A Witness Above

by Andy Straka

  20

  The more I knew, the less likely a murder suspect my daughter became.

  Rhodes Real Estate and Development Corporation occupied a picturesque Victorian, which served as its headquarters, on another dead-end street in town. Kevin Weems's Porsche was in a slot with his name on a little sign next to it in the lot. Inside the front door another man talked on the phone, seated behind a rose-colored desk. He had a blond ponytail, but was conservatively attired: blue sport coat, white shirt with a tie, chinos.

  I waited until he was through.

  “You must be Mr. Arnold,” he said after hanging up the phone.

  “No.”

  “I'm sorry. We were expecting someone else.”

  “My name is Pavlicek. I was hoping to have a chat with Mr. Weems.”

  “Well, Mr. Weems is pretty tied up at the moment. Does he know you?”

  “He knows me. I'm Camille Rhodes's first husband.”

  “Right. Okay. Let me tell him you're here.”

  He disappeared down a carpeted corridor to the left and I heard him knock softly on one of the doors before going in. A few seconds later the door opened again and Weems’ voice rang out: “Come on back.”

  I followed the voice. The walls were made of dark wood, punctuated by brass wall fittings with brightly-lit bulbs. Mr. Ponytail passed by me without a word on my way through the door. Weems was at his desk, a huge, antique executive model, dressed very much like his office mate. The room had a nice view of the quiet street.

  “What can I do for you, Pavlicek? I'm busy.” He gestured for me to sit opposite him in a high-backed chair and I did. We didn't shake hands.

  “You don't say?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do. Now what do ya want?”

  “You seem to have this remarkable ability to blow hot and cold, almost schizophrenic I think.”

  “Yeah? So what's it to ya?” He rolled his neck as if he were flexing his muscles.

  “I actually came by to ask you something.”

  “Okay … then ask already.”

  “Who is Kevin Pauling?”

  That got his attention.

  He crossed his arms and rolled his neck again, this time in a little circle, staring at me blankly. “Never heard of him.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Should I have?”

  “Unless you've developed amnesia. You used to be him. … Easy enough to find out.”

  His arms trembled almost imperceptibly, and his eyes took on a more menacing glow. “You trying to threaten me or something, Pavlicek? Who you working for anyway?”

  “Nobody in Atlanta.”

  “Hey, listen. I got as many rights as the next person.”

  “Sure. And I'm not a cop anymore either. Otherwise, your name and whereabouts would have already been sent to the Georgia authorities, who in turn would have contacted the sheriff's department here.”

  He glared at me. “What do you want?”

  “Why were you following me last night?”

  He said nothing.

  “It's a simple question. What were you doing tailing me last night after I left the Turners’?”

  “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  “Are you working for Morelli?”

  “Who?”

  I stood.

  He stood too and came around the desk. For a moment he must have thought he could try the business routine. “Come on, Pavlicek. We must have some common interest in all this. We can get together. We all just gotta do what we gotta do.”

  But then something animalistic seemed to well up from inside him. His eyes grew small, his knees flexed, and he bull-charged me low. I sidestepped the punch, used a wrist-grab and his own momentum to bend him over. With the same motion I brought my knee up into his chin. He made a sound like a whoopee cushion exhaling as he crumpled to the carpet.

  He didn't try to get up. “Fuck, man. I think you broke my jaw.”

  “I'm still waiting for an answer to my question.”

  Blood was trickling from his nose and mouth. He pulled out a handkerchief and stumbled back to his chair.

  I waited some more.

  “It was Cowan, man.” His words were slurred.

  “The sheriff?”

  “You know any other Cowans around?”

  “Why'd he ask you to follow me?”

  “I don't know, man. He just told me to keep an eye on you, see what you were up to and let him know. He brought up the Pauling thing too. Said if I didn't cooperate he'd run me in … Christ, I need to see a doctor.”

  “That it?”

  “Yeah, that's it, man.” He made eye contact with me for just a moment.

  “I'm disappointed in you, Kev.”

  “What do ya mean?”

  “You're not a very convincing liar.”

  His face turned hard again. He tried to stand up, but the pain stopped him. “You don't get it. I tell you what you want and I'm a dead man.”

