Whitewash (40 page)

Pensacola Beach, Florida

On the second drive-by, Sabrina agreed it wouldn’t hurt to check it out. Her father had told her that Eric was living above a boathouse on Pensacola Beach and worked for a man named Howard Johnson. So here was a boathouse, a small business named Howard’s Deep-Sea Fishing. The small shop included Bobbye’s Oyster Bar on the side of the building. Miss Sadie parked the Studebaker in such a way that Sabrina could see small bistro tables on a boardwalk, positioned for a view of the charter boats coming and going from their slips in front of the building. On the other side there was even a set of steps leading to a second-floor apartment with a small deck and an old-fashioned red neon No Vacancy sign above the door.

Sabrina told herself not to get her hopes up. If Eric was here it would mean her father’s mind was more lucid than she or his doctors believed it could be. She felt the familiar knot twist in her stomach and she wished she could call her dad to make sure he was all right. But how could she call to warn him when he probably wouldn’t even recognize her voice?

Miss Sadie tidied herself up. She stretched her small frame over the steering wheel so she could get a close-up look in the rearview mirror. Sabrina watched the old woman poke and smooth crinkled strands of hair back into her meticulous bun. Before she replaced her glasses Sabrina noticed again the swollen bags under her eyes. She had to be exhausted and yet she was still calm and in charge, taking care of Sabrina as if…as if she were family.

She hadn’t had anyone like Miss Sadie in a long time. Someone who only wanted what was best for her. Certainly not Daniel. Not even Eric. There hadn’t been anyone since her mom died. Though her mom never really fussed over her, or tried to still take care of her after Sabrina became an adult. In fact, while most women had empty-nest syndrome, Sabrina’s mother embraced her time alone and flourished. Especially when she immersed herself in her “marathons of creation,” as she liked to call them. Between her mother’s commissioned art projects and her father’s mad-scientist inventions, it wasn’t easy to get their attention. Or at least not for Sabrina. She was the independent one whose life was planned and plotted with timers and day planners to keep her on track. Sabrina’s mother used to say her daughter had been twelve one day and thirty-three the next.

Eric on the other hand lived on the edge—whatever that meant. Sabrina often thought it was simply a way to make being irresponsible and undependable sound romantic. He had a law degree and had been a ski instructor, bartender, road-crew boss, insurance salesman, repo man, short-order cook, security guard and limousine driver, but never a lawyer. And that wasn’t counting the last two years that they’d been out of touch.

But for as much discipline and consistency that Sabrina had gathered within and around her life, there were times—this one in particular—that she’d trade it all for just one ounce of Eric’s street smarts.

Miss Sadie was waiting, watching her.

“Why don’t I go in alone, dear.” She petted Lizzie, who stretched and yawned, turning around and curling up for another nap. At the restaurant parking lot Miss Sadie had let the cat out of the car and Lizzie raced behind the building to find a bathroom sand pile. Sabrina didn’t think they’d ever see the cat again when she disappeared between the building and a Dumpster. Even Miss Sadie looked ready to bolt from the car just as the white cat came slowly meandering back, discovering all too quickly, Sabrina imagined, what a big, dangerous world it was out there.

“Sabrina, dear?” She reached over the seat and took Sabrina’s hand.

Only then did Sabrina realize she was shivering. It was probably eighty degrees in the car and she was shivering. What the hell was wrong with her?

“I’ll be fine. I just need a few minutes.”

“Why don’t you stay here, dear. I’ll be right back.”

Before Sabrina could argue, Miss Sadie had left the car. Sabrina wanted to kick herself for feeling like a scared little girl. She watched the old black woman climb the steps to the boardwalk and she realized how very lucky she was to have her very own Merlin ready to provide and protect.

Eric turned down the sound on the TV that Howard kept behind the counter and insisted the channel stay on Fox News. It had nothing to do with politics. Howard didn’t have any, or at least he kept them to himself. No, it had nothing to do with politics and everything to do with the pretty brunette who did the News Alerts. Howard had a huge crush on her, said she was the spitting image of Bobbye, the only woman he’d ever loved. Eric wasn’t quite sure if seeing her every half hour was Howard’s way of paying tribute to her or just some odd punishment, a daily reminder that he had let her get away. Either way, Eric didn’t change the channel. Howard had few requests and no demands.

