by Andy Straka
That afternoon I caught Toronto at home. He lived on a small farm surrounded by neighbors who allowed him to fly and hunt with his birds on their land. He had managed to sock away enough in various investments that he was able, supplemented by the occasional nebulous “security consultant” assignment, to support his Spartan lifestyle. I had tried his number twice earlier—Jake didn't believe in answering machines.
“Yo, my hawk-man,” he said.
I told him all about what had happened, using the same approach I had employed with Marcia when it came to the part about Nicole.
“I was over there too last night,” I said. “A quick trip to see Nicky at Cahill's. I managed to talk to her, but she wasn't exactly forthcoming. Promised to call me back before the end of the weekend though.”
“You see Cat?”
“No. They said he was taking the night off. I just talked to him on the phone this morning though.”
“Hey, maybe the dead kid you found had a crush on Nick, something simple as that. She's a fine-looking young thing.”
“Don't get any ideas.”
“I'm just saying, that's all.”
“Yeah, well it's almost time for season. How's Jersey?”
“Primed,” he said. “The ghost of the forest will be ready.”
Jersey was a three-year-old goshawk, the only raptor Jake was flying at the moment. Not being one to waste any resource, Jake, during season, would usually take what was left of Jersey's bagged quarry after the bird had eaten enough to maintain her weight. He made rabbit stew, cooked squirrel, possum, and even fashioned clothing out of some of the skins, and necklaces out of song bird feathers. Hard to believe from a guy who grew up in Elmhurst, New York, whose father had been a cop, and until he was twenty-seven years old had wanted nothing more in life than to be a detective. He said it was the Indian coming out in him.
When he first told me he was taking up falconry, I thought it a little odd. Why would anyone spend so much time just to train and take care of a big bird? But my first trip hunting with him convinced me otherwise. It wasn't the same as hunting with a gun. It was working in concert with something wild and precious. Most of the time, it didn't seem like hunting at all.
“So when you bringing Armistead over?” he said. “I need to get a look at that red-tail and make sure you aren't abusing her.”
“Soon.”
If only I'd realized then how soon it would be.
6
Sunday morning I tried, unsuccessfully, to sleep in. Too anxious to stay in bed. I had gone to Marcia's house for dinner the night before. She lived in a nicer part of town, a neighborhood of grand colonials nearer the university. We didn't talk much about my abbreviated trip to Leonardston. We talked instead about a new book she was writing that dealt with the role of women in the South during the Reconstruction. We talked about the play she had seen Friday night, even a little about how the university's football team was faring. She fed me salmon, baked potatoes, and yellow squash, and we stayed up late on the couch in front of a black-and-white rerun of It Happened One Night. We kissed a few times during the movie, but then we stopped. This incident with the body and Nicole wasn't exactly doing wonders for my love life.
Walter and Patricia made their usual noises when they left for church around eight. I laced up my running shoes and put in four miles, along Rose Hill Drive to Preston, across to Rugby Road and down through the university, then back up Emmet Street to Barracks, returning on Rugby Avenue.
Back home, I padded barefoot into the kitchen and downed half a quart of orange juice. Then I got out the frying pan, three fresh brown eggs, a mushroom, and a block of sharp Cheddar cheese. I made myself an omelet, poured myself a cup of coffee, and sat alone at the kitchen table while I leafed through the Sunday paper, searching for any more mention of the murder of Dewayne Turner. There was none. Still no message from Nicole either.
I spent most of the afternoon working with Armistead again, doing some jump training in her outdoor enclosure where I had her weathering. I should have gone into the office afterward to catch up on paperwork, but couldn't bring myself to climb in the truck. Monday promised overdue reports and a series of telephone calls. I rented office space in an old converted warehouse near the downtown mall, one of those places where you share a receptionist, a copier, fax, and coffee machine with other economically underprivileged businesses. I didn't employ a secretary, just my five-year-old word processing software, which could crank out eighty words a minute when I got up to speed.
Still no word from Nicole. Early that evening I went out back to check on Armistead. The waning light shone pale on the backs of the houses along Rugby Avenue as I entered the wooden structure beside the fence. The red-tail stirred a little.
“Hello, queen,” I said. She did look rather regal on her perch. “Had a good workout today, didn't we?”
She came fully awake and tilted her hooded head toward the sound of my voice.
“If 1 don't hear from that daughter of mine you like soon, we might have to take a little trip. Over to Jake's—you'll probably remember.”
She shifted her feet.
“It's business, girl. Remember that rabbit the other day? … Well … It's turned into an even bigger problem than I thought.”
Afterward, I was lying in bed with a bead on Tom Clancy's latest opus, but I couldn't concentrate. Was I going to have to call Nicole or go back over there to find her again? I was just about to pick up the phone on the lamp stand when it rang. Nicole breathed heavily on the other end.
“Dad?”
I breathed a sigh of relief and swung my legs off the bed. “Yes?”
“I'm glad I caught you in.”
“Me too, honey.”
“Yeah. I'm sorry I didn't call back sooner, but things have gotten sort of crazy over here.”
