The bells jangled noisily as she pushed her way out the front door.
“Neither is loyalty,” Sean Kelly said to nobody in particular.
* * *
She was about to make the turn into the Beacon’s parking lot when she spotted the Bronson County sheriff’s vehicle half a block ahead, making a left into an auto body shop. She sped up and parked the Subaru on the street.
The lot in front of the shop was lined with relics from another time. There was a rusting black hulk of a 1950s-era pickup with a white scripted SILVER BAY AUTO BODY logo on the door—complete with a four-digit telephone number. An olive-green 1970s fastback Mustang rested on four rotted-out tires, and a perky little orange 1960s VW bug missing its doors sat beside it. The bug’s rounded bumpers sported fading but groovy pink and yellow daisy decals, and the interior of the car had been completely stripped. She’d always lusted after that car.
Conley’s phone buzzed, and she glanced down. The text was from Grayson.
WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? SHIT IS HITTING THE FAN.
Her fingers flew over the keyboard. Working on Robinette story. Talk soon.
She checked her emails, hoping to see some kind of correspondence from Selena Kwan about the NBC offer. Her phone buzzed with an incoming text. It was from Roger Sistrunk. One sentence.
Do we have a deal or what?
She bit her lip. She didn’t want to burn any bridges with her old boss, just in case, but she also needed Sistrunk to recognize her value. She began typing.
I’ve had an offer from NBC, but since I talked to you first, here’s what I can offer the AJC. Onetime use only of the Charlie Robinette video, a Sunday piece, including my firsthand account of being first on the scene of the fire and still photos of the fire. I’m willing to file follow-up pieces as the story unfolds, for a price to be determined. My price is $1k. My colleague Michael Torpy, who shot the video will need $250. Let me know what you decide. Best, C.
She went back to watching the front door of the auto body shop. What was a Bronson County sheriff’s deputy doing in Griffin County? It couldn’t be a coincidence that the same deputy had just visited Kelly’s Drugs looking for a list of Symmes Robinette’s meds.
Her phone buzzed. She read the incoming text from Sistrunk and smiled.
Damn it, Hawkins. It’s a deal. Twenty inches, $1k, by 5:00 p.m. Thursday. Tell Torpy he’s got a deal too. Don’t fuck this up. Okay?
Okay, she typed back. Love you too. Xoxo.
When she looked up again, Poppell was emerging from the auto body shop. He held a large brown paper grocery sack in his meaty hand. The top of the bag had been folded over and secured with bright red tape. He placed the bag on the seat of the cruiser, closed the door, and drove away.
She recognized the bag and the tape from her days covering cop shops. They were used to secure evidence.
* * *
Jesse Bayless wore wrinkled blue coveralls. He was standing in a work bay near the crumpled remains of a late-model black Escalade, wiping his soot-blackened hands on a shop towel. She recognized the car too. It had become Symmes Robinette’s funeral pyre.
“Hey, Jesse,” she said.
He looked up sharply. “Oh, hey, Sarah. Didn’t see you standing there.”
Jesse was the youngest of Nedra’s sons. He had a fringe of graying bangs cut straight across, Buster Brown–style, and dark brown eyes that drooped at the corners. Even the bands of tattoos protruding beneath the cutoff sleeves of his jumpsuit didn’t make him look menacing. He looked, she thought, like the human embodiment of a Bassett hound.
“I just came in. Right after that sheriff’s deputy left.”
“Nothing’s wrong with Aunt Winnie, I hope.”
“Nope. I just left the house an hour ago. She’s as ornery as ever.”
“You’d be ornery too if you’d had to raise a bunch of sorry characters like the three of us,” Jesse said with a chuckle.
“Don’t forget she helped raise me and Grayson too, so make that five kids,” Conley said. “Hey, what was that deputy from Bronson doing here? Was it about that?” She pointed at the Escalade.
He picked up a tool from the workbench and began wiping it with the shop rag. “Yeah.”
