by Andy Straka
“But I wasn't out there looking for a dead body.”
“Maybe you were meant to.”
“Now you're beginning to sound like Walter.”
She placed her hand over mine again. “You're the detective, Frank. You'll figure it out.”
“I suppose you're going to tell me something like, ‘She's your daughter,’ too.”
She nodded. Her smile created a little dimple in her chin that I would have given anything, at that moment, to lean over and kiss. Instead, I slipped both my hands around her fingers and stared at them. They were slender, graceful even, soft to the touch.
“Anything else I can do?”
I thought about that. “Well … there is one thing …”
She smiled and rolled her eyes. “You are nothing, if not persistent. Did you call Jake and tell him what happened?”
“Not yet.”
“How about your ex-wife?”
“You kidding?”
Marcia's own ex-spouse was a big-shot executive who, after fifteen years of marriage and a child, had simply informed his wife that he no longer loved her, that he had been carrying on an affair with one of his firm's vice-presidents, an attractive twentysomething blonde.
“I did call Cahill though,” I said. “The land where I found the body belongs to his uncle.”
“He's the one who owns the restaurant in Leonardston, isn't he?”
I nodded.
“What did he say?”
“Nothing. Only got his answering tape too.”
“Doesn't that make you frustrated, another machine?”
“Yes.”
“Even though your finding whatever you found is only a coincidence.”
“Okay,” I said. “You win.”
4
Which was how I happened to find myself two hours later drifting toward hills that could have passed for the moonlit humpbacks of subterranean blue whales. Out here on a winding state highway in the sawtooth Alleghenies, the land grew pockmarked with the remnants of twenty-six-inch coal. On the seat beside me sat my cell phone and a S&W .357 Magnum, secure in its Kramer holster. It was already after eleven P.M., and I had no plans to stay the night.
As I said, during the long period of investigation and legal action over the New Rochelle shooting, Cat Cahill had regaled Toronto and me with stories of growing up in western Virginia before moving to the Bronx. Without skipping to Montana after the trial, it sounded like the perfect place to escape New York. Even my heritage argued for such a move. My father had been a Czech bureaucrat who had managed to defect after Prague spring—Pavlicek was not our real name. But my mother heralded from the mountains of Tennessee. Growing up, whenever they took me to visit Mom's relatives. Dad told me the Appalachians reminded him of the Krkonose near Jablonec in northern Bohemia where he had hiked as a young man.
Never mind that the reality of Leonardston, Virginia, hadn't quite lived up to Cat Cahill's embellishments. Oh, it was beautiful enough all right, but we had only lived there a year when the arguments between Camille and myself began to escalate. I was a loser who spent too much time on his new job and had now blown everything. I didn't make enough money, didn't know who she really was. The move to a new environment and a new type of job, I had hoped, would be the balm the marriage needed to survive. Instead, it proved to be the irritant that tripped us into oblivion. By the time George Rhodes entered the picture with his big house and horses, we were already sleeping in separate beds.
Around a curve the lights of Leonardston appeared.
“Hey partners! Lasso yourselves up a great deal at Bartman Motors! In downtown Leonardston, right across from the Taco Bell!” the local FM station barked in surround sound. Next, came a pale imitation of running horses, followed by music: ZZ Top.
The seat of Affalachia County rested in a narrow valley along the banks of the Tungsten River, and despite a fortune that had waxed and waned, clung to its existence like an elderly survivor. Currently, things were on the uptick. A large civic club sign marked the entrance to town. There was a new elementary school, three modern bank branches on Main Street, and a supermarket shopping center with a big parking lot. All closed, of course, at this hour.
At least I knew where I might find Nicole. At the end of Main Street, Cahill's Restaurant sported a new maroon awning in front. Beer neons glowed through the windows. The lot was packed, but a car was just leaving. I flipped down the visor as I took its spot.
In the vanity mirror's reflection my face looked altered by age: cheeks that had long ago lost the gauntness of their youth, skin around the eyes that had begun to sag. The nose, broken twice, seemed more crooked. The once jet-black hair and heavy brows were beginning to gray. I clipped the visor back where it belonged.
I got out and walked toward the door. Three cars down from my truck, inside a rental car with Maryland plates, a man sat smoking. For a moment I thought he might be watching me, but then I thought I must have imagined it.
I slipped in through the front of the building with an eye out for Nicole. She was nowhere to be seen, so I edged through the crowd toward the bar. I recognized, vaguely, a waitress hurrying past with a load of drinks.
“Nicole Pavlicek? Seen her come in?”
She stopped and eyed me for a moment. “Ain't you her father?”
“That's right.”
She tilted her head toward a far corner. I followed her gaze, someone moved in the crowd, and I caught a glimpse of my daughter seated in a booth with another young woman.
“Thanks.”
I was already ensconced in Charlottesville by the time Cat Cahill retired from the New Rochelle force, moved back to Virginia, and opened his bar and restaurant. A few years years before, Jake Toronto too, after bouncing around the country, bought some land and settled not far from Leonardston. It seemed like poetic synergy: the three of us—Jake, Cat, and I—coming to rest in nearly the same orbit.
