Whitewash (47 page)

Pensacola Beach, Florida

Sabrina noticed a tension between her and Eric without Miss Sadie to buffer their two-year separation. She insisted he leave the TV on, so the silence between them wasn’t so obvious. She heard laughter and chatter from the oyster bar below. Eric almost had her convinced that it’d be safe to go down in about an hour and get something to eat. By then he told her it would be only the regulars and he reassured her they could be trusted. Sabrina wasn’t sure she could believe anything he said. In many ways he was her same old brother, but she kept thinking about the expensive designer stuff in his closet. And she kept wondering why he would call himself Eric Gallo.

Suddenly Eric turned up the TV’s volume. Her eyes caught a glimpse of her photo in the corner of the screen.

The news anchor was saying there was a warrant for her arrest while an aerial view of EchoEnergy appeared on the screen.

“The two were coworkers competing for the same position,” the anchor explained in a tone that Sabrina thought sounded like enough of a reason or motive for murder. “Earlier this evening, the victim’s father announced a hundred-thousand-dollar reward for any information leading to the arrest and conviction of Dr. Sabrina Galloway.” Sabrina couldn’t help thinking that Anna’s father looked nothing like Anna. Instead, he resembled one of the actors on
The Sopranos.

The anchor went on to the next news story and Eric lowered the volume again. He evidently read her mind because the first thing he said was, “Damn it, Bree. It looks like you’re gonna have the entire Florida mafia after you.” But then he smiled.

She sat down on the rickety futon. It was soft from wear and smelled like seawater with a hint of Miss Sadie’s lemon shampoo rinse. For the moment it was her only safe haven.

“They make it sound so simple.”

“Most of the time it is. Greed, envy, lust, hate,” Eric said, watching her. “Passions run high and suddenly somebody’s dead.”

“I didn’t kill her. You know that, right?” She couldn’t believe she’d need to convince him. But if he had changed, maybe he thought she had, too.

“Hey, you’re talking to the guy you beaned with a baseball bat,” he joked and fingered the slight indent in the bridge of his nose.

She wasn’t in the mood for kidding around, but still she came back with “Only because you were standing too close to home plate.”

“You cried at the sight of my bloody nose,” he said, laughing.

“I did not,” she lied when in fact she remembered bawling uncontrollably. She was only six at the time. She thought she had caused brain damage. Finding out that his nose was only broken hadn’t been much consolation.

His eyes were serious now. “You were horrified that you hurt me. I don’t think you could hurt anyone.”

“You haven’t seen me in two years. Maybe I’ve changed.”

“People don’t change that much, Bree. They might change careers, religious affiliations, spouses—”

“Or names,” she slipped in and watched his face, waiting for his eyes.

“Who told you?”

“What? That you go by Eric Gallo these days?”

“It’s not what you think.”

“What I think? You disappeared from my life for two years. Your choice. I didn’t get a choice.” Sabrina wasn’t sure where the sudden anger was coming from, but it felt good to get it out. It needed to be said. “I needed you and you just left. Just like that. No forwarding address.”

She was hurt and angry and she wanted him to know she wasn’t sure she could trust him even now when she didn’t have anyone else. “You went to see Dad in Chattahoochee, but you didn’t come to see me.”

She stopped there and waited out the silence, holding his eyes. She wouldn’t look away. She wouldn’t let him joke and pretend it wasn’t a big deal. And she wouldn’t stay here without some explanation…without an apology.

“I left Chicago because I was angry with Dad. Not you.”

Sabrina already knew that. She knew Eric blamed their father for their mother’s accident.

“There was a lot of crap going on in my life,” he continued with little detail. “It was easier to leave and cut off all contact…re-create myself. You were an unfortunate casualty.”

Sabrina blinked hard as though the word
casualty
had actually physically stung her. Eric noticed and said, “But I’ve missed you every single day.”

Tallahassee, Florida

Leon tried to block the penlight with his body. It’d been too easy getting into the Galloway woman’s condo. Why did people leave spare keys in the most obvious places? He had figured her to be a little smarter than to use a flowerpot on the back porch.

He had noticed a rolled-up newspaper on the front steps. A cheap-ass rental still sat in her garage. He figured the police had already checked flights to Chicago, her obvious escape. A little too obvious, Leon thought, but then maybe he was giving her too much credit. After all, she had left the condo’s spare key under a fucking flowerpot.