“You sound like you've been running.”
“Running? You mean like working out?” Her laugh sounded cynical. “Not really … I've come into a little trouble though.”
“Trouble?”
“Yeah.”
My gut tightened. I could hear a hollow scraping in the background, like the sound of a desk drawer being pulled open, an echo that could have been reverberating off cinderblock walls. Someone in the background coughed.
“What's going on, Nicky?”
She didn't answer right away. She was still breathing hard, and I could tell she was trying hard not to cry, so I waited.
“Well, for one thing, I'm in jail,” she finally said.
7
For the second time in less than forty-eight hours I arrived in Leonardston, Virginia; this time with my overnight bag packed and Armistead riding securely in her hawk-box in back. The place had all the appearance of a quiet Sunday night in a small Southern town. If I weren't so worried about Nicole, I might even have been entranced by the bucolic splendor.
Near the school something flashed in the corner of my eye. Just in time for me to slam on the brakes as a group of four or five kids on mountain bikes sailed across the road in front of me. None of them looked my way—they seemed oblivious to the accident they had almost caused. But before they disappeared over an embankment, the last one in line acknowledged my presence for all of them: he flipped me the bird. So much for bucolic splendor.
A recently built municipal building bore an impressive sign for the sheriff's department and, I knew, the jail. Aerials and satellite dishes protruded from the roof. Gray walls matched a flagstone sidewalk. Inside was a small reception area with a Formica-topped counter. A deputy with skin the color of mahogany and a uniform that appeared almost ready to burst apart at the seams, stood his post. He studied me, eyes flat and expressionless and dark as coals.
“Can I help you?” His voice was a deep bass.
“Yes. I'm here to see a prisoner, if that's possible. Her name is Nicole Pavlicek.”
“And you are?”
“My name is Frank Pavlicek. I'm Nicole's father.”
Some flicker of
recognition seemed to enter his mind. He squinted, shifted his feet, and put his thumbs inside his gun belt. “It's after regular hours. Wait here a second,” he said and started to turn away.
“Before you go, better let me check my weapon,” I said. I smiled and slipped off my jacket, undid the holster, and handed it to him.
“You a cop or something?”
“No. But I used to be.”
He nodded, slid open a desk drawer, placed the holster inside, and locked it. “Thank you, sir. I'll be right back.”
People up north tend to think hicks from small Southern towns are either ignorant, naive, or both. I had made the same mistake when I first moved to Virginia, misconstruing civility for stupidity or weakness. I didn't anymore.
In less than a minute the deputy was back. A door opened at the side and he came through it followed by none other than Sheriff Cowan.
“Well, hello, Mr. Pavlicek. We meet again.” His smile was almost an accusation as we shook hands once more.
“Working late, aren't you, sheriff?”
He shrugged. “Comes with the job. Why don't you all come on back to my office and we can talk before we take you back to see your little girl.”
The last time I'd thought of Nicole as little was on her ninth birthday, but I said nothing. I followed him through a door and down a corridor that smelled faintly of disinfectant.
“Coffee?” he asked as we passed a machine.
“No thanks.”
“You trek all the way over from Charlottesville again this evening?”
“Right.”
“Pretty drive at sunset. Where you staying?” Casually curious.
“With a friend, Jake Toronto.” Before leaving home, I had called Toronto who'd merely grunted affirmatively when I told him I was heading his way with Armistead, and that we might have to stay a few days. I'd also called Marcia in her hotel room in Williamsburg to let her know what was happening and that I'd be gone.
“Toronto. Sure, the bird man. You two used to be partners, right?”
“You seem to know a lot about me,” I said.
“I like to know about people, especially those that walk into my jail.”
We arrived at his office. It was a spacious corner room with a window that looked out the back of the building on some shrubs and beyond to a brightly lit lawn. Built-in bookshelves lined one wall, though he didn't seem to have much reading material, mostly training or procedural manuals. The plush carpeting was easy on my feet. The sheriff settled into the leather chair behind the desk.
“ ‘The Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds,’ “ I said.
“Say what?”
I took an arm chair opposite. “Nothing. Poetry, e.e. cummings.”
He snickered and picked up a piece of paper on his desk. Reading. “Let's see, now. You used to work Homicide in New York. Lost your position under, ah, special circumstances. …” We both knew what circumstances he meant. He looked up at me as if waiting for me to offer more of an explanation, but I didn't.
He went on: “Private investigator—you didn't tell me that the other night. Been doin’ it quite awhile. Says here you got a permit to carry. License is up to date.”
“I would've run for office too, but I'm not good-looking enough.”
He didn't see the joke. Great guy to work for. Perfect and humorless.
“You know why your daughter's been arrested, don't you?”
“She said you found drugs in her car.”
“That's right. And you were talking with her Friday night when we, ah, first met.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Come over here to Leonardston often, do you, Mr. Pavlicek?”
“Occasionally.”
He reached into a stack of papers on his desk and pulled out what looked like a fax. “I was reading a report from the state police on a different case this weekend—not your daughter's, you understand—and I come across some-thin’ interesting. Your name, in fact. I even spoke with an agent”—he scanned the fax—”Ferrier. Special Agent William Ferrier. He says you're the one found our late great Dewayne Turner dead.”