“I saw he was carrying an evidence bag. What was in it?”
“Not sure I’m supposed to say,” Jesse replied. “Anyway, you were there that night, right? You and Sean Kelly?”
“Not when it happened, but right afterward,” she said.
“You think Robinette was already dead? Before the fire started? I asked that Poppell dude, but he said it was none of my business.”
“He wasn’t moving,” Conley said. “His head was slumped forward. I could see some blood, but whether he was just unconscious or dead, I don’t know.”
“Kinda hope he was alive,” Jesse said, his gentle demeanor putting the lie to his words.
She had no response to that, remembering Winnie’s equally harsh response to the news of Robinette’s gruesome death.
“Bet I know what he was doing over there in Bronson County that night he was killed,” Jesse said.
Conley raised an eyebrow. “Really? What’s that?”
“Booty call. The old shitbird was chasing after some young blond chick.”
“Come on, Jesse,” she said. “He was seventy-seven and dying of cancer.”
“I’m telling you, I saw him myself. At the Waffle House, two or three weeks ago. They were holding hands.”
He went back to the workbench, picked up his cell phone, and scrolled through his camera roll until he found the frame he wanted. He held it up so she could see it.
The photo was a blurry side view. A gaunt, older, balding man was seated in a booth, the younger woman across from him. A curtain of blond hair concealed half her face, but yes, the couple’s hands were intertwined on the tabletop.
“What do you think this proves?” Conley asks.
“Speaks for itself,” Jesse said. “I was there. I seen the way he was looking at that girl.” He wiped the phone on the seat of his coveralls and put it back on the workbench. “And now I’m not the only one who’s seen it.”
“You still hate Robinette.” It was a statement, not a question. “You sent that photo to his wife?”
The mechanic shrugged. “If he’d done to your family what he did to mine, you’d hate him too,” Jesse said. “My mom’s been gone close to thirty years, but I’ll never forget how sick she was, the way that cancer ate up her insides. Robinette got rich off the money the railroad paid him to cover it up. But my family? My mama got the grave, and Aunt Winnie got sent to prison. So yeah. Hate ain’t a strong enough word.”
“Fair enough, I guess,” Conley said. And then she repeated her earlier question. “I’m still wondering what was in that evidence bag the deputy was carrying.”
“Huh? Oh. Yeah. It was the driver’s-side mirror. It was hanging halfway off anyway.”
“Did Poppell say why he wanted it?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“What’s the Escalade doing here anyway?” Conley asked. “The accident happened in Bronson County.”
“Yeah, but we’ve got a towing contract with them. Griffin County too,” Jesse said. “After they peeled what was left of the old bastard off the upholstery, they called, and we towed it over here to the garage.”
Conley shivered, thinking of the visual. “What happens to the car now?”
“Poppell said it’ll probably get towed to the state crime lab for more tests. His wife don’t want it, so if the state doesn’t come get it, we’ll sell it for scrap.”
“Did Poppell ask any other questions about the car?” Conley asked.
“He wanted to check the glove box, but like I told him, if there was anything in there, it got burned up in the fire.”
Her phone buzzed with another text from Grayson.
?????
“I’d better get to work,” she said, stashing her phone in her pocket. “Thanks, Jesse,” she said,
extending her hand, but he shook his head. “Naw. You don’t wanna shake hands with a nasty old grease monkey.”
She took his hand anyway, pumping it vigorously. “Always a pleasure, Jesse.”
He followed her through the shop and out into the parking lot. It was just after nine o’clock, and the air was already as thick and hot as tomato soup.
“Hey, Conley,” he said as she was about to get into her car.
She whirled around, hoping he’d thought of some other nugget of information. “Yes?”
“That Subaru. Does it get good mileage?”
“Gets great mileage,” she said. “Don’t forget to call me if you think of anything else about that Escalade.”
39
Grayson called when Conley was half a block from the Beacon office.
“Hey,” her sister said. “Charlie Robinette is having a press conference at the courthouse, starting in ten minutes. Get over there right away.”
