, he stood, hands on his hips, looking angry enough to chew nails, meaner and more stubborn than a one-eyed mule with no intention of helping Sandra and her baby. Had I been tough enough? Had I failed Sandra and Lexie?

Not knowing the answers to those questions, I fought back tears, confused, thinking I’d gotten too personally involved, unable to compartmentalize my feelings. Adam was a whiz at compartmentalization. Unfortunately, I had never learned the knack, despite hundred
s of hours of Jujitsu, meditation once a day, the Irish green Malachite in my glove compartment, not to mention all of my other rocks.

“You’re co-dependent. That’s why you can’t compartmentalize,” Kari Ann said recently. Then she used eye-movement therapy on me. It didn’t help.

As a last resort, she handed me a book to help me nurture the little girl inside. I had been meaning to read the book and do the exercises in it, but I never seemed to find the time.

From Paradise Palms, I drove to Mackerel Drive. It took me five minutes. Mackerel—a side road off of Gulf Drive— ran halfway to the Harbor and then stopped, unlike the other connecting arterial roads on the Harbor side.

As I drove near the cottage, the crystal around my neck turned from pink to dark red. It got so hot I had to place the stone outside my shirt to keep it from burning my chest.

The mountains of sand on both sides of the road kept me from parking near the cottage. I had four-wheel drive, but I needed to be careful in newly bulldozed sand. Otherwise, I’d get stuck.

As I parked and jumped from the truck, I heard a baby screaming. Lexie?

I raced to the door, knocked and waited, but no one came. “Sandra?” I called out. I placed my ear to the door, listening to the screaming child.

Not knowing what else to do, I turned the handle, opened the door and followed Lexie’s hysterical cries. I found the toddler in the bathroom, shaking all over.

It’s okay, Lexie,” I whispered, trying to comfort the child. I saw no cuts or bruises.

“Mommy, Mommy...” Lexie cried and held tight to me. “Mommy’s gone.”

“It’s okay Lexie. It’s okay. We’ll find Mommy.” I patted Lexie on the back and carried her into the kitchen. “I bet you’re hungry.”

I opened the fridge. Empty.

The day before, I remembered seeing Sandra transferring the contents of the fridge to an ice chest. Sure enough, when
I opened the cooler’s top, I spotted a carton of milk. The contents tasted okay. I filled up Lexie’s sippy cup and handed it to her.

Lexie stopped whimpering long enough to gulp down the milk. Then she pointed to a package of precooked turkey wieners. “Dog-dog, eat dog-dog.”

I put Lexie in her high chair and peeled out a wiener from the package. I knew I couldn’t heat up the wiener without electricity, but the package said “precooked.” So I figured it would be okay eaten cold.

I cut up the wiener on the tray in front of Lexie. “You eat, Lexie. I’ll be right back.”

“Cheeeese,” Lexie said.

“Okay, okay, let me see.” I searched the cooler and found a package of cheese slices. I cut up a piece and gave it to her.

While Lexie ate, I searched the house. Sandra’s bed was messy. A bad sign. The day before, this bed looked immaculate. I pulled back the rumpled covers and saw splotches of what appeared to be blood. Oh, God, Sandra, what happened?

I carried a sick feeling in my gut as I used a clean washcloth to open the closet door. Inside, I saw Sandra’s shoes and clothes, but nothing suspicious. I searched Lexie’s room. I saw baby pajamas laid out on a changing table. Didn’t look good, and I knew I couldn’t handle this alone.

I thought about calling Keith Harrigan. Paula knew how to reach him. Good thing I’d called Paula last night. Her number was easily located.

When Paula didn’t answer, I left a message about Sandra and asked Paula to call Keith. “It’s an emergency,” I said,
hoarsely and almost called 911, but changed my mind. I didn’t want to give the impression Sandra left her baby unattended. I was afraid DFACS (Department of Family and Children’s Services) would take Lexie away from her mother.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Keith and Joan Harrigan’s Home

Keith found his front gate locked. He wondered why. He’d asked his wife to unlock the gate when he called thirty minutes ago to say he was coming home for a tête-à-tête, a fancy word for the hard talk he had in mind.

He didn’t blame her for ignoring his request. He’d cruised home at two that morning like a tomcat. Most women would be furious, but Joan didn’t question him. Of course, it would be easier if she gave him an out, made the first move. The two of them hadn’t had sex in more than a month. His fault, not hers. Everyone who knew Joan said she was a sweetheart, too good for him. They were right.

She’d been raised in Catholic schools by nuns as he had. He thought Joan might enjoy suffering in silence, similar to his mother, who, unlike Joan, smothered him, though his mother appeared matronly. Joan seemed ageless, definitely a youthful fifty. She’d been mistaken for his daughter more than once.

At the start of their marriage, when they lived in Atlanta, they’d go to Stone Mountain, take off their clothes and have sex in the water or in the woods, exciting but not as intimate as with Paula.

Joan was nineteen when they married, and he thought Paula was lost to him until recently. Like most guys raised Catholic, Keith felt guilty about his feelings for Paula. To deal with the shame, he’d talked to Skipper Roy, the FBI shrink. Roy told Keith what he already knew: He’d married Joan on the rebound, but that didn’t mean Keith couldn’t or didn’t love his wife.

“Hell, you can learn to love anyone who’s attractive, loves you, and is good to you, and Joan is all of that and more.”

“I do love Joan, but not in the way I should,” Keith had said.

“Keith, there’s not just one woman in the world for you. The problem is, you had unrequited love. Then you found out after all these years that your first love, loved you back. And her father screwed you over. Also, your father ran out on you when you were a tot, which makes you compulsive with a separation anxiety. If you’d been abused as a child, you’d be a Ted Bundy.” Roy had laughed and slapped Keith on the back.

Massaging his tired eyes to dislodge the past, Keith walked back to his car for his cell phone. He called Joan. “I’m too old to climb the fence.” “Oh, sorry, hon. I’m on my way.” In under a minute, Joan rushed out.

Keith could see she’d just stepped out of the shower. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was dripping wet, and she wore the terry robe he’d bought her for Christmas.

“Hey, you,” she said, leaning over to kiss him while struggling to unlock the gate. “I’m sorry. Time got away from me. Rachel called.” Rachel was their long-winded, thirty-year-old daughter with four kids like stair steps.

Keith adored the grandkids, but they were closer to Joan, naturally. He worked all the time. He knew Joan wanted him to retire. “The FBI won’t let me,” he’d told her. The truth was he’d curl up and die without the FBI.

“Is Rachel okay?”

“Yes, just frustrated with the children. You know what she asked me?”

“If you’d keep the kids for a week?”

Joan laughed. “She was probably thinking it. I wouldn’t mind, but I couldn’t do that to you. You’ve been so stressed out lately, what with all those dead women and the reporter who’s missing. I saw their pictures in your office. Beautiful women and they all look alike, don’t they?”

“I told you never to go in my office,” Keith snapped. He had the feeling his wife snooped. He didn’t like it, though he tolerated Paula’s snooping. Not fair.

Joan opened her mouth. A look of surprise came over her face. She put her right hand over her forehead to block the sunlight from her hazel eyes. “I don’t appreciate your tone of voice, Keith. I know you’ve been under a lot of strain. That’s no reason to take it out on your wife.”