“Unfortunately.” This was starting to get uncomfortable.
“So let me understand here. You happen to be the one who finds a body way over there in Madison County. Vic happens to be a drug dealer from Leonardston. Then you show up that night in my town talking with your daughter in a bar.” Cahill's was more of a restaurant than a bar, but I let it pass. “Then, just a couple nights later, your daughter's arrested for possession with intention to distribute. I got it right so far, Mr. Pavlicek?”
I nodded.
“Don't all that seem a little unusual to you?”
“A little.”
He smirked. “Your daughter was pretty close with Dewayne Turner, you know.”
I didn't, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. I nodded.
“If you're dirty, I'm gonna nail you.” Just like that. John Wayne.
“I'm not dirty.”
His jaw worked hard at a smile. “Your denial is reassuring. … You know, Ferrier didn't exactly say this, but if I was in your shoes, with your background and all, and I was privy to some, let's say, privileged information about my daughter, I might be inclined to come over here and poke around a bit.” He stared at me for a long second.
I shrugged. I needed to at least try to neutralize this guy. “Next, you can tell me this isn't New York … this is official police business … I'd do the same if I were in your shoes. But look, sheriff, the way I see things, we're all on the same side here.”
“Oh, really? I'm glad to hear you say that.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head.
“Nicole says she's innocent.”
“Don't they all?”
“You okay with me talking to her then?”
He waved his hand and sat forward again. “All right. I won't stop you from trying to help your daughter.”
“That's decent of you.” I meant it.
“I got to tell you though, I've got another problem. And you coming up with that body right now doesn't exactly help.”
“Oh?”
“We had Dewayne Turner in custody the night before he disappeared, a few weeks back. … Picked him up for loitering.”
I wondered if they'd strong-armed Turner the way they did the kid in Cahill's the other night.
“Turner used to be a player in the drug trade around here. Served some juvie time when he was still a minor. Some folks are saying he got churched, that he hadn't been dealing for awhile, but I'm not so sure I buy into all that. Anyway, we didn't find anything on him that night. Questioned him but we had to turn him loose.”
“Where's your problem then?”
“Problem is, we can't find anyone who saw him again after he left our jail.” He stared at me for a long hard second.
“Which leaves you trying to explain why a black teenager, last seen in your custody, disappears and eventually turns up dead a hundred miles away.”
“You got it. What's worse. Turner's older brother is a newspaper reporter. Already threatening to bring in the NAACP to investigate and God knows who else.”
So the Affalachia County Sheriffs Department had a public relations problem. Unless the sheriff wasn't laying all his cards on the table either. Maybe there was a cover up. Maybe Cowan was the dirty one. Maybe we were just two dirty guys together.
“How did you arrest Nicole?”
“That was different. Call came in on the Crimeline yesterday. You know, one of these deals where we offer a reward for information and all. ‘Cept this caller wanted to stay anonymous. Nothing unusual about that. A male. Claimed he knew where somebody was hiding a stash of powder. Said the Pavlicek girl had it in her car, a red BMW convertible. Inconspicuous, right?”
“So you stopped her.”
“Of course. But not before she give us a good chase. Doin’ about ninety. We figure she must h
ave panicked. Deputies pulled her over outside her mama's place. Found the coke under one of the wheel wells.”
“How much?” I said.
“Couple of keys.”
“Decent dollars.”
“Yeah. And your daughter ain't exactly known to be desperate for money.” He looked at me skeptically. “How about you?”
“I'm not broke, but I might have a hard time scraping up enough to finance a couple keys of coke on a moment's notice.”
“Uh-huh.” Cowan stood. Now that we were buddies, he turned and surveyed the night view out his window. “You want to know something? That girl of yours has had a better chance than most around here to make something of herself. Her stepdaddy, you know—nothing personal now, Frank—he was like a rock for that kid. But you take George Rhodes out of the equation …”
“Sounds like you know the family well.”
He shrugged, sat down again and put his big black walking shoes up on the desk. “ ‘Bout as well as I know everybody around here, I guess.” The ail-American cop thing again. “Your little girl's been hanging with the wrong crowd, I can tell you that.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“Turner for one. That kid was trouble. I don't care what those church people say. There's a girl too, a year or two older than yours. Name's Regan Quinn. We've busted her for possession a couple times. Went to high school with Nicole but never finished. Works down to the White Spade now.”
“I know the Spade.” Quinn must have been the young woman talking with Nicole the other night.
He shrugged. “Some things don't change.”
“Nicole been arraigned yet?”
He shook his head. “Still trying to piece our facts together.”
“How about a lawyer? Her mother hire one?”
“Right,” he said. “Shelton Radley. I believe he also handled George's estate.”
Shelton Radley had been practicing law in Leonardston for over thirty years, had been George Rhodes's attorney. He was honest, as far as I knew. Except for his affair with the bottle, he might have been a decent lawyer—if there were such a thing.