by Andy Straka
“As you can see, it's nothing spectacular,” Camille said. She leaned against the door frame, seemed embarrassed at my being there.
“Mind if I search the dresser?”
She swirled the remaining ice cubes in her glass. “Be my guest.”
I started with the bottom drawer and worked my way to the top. Skirts, blouses, T-shirts, shorts, socks, bras, and panties were neatly arranged. The top drawer contained jewelry and cosmetics, some travel brochures, and scraps of paper. And folded there, exactly as Nicole had told me, were the Oakley sunglasses.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Find anything?”
“Nothing,” I said.
Camille gave me a curious look. As we turned to leave I glanced at the mirror over the dresser. There was a Polaroid photo tucked in the corner of its frame that I recognized immediately because I was the one who'd snapped the picture: a full-body color shot of Nicole. She was wearing my falconer's glove, standing beside my truck smiling, with Armistead perched on her arm. The sun shone brightly that day and in the background Old Rag was visible, outlined against the clear blue sky.
“Nice picture,” I said.
Camille shrugged.
“Mind if I take it? Maybe Nicky'll want to keep it in her cell.”
“Whatever,” she said. “Not a very good photograph of her if you ask me.”
We made our way, in silence, back down the stairs and through the house until we reached the front door again.
“That's all I have for right now, Camille. But whatever I find out, please give some second thought to hiring Nicole a decent lawyer. I think she feels like you've abandoned her down there.”
“You're suddenly the expert on what my daughter is feeling?”
“Believe it or not, I only want what's best for her too,” I said.
“Oh, of course, of course. Whatever's best for little Nicky. You just do your little job and I'll do mine,” she said.
I wondered what kind of bitterness could have built up in her over the years, why I had ever been attracted to her in the first place. Marcia, for all her imperfections and hurts, seemed to possess no such hate. I suddenly missed her, more than I had thought possible.
“Just what do you think our jobs are, Camille?”
“Our jobs?” She chuckled before pulling open the heavy door again, suddenly a little unsteady on her feet. “Why, I'm the mommy. And you … you're the daddy by default, I guess,” she said, smiling as she showed me out, back into the sun.
14
It was mid-afternoon—just a few hours before Ferrier's deadline—by the time I parked in front of the White Spade. The sky looked more alabaster than blue. The sun had built the day's heat to its zenith and what remained felt even hotter, like coals left after a fire.
Cosmetically, the Spade resembled a giant bread box. Save for the kaleidoscopic sign in front blaring GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS—as if the first word weren't enough—the building was about as nondescript as they come: pale clapboard siding, a new-looking roof, no windows facing the road, one door. Four or five pickups, a van with a moonroof, and a couple of cars had already begun to fill the dirt lot—men on their way home early who had stopped by to drink and ogle bodies their wives or girlfriends could never own—the daily beer and leer.
Inside I headed for the bar. Heavy metal thumped from a phalanx of sub-woofers. The room was dark except for one brightened stage, cool, but not so cold as to chill the dancers. Only one was performing at the moment, a long-legged brunette wearing a G-string, spiked heels, and nothing else. She spun around a pole, eyes frozen in the blinding light, her mouth bent to a sensual curl. Eyes were frozen around the room too, anesthetized clumps of men, some smoking, not talking, or if they were, joking and jostling with one another. They glanced at me when I came abreast of them, but if any recognized my face they didn't show it.
“What'll it be, my friend?”
The bartender was a wormy, middle-aged white man with a sunken face scarred by acne. His hair looked as if it had been plastered to the top of his head with a grease gun.
“Looking for an employee. Regan Quinn?” I slid a business card across the bar at him.
He scratched his chin, eyeing the card and me suspiciously. “Regan's not on until later. Don't want any trouble. We run a clean place here.”
“I can see that,” I said, glancing at the stage. “No trouble. Just wanted to ask her a couple questions.”
“I'll see if she has time.” He turned and disappeared through a door at the side.
A couple minutes later he was back. He held out his hands in a gesture of resignation. “Sorry, but the boss says he sent her home. Turns out she wasn't feeling well today. Thinks maybe it was the flu.”
“Flu,” I said.
He stared at me and nodded.
“Know where she lives?”
“I'm supposed to keep track?” He peered nervously across the room. “Boss'd kill me if I started giving dancers’ addresses out.” He turned toward one of his patrons who was trying to get his attention for more beer. I watched him fill a couple tall ones then turn and hand them to the guy in exchange for a five.
Then I said: “Well I guess the boss wouldn't mind then if the sheriff conducts a little inspection tour, you know, to make sure all the rules are being followed.” It was a threat I couldn't back up, of course, but the bar-keep had no way of knowing that.
He glared at me for a second. Then he picked up a rag and started wiping some glasses, and as he did, he nodded toward a typewritten list of names laminated in purple plastic attached to the wall around a corner. I put a five of my own on the counter without making too much of a show, leaned over, and found her address.