“What’s it about?” Conley asked.
“Don’t know,” Grayson said. “We just got an email from his communications director promising that it was a breaking news event.”
* * *
A small but growing crowd was already gathering on the courthouse lawn. Conley counted two television vans parked on the sidewalk, one from Pensacola and one from Tallahassee, and of course, she spotted Buddy Bright’s gleaming white Corvette with a homemade Working Press vanity plate on the front. The normally quiet streets around the square were lined with cars. She pulled into a vacant spot in front of Kelly’s Drugs, hopped out, and hurried across the street.
A small wooden platform had been erected near the Confederate war monument. Draped with American flags, it held a podium and a microphone. The television reporters, with tripod-mounted cameras, were set up directly in front of the podium, and a couple of dozen people milled around. Half of them, Conley noticed, were wearing bright red T-shirts and baseball caps emblazoned with I’M WITH CHARLIE—ROBINETTE FOR CONGRESS 2020.
Always a cynic, she wondered how recently the campaign gear had been ordered and distributed.
The heavy plate glass doors to the courthouse lobby were open, and Conley could see employees with lanyard IDs around their necks, standing inside, craning their necks to get a view of the action.
Conley wove her way through the crowd and managed to wedge herself in between the dueling television reporters. “Hi,” she said breathlessly to the tall male Latino reporter manning a camera with the CBS logo. “Any idea what’s going on?”
He shrugged. “No idea. We were shooting a story about beach erosion, and the producer called and told us to swing by to shoot a press conference. Who is this guy, anyway?”
Before Conley could answer, a cute blonde in a navy-blue pantsuit and tall spike heels walked onto the platform, followed by Charlie Robinette, in his campaign casual dress shirt with the rolled-up sleeves and loosened tie. Conley recognized the blonde. It was Kennedy McFall, from the funeral home. She tapped the microphone and began speaking.
Conley whipped out her cell phone, swiped through to her camera, and began recording video.
“Hi, everyone, and thanks for being here on short notice. I’m Kennedy McFall, communications director for your next U.S. representative, Charlie Robinette. Charlie has a brief statement to make, and then he’ll take questions.”
Charlie put his arm around Kennedy’s waist briefly and nodded at the small press contingent.
“I should tell y’all that Kennedy is also my fiancée. Anyway, that’s not what I came here to talk about today. What I do want to talk about is transparency, which I think is vital for a public servant.” He gulped and ran a hand through his immaculately coiffed hair. “This isn’t a move I make lightly. And it’s something that I’ve been reluctant to address, but I believe that recent events have made my actions unavoidable. As you may know, last week, we lost my father, a decorated Vietnam War vet and your dedicated congressman of over thirty years.”
“Rest in peace, Symmes,” a man’s deep voice called from behind Conley.
“Yes, definitely,” Charlie said, his face solemn. “What most of you don’t know is that Dad had been diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma last year. He received treatment at Walter Reed, but the prognosis was dire. It was Dad’s wish that we keep his condition a private, family matter. His intent was to continue working for the great Thirty-fifth District and his treasured constituents as long as his health allowed. In the meantime, after many heart-to-heart conversations, Dad impressed upon me that his deepest wish was for me to succeed him in office, and after some consideration, I was honored to accept the challenge. Of course, we all hoped that time would come after his retirement from the term to which he was recently elected, but per my dad’s request, I began to assemble a campaign committee.”
Kennedy nodded sympathetically, touching his arm lightly.
“Although Dad continued to fulfill the obligations of his office in Washington, in recent months, his condition worsened. Three months ago, against the advice of his specialists in Washington, my mother insisted that Dad return home to Silver Bay for treatment.”