With the narrow beam of light he did a quick sweep of the furniture, finding only one framed photo. A family photo. He recognized a younger Arthur Galloway. The daughter looked the same, still attractive, maybe a little less intense. The brother had a mix of Hollywood and
Sports Illustrated
good looks with dark hair, brown eyes, a dimpled smile in a square jaw. And he did favor his mother. The lovely Meredith was even prettier than Leon had imagined, a contagious smile, wild but generous eyes. He had trouble taking his eyes away. They were a good-looking family.

He checked the phone, clicking through the caller ID list and the numbers stored on the speed dial. There was nothing on her wall calendar by the fridge. Not a single notation on the scratch pad next to the phone or any indentations in the paper from a message written on the page before it.

Leon did find a leather address book in a desk drawer. This was it, finally. The corners were worn, some entries had lines through them with new information jotted in the margins. There were even dates alongside each entry, probably when she added them. It was obviously well-used and yet there was no recent entry for Eric Galloway. Only a Chicago address and phone number with an
X
over the entire entry. No new information in the margins. Nothing.

Leon was flipping through the address book one last time—maybe she put her brother somewhere else—but he doubted it. He was thinking how organized this Galloway woman was. Suddenly a light clicked on behind him.

He froze, waiting, listening. How could anyone sneak in on him? Sweat trickled down his back and he could feel it on his brow, too, getting ready to slide down his face. He resisted the urge to swipe at it, trying to concentrate on any footsteps coming up behind him, waiting for a voice to say, “Gotcha.” Was it possible she had been hiding somewhere? And he was sure she’d never come in on him so boldly without a weapon.

Instead of turning slowly—the expected response—Leon dived behind the sofa. He knocked his elbow against the sofa table and rammed the top of his head into the piano so hard, the vibration set off a musical twang from inside its cabinet.

“Son of a bitch,” he mumbled, digging for the gun in his waistband while his eyes darted around and above him from the floor. He was seeing two of everything, but thankfully not a single figure.

That’s when he heard a second click. He spun his entire body in the direction of the sound. He held the gun with both hands, arms stretched out and ready to fire. Again, no one there.

He was eye-level with an electrical outlet. And in the outlet was an electronic timer. Leon’s eyes followed the cord that was plugged into the timer. Sure enough it led to the lamp that had just turned on.

“Son of a bitch,” he said again, pulling himself to his feet.

The woman had timers probably to make it look like someone was here. He shouldn’t have been surprised. She looked the type. And sure enough he found timers in the kitchen for the coffee machine and another for a fluorescent light above the sink.

He went through the rest of the condo, leaving the light on in the living room and using it to his advantage. Light or no light, it didn’t take long to realize there was nothing here that would tell him where she’d gone or even how she left. Maybe another rental, he thought, and quickly discounted it. The cops would have already thought of that. So how the hell did she leave? By foot?

He looked through each room one last time and took a leak in the upstairs bathroom. He decided he’d watch the place for a few hours from the van he’d left on the street, down a couple houses. Before he left Chattahoochee he had switched license plates, again. He hoped he had another eight-hour shift before the company realized it was missing. And even on a quiet cul-de-sac like this, who’d complain about an air-conditioning service making a late-night call, especially on a bitch of a hot night.

Leon made his way back through the living room, trying to stay away from the front window, though the curtains and blinds were closed. He was at the patio door ready to slide it open when he decided he couldn’t leave just yet. He followed the wall back to the framed family photo, grabbed it off the shelf and tucked it under his arm. Then he left the way he came in, replacing the key under the same flowerpot.

Leon had barely climbed into the van when a pair of headlights swung onto the street. He popped open a can of soda from the small cooler beside him and watched the car drive past. It pulled into the driveway next to the Galloway woman’s condo. Leon probably wouldn’t have paid it much attention except it was a vintage Studebaker, the same Studebaker he’d seen leaving this neighborhood last night.

He watched the garage door slide up and in the bright light from inside the garage he got a glimpse of the driver.

He pulled out a small packet of tissues and dabbed at his forehead and upper lip. He couldn’t help thinking it odd that a little old black woman would be out this late at night.

Tallahassee, Florida

Leon tried to block the penlight with his body. It’d been too easy getting into the Galloway woman’s condo. Why did people leave spare keys in the most obvious places? He had figured her to be a little smarter than to use a flowerpot on the back porch.