  “Maybe you'll find dealing with me is worse …”

  He thought about it. Then he pressed his bloody lips together and shook his head.

  I turned to leave.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you without Camille around … Here, have a seat.”

  He moaned a little and I sat down again.

  “I really think you oughta reconsider her offer … to hire you, that is. She's been talking to the lawyer, and, well, this thing with Nicole's got her all tied up in knots.”

  I shook my head.

  “Why not, bud? Pride? Shit, forget all that. Camy's loaded, you know that.”

  Camy. It was amazing how quickly a guy with motivation could familiarize himself with any situation. He reminded me of some politicians I had met, only less polished. I didn't say anything.

  “Well do me a favor and think it over, will ya? I got enough stuff around here to worry about without your ex calling me every hour.” Now he'd wised up and was holding pressure on the side of his mouth.

  “Did you murder Dewayne Turner, then try to frame Nicole?”

  “What? You mean the kid whose body you found, the one from the newspaper? No way, man. I never done nothing like that.”

  I wanted not to believe him, but somehow this time his words had the ring of truth.

  But I had to be sure. “Maybe something to do with Nicky. Maybe something to do with Camille's money. Maybe you've been dealing a little dope on the side.”

  He shook his head again. “No, man, no.”

  “What kind of juice is Camille on?”

  “Look,” he said. “You need to talk more with her. I ain't saying nothing more.”

  “What about Nicky?”

  “What about her?”

  “You made a pass at her too, didn't you?”

  He sighed, glared at me from behind the handkerchief. “It ain't like that either,” he said.

  “Really? Tell me what it's like.”

  My last view of Kevin Weems was as he bled into his hand, staring blankly at the wall.

  Jake's battered Jeep was already parked in Cahill's lot next to Cat's Range Rover. The noonday sun shone at an angle across Main Street, making the storefronts appear frozen in time. But the air felt dry and had kept a pleasant chill. My knee throbbed a little from its encounter with Weems's head, but that was nothing compared to how the rest of me ached knowing Nicky was still in jail.

  Cat already had Jake in stitches at the bar.

  “Hey, there he is,” the big man said. “The guest of honor. We're only eatin’ real food, this afternoon, Frank. Remember?”

  There were only a few other people in the restaurant at the moment. Cat ignored them and ushered Jake and me through several doors into a small private room next to his office in back. The office door was propped open and inside I could see a computer and several boxes and papers. The only light came from a window that faced the alley. Three chairs were set up around a table with iced tea, a huge bowl of cocktail sauce, and a steaming pile of
broiled shrimp.

  “It's a start,” Jake said.

  Cat beamed. “Hey, don't you worry. I got a waitress gonna be doin’ nothin’ this lunch but bringin’ us food.”

  We talked and ate, and ate and talked some more. The dishes kept coming. Pork barbecue, coleslaw, French fries, onion rings. We talked mostly about superficial things: the weather, a little bit about family and old happenings from our time in New York, the annual upcoming football game between UVA and Virginia Tech. Kerstin even poked her head in from the kitchen at one point to say hello and chuckle with amazement at the amount we were eating, especially Jake and Cat. Invariably, at some point, the talk turned to hunting and falconry, with Jake and I doing most of it. The proprietor was a hunter too, but the firearm kind; he said he didn't have the patience to care for a raptor. No one mentioned anything about Nicky or why I was in town, or Rashid Fuad and our past until we were almost through.

  “Cat, Jake and I were talking earlier and we decided we're going over to have a drink with Rashid Fuad in C'ville this evening,” I said.

  “Okay.” He gave a disinterested look.

  “You sure you don't want to come along?”

  “Nah. Why should I? I never knew the guy like you two. You tell Rashi … whatever his name is, that I said thank you for his letter and I've sent my two crackerjack investigators to check it out.”

  “But you said something yesterday about ‘old wounds’.”

  “Sure, sure.” He took a big swig of beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “But mine've healed, fellas. I was talkin’ about yours.”

  “Someone with a rifle took a potshot at me yesterday.”