Back outside I squinted at the glare. None of the vehicles in front had moved, but a cloud of dust drifted across a cornfield next door. Far down the highway, before it disappeared around a curve, I caught a glimpse of a speeding, small blue car. Maybe the flu that winter was going to be worse than everyone thought.
I called Jake from a pay phone in town to tell him I wouldn't be back out to the farm until later.
“You had a message from Priscilla Thomasen,” he said. “She called to talk and when I mentioned you were staying out here she asked me to tell you to call her.” He gave me the number.
“Sounds like you know the Commonwealth's attorney.”
“She's a friend.”
“Sure. How are our two hunters doing?”
“Fine. I took them both for walks earlier. Flew Armistead to her lure.”
“I may have to take a rain check for today. How about we take them both out first thing in the morning?”
“You got it. What's the latest with Nicky?”
He grew quiet when I told him about the happenings of the day so far, especially the part about Boog Morelli and the man I'd seen in the rental car outside Cahill's.
“I was afraid of this,” he said finally.
“What do you mean?”
There was a long pause. “Morelli's people were supplying Dewayne Turner back when he was doing business.”
“How do you know that?”
“Don't ask me how I know.”
Toronto and I went way back. He was only a few years out of the academy when he'd made detective and been assigned to me. But there was always a part of him he seemed unwilling to share. He'd run with a gang himself for awhile growing up. I'd learned over the years when to push and when not to.
“I think we should go over to C'ville and have that drink with Rashid Fuad tomorrow,” I said.
“Okay. What about that trooper snooper who's breathing down your neck?”
“I'm going to have to try keeping him at bay. Maybe the Commonwealth's attorney can help. … You two are pals, huh? Are we talking carnal knowledge here?”
“Native Americans never speak about their sex lives. Makes for bad spirit.”
“That sounds like something you're making up and besides, you're not a full-blooded Native American.”
/>
“Who is full-blooded anything? Priscilla's one of the good guys, I'll tell you that. You can trust her.”
“That's good enough for me,” I said.
She answered her phone herself on the second ring.
“Ms. Thomasen, this is Frank Pavlicek again. I got your message.”
“Oh, Pavlicek. Hold on a second.”
I waited for half a minute before she came back on.
“You still there? Listen, I spoke with Carla Turner, Dewayne's mother? She's willing to talk with you.”
“I must have grown on someone. It was my pretty face, right?”
“Don't flatter yourself. Jake Toronto says you are all right.”
I wanted to ask how she had forgiven Toronto, and not me, for our past, but figured I better not push that subject just yet.
“I thought I would let Mrs. Turner decide for herself about your request,” she said. “I should tell you I still advised her not to speak with you.”
How nice.
“Do you still want to talk with her?” she asked.
“Absolutely. Where and when?”
“You can come by my office in about an hour.” She gave me the address. “After we talk, we can leave from here.”
“We? You mean you're coming too?”
“That's correct.”
I couldn't resist. “To help with the cop/lawyer thing or the black/white thing?”
An uncomfortable silence followed. She had pushed and I had pushed back and now we were at a standstill, except for Toronto.
“All right,” I said. “I'D be there.”
15
I found her office nestled in a crumbling brownstone a few blocks away from the jail. Apparently the prosecutor's budget wasn't as substantial as the sheriff's. The buildings on the cross street were a mixture of commercial and private dwellings with peeling paint and dark-stained shingles. Mostly concrete in front, but here and there a postage stamp-size lawn.
I mounted the stone front steps, cratered with discernible indentations at their centers. Her door, with the official name and state seal stenciled on the glass in front of a Venetian blind, was unlocked. I opened it and went in.
The lights in the reception area were all off. Evening sunlight angled through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor. A window air conditioner moaned at the far end of the room next to a bulletin board overflowing with thumbtacked posters and various legal notices.
“Anyone home?”
Nothing.
Two openings led down hallways toward the back of the building. Down one I could see a partially open door, the pale cast of a dim light.
“Anyone home?” I repeated, a little louder. Someone coughed from behind the door. I knocked softly and pushed it in.
Priscilla Thomasen sat back in her chair, her stocking feet minus shoes, propped on top of her desk. She twirled a pencil in one hand, bouncing its eraser on her thigh, which, along with the rest of her legs were not unpleasant to look at. A phone receiver clung to her ear, her neck craned to one side.
She motioned for me to come in. “You suggest I do what?” She rolled her eyes. The legs came down off the desk. “Plead him down to assault when the man has clearly committed the crime?”
She bounced the pencil harder, this time against the blotter, listening. Then she said, “Yes … I know the story. But the guy's got seven priors, what do you want me to do? …”
I surveyed her office. Family pictures of a mother and father, brothers and sisters. Priscilla with her father and brothers in a powerboat on a big body of water, maybe the Chesapeake Bay. Diplomas, a B.A. in history from Wesleyan, J.D. from Syracuse. Athletic awards, track.
She wrinkled her nose. “Okay, okay, I'll see what we can work out. But we may be restricted by mandatory sentencing … yes … yes … you know it. I'll see you at the house.” She cradled the receiver into the console on her desk.