He had noticed a rolled-up newspaper on the front steps. A cheap-ass rental still sat in her garage. He figured the police had already checked flights to Chicago, her obvious escape. A little too obvious, Leon thought, but then maybe he was giving her too much credit. After all, she had left the condo’s spare key under a fucking flowerpot.

With the narrow beam of light he did a quick sweep of the furniture, finding only one framed photo. A family photo. He recognized a younger Arthur Galloway. The daughter looked the same, still attractive, maybe a little less intense. The brother had a mix of Hollywood and
Sports Illustrated
good looks with dark hair, brown eyes, a dimpled smile in a square jaw. And he did favor his mother. The lovely Meredith was even prettier than Leon had imagined, a contagious smile, wild but generous eyes. He had trouble taking his eyes away. They were a good-looking family.

He checked the phone, clicking through the caller ID list and the numbers stored on the speed dial. There was nothing on her wall calendar by the fridge. Not a single notation on the scratch pad next to the phone or any indentations in the paper from a message written on the page before it.

Leon did find a leather address book in a desk drawer. This was it, finally. The corners were worn, some entries had lines through them with new information jotted in the margins. There were even dates alongside each entry, probably when she added them. It was obviously well-used and yet there was no recent entry for Eric Galloway. Only a Chicago address and phone number with an
X
over the entire entry. No new information in the margins. Nothing.

Leon was flipping through the address book one last time—maybe she put her brother somewhere else—but he doubted it. He was thinking how organized this Galloway woman was. Suddenly a light clicked on behind him.

He froze, waiting, listening. How could anyone sneak in on him? Sweat trickled down his back and he could feel it on his brow, too, getting ready to slide down his face. He resisted the urge to swipe at it, trying to concentrate on any footsteps coming up behind him, waiting for a voice to say, “Gotcha.” Was it possible she had been hiding somewhere? And he was sure she’d never come in on him so boldly without a weapon.

Instead of turning slowly—the expected response—Leon dived behind the sofa. He knocked his elbow against the sofa table and rammed the top of his head into the piano so hard, the vibration set off a musical twang from inside its cabinet.

“Son of a bitch,” he mumbled, digging for the gun in his waistband while his eyes darted around and above him from the floor. He was seeing two of everything, but thankfully not a single figure.

That’s when he heard a second click. He spun his entire body in the direction of the sound. He held the gun with both hands, arms stretched out and ready to fire. Again, no one there.

He was eye-level with an electrical outlet. And in the outlet was an electronic timer. Leon’s eyes followed the cord that was plugged into the timer. Sure enough it led to the lamp that had just turned on.

“Son of a bitch,” he said again, pulling himself to his feet.

The woman had timers probably to make it look like someone was here. He shouldn’t have been surprised. She looked the type. And sure enough he found timers in the kitchen for the coffee machine and another for a fluorescent light above the sink.

He went through the rest of the condo, leaving the light on in the living room and using it to his advantage. Light or no light, it didn’t take long to realize there was nothing here that would tell him where she’d gone or even how she left. Maybe another rental, he thought, and quickly discounted it. The cops would have already thought of that. So how the hell did she leave? By foot?

He looked through each room one last time and took a leak in the upstairs bathroom. He decided he’d watch the place for a few hours from the van he’d left on the street, down a couple houses. Before he left Chattahoochee he had switched license plates, again. He hoped he had another eight-hour shift before the company realized it was missing. And even on a quiet cul-de-sac like this, who’d complain about an air-conditioning service making a late-night call, especially on a bitch of a hot night.

Leon made his way back through the living room, trying to stay away from the front window, though the curtains and blinds were closed. He was at the patio door ready to slide it open when he decided he couldn’t leave just yet. He followed the wall back to the framed family photo, grabbed it off the shelf and tucked it under his arm. Then he left the way he came in, replacing the key under the same flowerpot.

Leon had barely climbed into the van when a pair of headlights swung onto the street. He popped open a can of soda from the small cooler beside him and watched the car drive past. It pulled into the driveway next to the Galloway woman’s condo. Leon probably wouldn’t have paid it much attention except it was a vintage Studebaker, the same Studebaker he’d seen leaving this neighborhood last night.

He watched the garage door slide up and in the bright light from inside the garage he got a glimpse of the driver.

He pulled out a small packet of tissues and dabbed at his forehead and upper lip. He couldn’t help thinking it odd that a little old black woman would be out this late at night.