Unlike me, Cahill had enjoyed a long and, by all appearances, happy marriage. He had even become a grandfather. In the same way I was drawn to the stability of Walter and Patricia Dodd's home, I suppose, Jake and I were pulled into Cat's sphere of influence. Maybe the Leonardston native felt some guilt for having indirectly gotten us into the situation that ended our careers. Either way, it was hardly surprising that Nicole had become enchanted by his magnanimity too.
I weaved through the crowded tables toward Nicole. She was intent on talking with the girl seated across from her, and hadn't seen me yet. A few feet away from her clumps of young men hovered around a couple of pool tables. As I neared the booth she looked up at me with a start.
“Daddy?”
“Hi, Nicky.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you.”
She didn't look pleased. “I'm sorry, but I'm trying to have a conversation right now. You should have called.”
“I did. Earlier this evening. Left a message, in fact.”
“Well, I didn't get it.”
“It's important, Nicky.”
She stared at me for what seemed more than a minute, but must have been only a few seconds. God, her pretty face reminded me of her mom's from a couple decades before. Her hair was different, of course, dark and cut short, somewhere between a crewcut and a bob. She wore shorts, sandals, and a tank-top blouse; eyeliner, blush, and black cherry lipstick. Her friend, a tired-looking blonde, had a harder edge to her.
Nicole sighed. “I guess. If we have to. Give me a minute, will you, Regan?” She swung her long legs up and out of the booth.
The other girl nodded and pulled a cigarette from her purse. But before she could even put it in her mouth, Nicole grabbed it from her hand. “Ah, ah-h-h. Remember what we said? You've got to give it up.”
She turned to me and took my arm. “I've only got a couple minutes. Let's go sit at the bar.”
I couldn't help feeling a small bit of pride. “What are you now, the tobacco police?”
She said nothing. The self-assurance of youth.
We crossed the room and found two empty stools. I ordered us both club sodas.
“Well?” she said.
“Nice to see you too, honey.”
“C'mon, Dad. You come barging in here unannounced. What do you want me to say?”
The drinks arrived and I took a sip. “I don't want you to say anything. Just tell me about Dewayne Turner.”
Her own drink remained untouched. She crossed her arms and bit her lip. “Is that what you came to talk to me about?”
“Did you know him?”
“What are you up to? And what do you mean, did?”
I told her about the find I'd made while hunting.
She listened for several seconds. Her hand suddenly seemed to quiver as she picked up her drink. She glanced back at her friend across the room, then interrupted me in mid-sentence. “I can't talk about this right now, Daddy.”
“What do you mean? Why not?”
“I just can't, that's all. I'll call you later this weekend.”
“But—”
“I'll call you. I promise.”
A commotion broke out in the back of the place. Two sheriff's deputies in tan uniforms and hats had appeared and were in the process of arresting a black teenager who'd been playing pool. The officers were both white. One had a mustache and the other's skin was badly sunburned. A small crowd had gathered. The bartender came out from behind his counter and went over to get a better look. I turned from Nicole and followed.
The arrestee, a skinny youth, decked out in blue jeans and a muscle shirt, while not resisting, didn't appear too happy about the situation. “I didn't do nothin’, man. What you goin’ and hastlin’ me for?”
But the deputies were efficient. One of them twisted the kid's arm up against his back as if it were a pretzel.
“Hey! That hurts, you know.”
I stepped a little closer.
They had him up against the wall and the cuffs on him. The deputy with the mustache took something from one of his pockets and whispered something only the youth could hear. Then he reached for his nightstick.
“Excuse me, officers,” I said. “But I didn't see this suspect resisting arrest.”
The deputies turned to look at me. The one with the stick in his hand stared at me as if I'd stepped off another planet. “Who the hell are you?”
“Name's Pavlicek. I used to be a cop myself.”
With that he visibly relaxed. Must have been worried I was an attorney. “Just makin’ an arrest, buddy. You'd best be about your business.”
“Yeah, well I would, except—”
“Except what?”
There was a stir in the room and I turned to see another man approach, a muscular type with sandy blonde hair and a sculpted waist. He wore a golf shirt and khaki slacks with a gold star and a gun attached to his belt.
“I'm Sheriff Cowan,” he said, extending his hand to me. His grip was too strong, either out of habit, nervousness, or wanting to make an impression. His face jogged a connection in my mind, as if that terminus had just been waiting there for those features to show up to activate the circuits. It was handsome and unblemished, except for a nasty scar above one eyebrow. The chin predominated, enough to make you wonder how he would do in a fistfight. The man was practically Hollywood material—Affalachia County conjures up its vision of the all-American peacekeeper.
“I understand you may have a problem with the way my deputies are making this arrest.”
“Yes, sheriff, I do.”
“Would you like to file a complaint?” His eyes bore into mine.
“No. I just thought your men might be using excessive force.”
“Says he used to be a cop,” the mustached deputy said. He and his partner were beginning to lead the youth from the restaurant now. The partner was reading the kid his rights.
“Is that right?” the sheriff said. “Well, Mr. …”
“Pavlicek.”