Charlie tugged at the knot of his tie. “Since that time, my mother slowly managed to isolate Dad from his closest associates and from the rest of his family. She resisted my suggestion that he return to Walter Reed for treatment from the doctors there who routinely work with cancer patients, saying he was too ill to travel. Eventually, she forbade me to visit Dad, saying that his immune system was too weakened from chemo to allow visitors. Since my parents reside in a gated community, she was able to instruct security guards not to allow me entrance. She also confiscated Dad’s cell phone, cutting off my only other means of communication with him.” He paused. “In effect, my father became a prisoner in his own home.”
“That’s terrible,” a woman behind Conley murmured.
“Tragic,” her friend agreed.
“Still,” Charlie continued, “through admittedly devious means, which I won’t go into here, I managed to see my father, despite my mother’s best efforts. Two weeks before his death, I was shocked by my father’s appearance. He looked emaciated and seemed … somewhat confused. When I confronted my mother with my impressions of Dad’s rapid decline, she flew into a rage, accused me of disloyalty and dishonesty, and informed me that as a result of what she called my ‘disobedience,’ I would not see or hear from my father again. After that, my mother stopped speaking to me. At all.”
He stared off into space for a moment, blinking back tears. “After consulting some of my father’s oldest, most trusted advisers, I came to a very difficult decision. Two weeks ago, I filed a complaint with the Adult Protective Services division of the Florida Department of Children and Families, due to my concerns that my father was the victim of elder abuse, being perpetrated by his wife, Vanessa Robinette.”
A small, collective gasp ran through the crowd.
“This is an incredibly painful, agonizing action for any child to take,” Charlie said. “Believe me, I take no joy in any of this. But what kind of a son would I be if I allowed my father’s suffering to go unreported? What kind of citizen would I be if I merely looked the other way at an instance of abuse? Sad to say, elder abuse is on the rise in the state of Florida, with over two thousand reports of elder abuse just in our region of the state in recent years. An even sadder statistic is that nearly sixty percent of alleged abuse cases are perpetrated by family members of the elderly victims.”
Conley turned and panned with her phone to capture the reactions on the faces of the mostly middle-aged crowd, as did the broadcasters standing on either side of her.
“Following my report, a caseworker began investigating my allegations,” Charlie said. “I haven’t yet been made privy to their findings, because less than two weeks later, my father was killed in a one-car wreck, the cause of which is still under investigation by local authorities.”
“Holy shit,” the CBS cameraman whispered under his breath.
“In light of this tragedy, it would be easy for me to stay silent about my concerns, if only for the sake of keeping the family peace. But I can’t in good conscience do that. Not when the welfare of our elderly neighbors, people like my ailing seventy-seven-year-old dad, is at stake.”
Charlie clasped his hands in front of him. “This is the last, best thing I can do for my dad. Thank you all for coming.” He took a half step back from the podium, and Kennedy hugged him briefly.
“Charlie will take a few questions now,” she announced.
“Charlie!” A high-pitched voice called out from the far-right side of the podium.
Heads turned, and the crowd cleared a path for a wizened man dressed in all black. Conley groaned. Buddy Bright.
“Charlie, are you saying you suspect that your mother had something to do with your father’s death?”
“Not at all,” Robinette said firmly. “I thought it was my duty to report my concerns about my father’s welfare to state authorities. I will leave it to them and to related law enforcement authorities to carry out their investigations.”
Conley opened her mouth to ask her own question, but Buddy Bright beat her to the punch. “Why do you think your mother was keeping your father a prisoner in his own house?”
“I have no idea,” Charlie said. “You’d have to ask her that question.”
Conley waved her hand over her head. “When was the last time you saw your father? And what were the circumstances, since you say Vanessa blocked you from entering Sugar Key?”
Robinette’s faced flushed slightly. “I’m not going to talk about that right now.”
She plunged on with her next question. “Yesterday, Vanessa told The Silver Bay Beacon that your father had decided you weren’t mature enough to run for Congress and that he’d urged her to run for his seat. Did your dad tell you that he’d changed his mind and was supporting her as a candidate?”
“My father never told me any such thing,” Charlie shot back.
Hello, Summer Page 29