“Jerk!” she said. Then by way of explanation she added, “Ex-boyfriend.”
“Hard if you have to be one too.”
“I suppose … So, sit down, Mr. Pavlicek. As you can see, staff around here all leave promptly at five.” She turned to her computer and started typing something. When she finished she turned back to me.
“I don't imagine Jake Toronto knows about this ex-boyfriend,” I said.
She sighed. “You're nosy, you know that?”
“Comes with the many talents required to do my job.”
“Well for your information Jake does know about him. He's encouraged me to get back together with the guy in fact.”
“Jake would do that.”
She flipped open her appointment book and made a note. “Anyway, we're not here to talk about my love life, are we?”
“Not unless you want to.”
“You want to know about your daughter's case.”
“That would be nice.”
“Well her legal prognosis is, in a word, murky. The truth is I can't see that we have a real solid case just yet, unless we come up with other evidence or can somehow prove your daughter knew about the cocaine hidden under her wheel well. It wasn't even inside the car. Anybody could have put it there. If she hadn't tried to avoid arrest, we might even have had to release her by now. That, plus the extenuating circumstances.”
“Extenuating circumstances?”
“Right. You, for one, finding Dewayne Turner's body. I've already gone over the state police reports—”
“Yes, in fact I was hoping—”
“And then there's … the other matter …”
“Other matter?”
“The whole racial issue could be a powder keg. Especially for me. Anyone can see that.”
“You sound like you don't want this case, counselor.”
“Yeah, well part of me does and part of me doesn't, because ever since Turner disappeared, the African-American community around here's been kicking up a fuss—not that I blame them—and Cowan, maybe to cover his own butt, has been telling me he's suspicious of your little girl. You did know she was with Turner and about the threat she made this last time when he was arrested, didn't you?”
My nod was a lie. Why hadn't Nicole told me? That's what I needed to find out.
“But Cowan ran the Turner kid in and let Nicole go free.”
“That's right. They arrested him for little cause as far as I can tell,” she said. “And no one's seen him since … that is, until you found him.”
“Police misconduct, prosecutor?”
She stared at me for a long moment. Then she leaned forward and folded her arms. “You know, Jake and I have talked some about what happened to you two up there in New York.”
“You mean we three. Don't forget, Cat was there too.”
“Yes, but he didn't pull the trigger. He didn't have to live with the—”
“Doubt.”
“Yes. The doubt.”
I examined my fingernails. One needed cleaning. “So what do you think, counselor? Were we closet racists? Tinderboxes, just waiting to ignite?”
“Jake wasn't. I'm convinced of that,” she said.
“But someone else might have been?”
“I didn't say that.” She bounced her pencil against the blotter once more. “I don't know you well enough yet to form an opinion.”
At another time, with another woman, I might have suggested that could be arranged. Not now. Not with Priscilla Thomasen, attractive as she was.
“Fair enough,” I said. “But I'm not sure I like the sound of all this.”
“I'm not sure I would either, sitting in your chair.”
“Exactly when were Nicole and Dewayne Turner picked up?”
“Two or three weeks ago. You can go over and check the arrest log, if you'd like.”
“No wonder Cowan is so concerned about the appearance of racism.”
“Appearance is one thing,” she said. “Proof is another.”
“So you want me to help you prove it, if it's true.”
“
I didn't say that.”
“Was Turner still dealing?”
She sighed and looked down at her desk. “There's the tricky part. I don't think he was. You'll see what I mean when you meet his family, especially Carla, his mother.
Their story is that Dewayne found Jesus and turned his life around. Not only had he stopped selling, but they say he was trying to save some of those addicts he used to supply.”
“Maybe one of them took major exception to his preaching,” I said.
“Maybe. But that doesn't explain how his body ended up where you found it.”
Nor a lot of other things, I thought. “So where's that leave Nicole?”
The Commonwealth's attorney chewed on her lip. “I've been honest with you about her case, but I think it's better, until we figure things out, that she remain where she is for now, even if it is in Cowan's jail.”
“You sure she's safe there?”
“More sure than if she were on the street.”
“Her lawyer may not stand for it.”
“Radley?” She rolled her eyes. “I could charge her for jaywalking and get it past him.”
“Extenuating circumstances?”
She smiled. “Uh-huh. Especially when she was toting enough coke to light up half the state.”
“You've told me a lot. Awful generous to a potential racist.”
“Maybe we'll find out for sure if that's what you are … That's a big word, you know—racist. You don't grow up black in this country without hearing it almost every day. I guess I've come to believe a racist's ultimate victim is himself. He hates what he is so badly he has to turn that hate on somebody else.”
“But now you wield the power.”
“I don't look at it that way. The law is the law. Black or white, racist or no …”
“All right, counselor. You've got my vote. But as long as we're sharing problems and the law, I've got one for you. Suppose you know this particular private investigator, who, say for example, may have tampered with evidence in a criminal case.”
“I'm all ears.”
“His motives were good, mind you. He was only trying to find out the truth and protect someone he loves.”
“Uh-huh.”