Eric minded the store while Howard took out that day’s fishing customers. He was tired from being up all night, but he knew Howard wouldn’t mind if he closed up for a few hours to get some sleep. It would be a late night again preparing oysters, grilling fish and serving drinks to the Texans. This was a group Eric didn’t look forward to serving. And although Eric loved being on the water, he didn’t envy his boss today.

The five businessmen from Dallas looked like executive desk jocks. One insisted on wearing his Stetson and fancy boots. Eric was betting the cocky cowboy with the big mouth and “shit wit” would be the first one to hurl those chocolate doughnuts he was hoovering down. Nothing more humbling than a guy hanging over the railing puking up everything down to those fancy boots. And there was nothing worse than motion sickness with no cure once they were in the gulf. Eric was willing to bet Mr. Chocolate-Doughnut Stetson would be a much different man when they returned.

Eric was on his knees stocking the front-counter shelves with impulse-buy items when something caught his attention on TV. The photograph in the corner of the screen looked like…no, it couldn’t be. He scrambled to his feet to get a closer look and punch up the volume to hear the Fox News Alert as Howard’s pretty news anchor came on.

“What was called an accident last night at EchoEnergy outside of Tallahassee, Florida, is now being considered a homicide by State Patrol investigators. This morning an arrest warrant was issued for Dr. Sabrina Galloway. Anyone with information on the whereabouts of Dr. Galloway is asked to call the number at the bottom of the screen. We’ll have more on the hour.”

Eric sat down on the bar stool behind the counter. It was ridiculous. It had to be a mistake. Sabrina couldn’t kill anyone. She was the levelheaded one. He was the hothead.

Staring at the phone on the counter, he thought about who he could call. His mind raced through options, eliminating all of them quickly. Another time, another place and all he would have had to do was pick up the phone and make a couple of calls, call in some favors.

He was beating himself up when the bell above the entrance tinkled.

“Good morning,” he said over his shoulder with no enthusiasm and without even looking around. He bent down to pick up the empty boxes he had left in front of the counter.

“Excuse me.” A smooth, deep woman’s voice came from directly behind him. “I wonder if you could tell me—” She stopped as he stood up and turned to look at her. She stared at him instead of continuing.

She was a small, old black woman, dressed very nicely in a purple shirt dress and carrying a black leather handbag—definitely not a typical customer at Howard’s.

“Sure, what can I tell you?” He smiled, a bit unnerved that he seemed to have rendered her speechless. He felt her examining his face as if she had seen it somewhere before, as if she might know him from another place.

Finally she smiled back at him and said, “I think you may have already told me.”

“Excuse me?”

“I can see the resemblance plain as day,” she said. “You’re Eric, aren’t you?”

Eric turned down the sound on the TV that Howard kept behind the counter and insisted the channel stay on Fox News. It had nothing to do with politics. Howard didn’t have any, or at least he kept them to himself. No, it had nothing to do with politics and everything to do with the pretty brunette who did the News Alerts. Howard had a huge crush on her, said she was the spitting image of Bobbye, the only woman he’d ever loved. Eric wasn’t quite sure if seeing her every half hour was Howard’s way of paying tribute to her or just some odd punishment, a daily reminder that he had let her get away. Either way, Eric didn’t change the channel. Howard had few requests and no demands.

Eric minded the store while Howard took out that day’s fishing customers. He was tired from being up all night, but he knew Howard wouldn’t mind if he closed up for a few hours to get some sleep. It would be a late night again preparing oysters, grilling fish and serving drinks to the Texans. This was a group Eric didn’t look forward to serving. And although Eric loved being on the water, he didn’t envy his boss today.

The five businessmen from Dallas looked like executive desk jocks. One insisted on wearing his Stetson and fancy boots. Eric was betting the cocky cowboy with the big mouth and “shit wit” would be the first one to hurl those chocolate doughnuts he was hoovering down. Nothing more humbling than a guy hanging over the railing puking up everything down to those fancy boots. And there was nothing worse than motion sickness with no cure once they were in the gulf. Eric was willing to bet Mr. Chocolate-Doughnut Stetson would be a much different man when they returned.