“Pavlicek. Yeah, well I'm awful sorry you see it that way. But, as I'm sure you all can appreciate, police tactics can sometimes vary from locale to locale.”
I said nothing. What, was this guy running for a new term?
Surveying the room, he crossed his arms and lowered his voice so that only I could hear. “Look here, this kid's a gang-banger. Sold some crack to a couple twelve year-olds an hour ago.”
I nodded.
He tapped me on the shoulder and nodded as well, then wheeled around to follow his deputies out the door. A couple of the kid's friends shouted taunts at them and made as if to follow, but didn't. There were some swearing and shaking of heads from the group, but it didn't take long for most of the others in the restaurant who had witnessed what happened to go back to their drinks and talking. I thought Nicole might have gone back to talk with her friend too, since she wasn't at the bar when I turned back to talk with her.
But when I looked across at the booth where the two had been sitting, they were gone.
5
Late the next morning the telephone jarred me awake. I cleared my throat and answered on the fifth ring.
“Pavlicek.”
“You sound a little out of it, Frank. Rough night?” It was Agent Ferrier of the Virginia State Police.
“Sorry. I was up late.”
“Oh?”
“It's not every day I come across a dead body.”
“Sure … Let me ask you something. You said your bird's the one led you to the spot where you found the body?”
“Right. Like I said, she'd taken a rabbit.”
“What happened to the rabbit?”
“I don't know. It was probably wounded. My guess is it might have made it to a burrow.”
“Uh-huh. You know, I been checkin’ up on you.”
“Yeah?”
“You and your partner were pretty famous there for awhile.”
“More like infamous.”
“Right. Since you used to live in Leonardston, you ever come in contact with Dewayne Turner before?”
“Never.”
“How about his family? Turns out he has quite a few relatives in that area.”
“Nope. Not that I know of.”
There was a pause while he seemed to be shuffling some papers. “Let's see. Your licenses are clean. You even pay your bills.”
“Nice to know someone cares.”
“I even talked to a couple of your old supervisors up in New York. They said you sometimes like to push the edge, but as far as they were concerned, when push came to shove, you were a pretty straight shooter.”
“I pay them to say that.” All this praise was starting to make me nervous.
“Yeah, well, that's why I'm having a hard time trying to figure out why you would tamper with a crime scene.”
I let his insinuation hang for a moment while I thought of what to say. “Who says I did?”
“Someone did. Not too long before we went over the site either. The vic's wallet looked like it had been disturbed. There was fresh soil broken near the body. Right now my prime suspect is you.”
Stupid. Stupid, stupid. I figured they would be on to me sooner or later. I just didn't count on it happening so fast. I thought back to my aborted conversation with Nicole the night before. Though I was treading on thin ice here, I wasn't about to lay my cards on the table until 1 knew more of what was going on.
“How many of these kind of killings you investigate every year, Ferrier?”
“Too many. The whole state's seeing more trafficking these days. Coke, heroin, meth, you name it. You know the way the whites and middle class blacks fled the cities? Now even the dope dealers are doing it.”
“What's your solve rate?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“It could've been anybody,” I said. “Could've been kids just messing around who found the body and were too scared to turn it in. Maybe someone who just didn't want to get involved.”
“That mean you're denying you deliberately contaminated potential evidence?”
>
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly … That the way you want to play it?”
“If I were trying to hide something, why would I have called you guys?”
“Who are you working for?”
Now there was a good question. Was I working for Nicole, or myself? “I'm not working for anybody.”
“Okay. Look, Pavlicek. Since you used to be on my side of the table, I'll spare you the bluster. You know as well as I do, most in our business don't think too highly of you people on the private side. I like to keep an open mind, though, judge each person on their own merit. You know what I mean? And I gotta tell you, you ain't started off on the right foot.”
“Sorry.”
“I'll give you a couple days to think things over. Tomorrow's Sunday and not much is going to happen then anyway. But come the end of the day Monday, at the latest, I want to hear back from you as to exactly what you were looking for when you went over my crime scene, you got that? Otherwise, you'll have more than your license to worry about.”
“Would you buy professional curiosity?”
“I don't buy shit, Pavlicek. You push too hard and you're not going to like what happens.”
He hung up.
Just peachy. Not only was I playing cat-and-mouse with my daughter, now I had to fend off the official gumshoes. I couldn't really blame Ferrier. Guy was just doing his job. But, hey, Nicole said she'd call me back well before his deadline, and I'd get a better idea where we stood. If need be, maybe I could even turn up the charm and keep him at bay a little longer than he'd indicated. But something told me that might be easier said than done.
No call came from Nicole the rest of that day. Cat Cahill did call me back, however. He said he was sorry he'd missed me the night before, that it was probably a good thing I had been the one to make the discovery of Turner's body, rather than his uncle, whose ticker might not have survived the experience.
Saturday's Charlottesville Daily Progress carried a single quarter column on the front page of the inside regional section about my discovery of the late Dewayne Turner. The only mention of me in the article was that “a hunter” had discovered the body. Cat's uncle and Special Agent Ferrier were quoted. The dead man had been a drug dealer all right, according to the sheriff's office in Leonardston. The shooting was thought to be gang-related.