Eric was on his knees stocking the front-counter shelves with impulse-buy items when something caught his attention on TV. The photograph in the corner of the screen looked like…no, it couldn’t be. He scrambled to his feet to get a closer look and punch up the volume to hear the Fox News Alert as Howard’s pretty news anchor came on.

“What was called an accident last night at EchoEnergy outside of Tallahassee, Florida, is now being considered a homicide by State Patrol investigators. This morning an arrest warrant was issued for Dr. Sabrina Galloway. Anyone with information on the whereabouts of Dr. Galloway is asked to call the number at the bottom of the screen. We’ll have more on the hour.”

Eric sat down on the bar stool behind the counter. It was ridiculous. It had to be a mistake. Sabrina couldn’t kill anyone. She was the levelheaded one. He was the hothead.

Staring at the phone on the counter, he thought about who he could call. His mind raced through options, eliminating all of them quickly. Another time, another place and all he would have had to do was pick up the phone and make a couple of calls, call in some favors.

He was beating himself up when the bell above the entrance tinkled.

“Good morning,” he said over his shoulder with no enthusiasm and without even looking around. He bent down to pick up the empty boxes he had left in front of the counter.

“Excuse me.” A smooth, deep woman’s voice came from directly behind him. “I wonder if you could tell me—” She stopped as he stood up and turned to look at her. She stared at him instead of continuing.

She was a small, old black woman, dressed very nicely in a purple shirt dress and carrying a black leather handbag—definitely not a typical customer at Howard’s.

“Sure, what can I tell you?” He smiled, a bit unnerved that he seemed to have rendered her speechless. He felt her examining his face as if she had seen it somewhere before, as if she might know him from another place.

Finally she smiled back at him and said, “I think you may have already told me.”

“Excuse me?”

“I can see the resemblance plain as day,” she said. “You’re Eric, aren’t you?”

Chattahoochee, Florida

Leon parked the white Interstate Heating and Cooling van in the hospital’s loading zone right in front so it could be seen from the reception desk. He figured he had an eight-hour shift before the company discovered it missing from their fleet in the parking lot back in Tallahassee. Even then, the last place they’d start looking would be Chattahoochee.

His gray jumpsuit fit a bit tighter through the chest, the result of too many burgers and bottles of Sam Adams since he popped Casino Rudy. He kept the same name badge, deciding it was not tempting fate, but instead going against human nature. After all, human nature would dictate doing the opposite, staying as far away as possible from duplicating a botched plan. Besides, he was pretty sure he looked more like a Mick than a Leon.

He grabbed the duffel bag, pleased that the clanking made it sound full of tools. When he walked through the automatic front doors, he remembered to lean just a little as if the weight of the bag strained him.

The receptionist had already noticed the van. He could tell from her tight-lipped pout that she was trying to decide whether or not to tell him he couldn’t leave it there. Before she could make up her mind, Leon shot her a look of impatience as he passed her desk on the way to the locked security doors she controlled.

“Someone said there was a problem,” he called over his shoulder.

“I don’t have any record of that.” Her voice was high-pitched as she flipped through several piles of memos, phone messages and written authorizations.

“I don’t have all day,” he told her, glancing at his watch. “If I don’t check it now I won’t be able to get back this way until tomorrow. I have four calls in line after this one.”

He could see she was getting flustered. It would take too long to find out who’d made the request. Maybe she’d have to admit she overlooked it. And if she turned him away and there was a problem she could lose her job for making some poor patient—or worse, a doctor—wait until tomorrow when the temperature would be in the high nineties all week.

“You have to sign in,” she finally said, pointing to a clipboard and pen in front of her.

Leon shook his head and stomped back to the desk. He made sure the duffel bag clanked out his impatience. He scribbled an indecipherable line of ink in the place she pointed to. But it seemed to satisfy her and she waved him on. This time he heard the click of the lock before he even reached the door.

Now inside, things were a little easier. Everybody who made it past the locked door surely belonged and knew where they were going. Leon ducked into a linen closet he’d found Sunday evening. He plucked off the name badge and slipped it into the duffel bag. Then he pulled out a lightweight cardigan and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and put both on, shoving the sleeves of the cardigan up to his elbows. He dropped a pair of pliers into his pocket. Then he stuffed the duffel bag behind a pile of towels and headed back out.

Leon didn’t spend much time on disguises. Why bother when it was this easy to go from repairman to visitor or resident of the loony bin?