  Cat took a sip of his drink. “What I heard, it was more than just a potshot. Hey, listen …” He paused.

  “What?”

  “Ah, I was just gonna say somethin’ stupid, like, you ain't gonna be able to help Nicky much if you're pushin’ up daisies.”

  Suddenly Kerstin was at the door again, an uncharacteristic worried expression on her face.

  “Cat,” she said. “Honey, there's someone here to see y'all.”

  She stepped aside to reveal Sheriff Cowan, in uniform, his hat in hand, standing behind her in the doorway.

  “Why, Sheriff,” Cat said. “How are ya this afternoon? C'mon in and join the party.”

  I stiffened. Cowan looked uncomfortable, which was nothing compared to how I felt. “Hope I'm not inter-ruptin’ anything,” he said.

  “ ‘Course not. You had lunch?”

  “No time right now. Gotta stop by the Turner funeral, then catch a flight out of Roanoke.”

  “Goin’ somewheres?” Cat said. “Vacation I hope.”

  Right. Like super sheriff ever took a real vacation.

  “No, business up in New York. Just for tonight. Be back first thing in the morning. Part of an investigation.” He gave me an icy glance. “I thought you was headed out of town, Pavlicek?”

  “After the funeral, sheriff. Just like you.”

  “Uh-huh. Then I can expect to see you tomorrow morning with your friend Ferrier down at my jail, that right?”

  I sat up straight and saluted. “Yes, sir.”

  “I don't like your attitude, Pavlicek.”

  “C'mon now, fellas,” Cat said before things got too ugly. “We're all on the same team here, ain't that right, sheriff? All of us cops. What can I do you out of then?”

  Cowan continued to glare at me for a few seconds then turned to Cat. “Had a couple things I wanted to ask you about.”

  “You've saved us, actually,” I said, forcing a smile. “Jake and I were just about to leave anyway. If we don't get out of here before dessert, someone may have to perform CPR.”

  Toronto took my cue and we both pushed away from the table.

  “Thanks for the lunch, Cat.”

  “Anytime, fellas, anytime. You know we gotta do this more often. Soon as the sheriff here gets Nicky's situation straightened out, we'll have to invite her too and we can have some supper or something together.”

  Cowan said nothing.

  “Sounds good to me,” I said.

  Outside on the sidewalk Jake spoke first. “What do you make of that?”

  “Probably wants to talk to him about Nicky.”

  He nodded.

  “He's headed up to New York, which means he must be after something to do with Morelli.”

  Toronto gave me narrow eyes. “This thing is getting serious.”

  “Every time I turn around.”

  “What if he's in bed with Morelli? Wouldn't be the first cop the guy's turned.”

  “The thought has crossed my mind.” I could almost picture the sheriff's image of perfection fronting for a sinister reality—racist beatings, murder, a bad cop on the take. Almost, but not quite.

  “He didn't seem to want to ask Cat any questions with the two of us there.”

  “Doesn't trust us.”

  “You think the guy knows what he's doing?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “I don't like this. Being out of the loop.”

  “You get used to it,” I said.

  I parked in a line of cars outside the Turners’ church. It was called Free Will Baptist Church, a building of modest design but newer than most of the surrounding structures in Moony's Hollow. The only thing stirring the sodden air inside was a quartet of wobbly ceiling fans. I found a seat in a pew near the back.

  Up front Carla Turner sat among her children and grandchildren. Pastor Lori bustled about giving directions to an assistant and a couple of ushers. The closed casket, gunmetal gray with a metallic finish, lay on a draped stand surrounded by colorful flowers. Priscilla Thomasen slipped in from a side door and found a place just behind the family, followed a minute later by Sheriff Cowan who came in and stood with his hat in his hand in the back. There were a few murmurs when Cowan entered, but they were soon drowned out by the organ, and the ceremony began.

  The service opened with a spiritual about crossing over a river. The green-robed choir, led by a bull-chested man with dreadlocks, swung into the music; the assembled mourners followed; the words were all about suffering, redemption, and faith. It seemed as if we would all be carried away on that river together, a river of peace beyond our present understanding.

  The preacher spoke. People stood up. Some walked to the front and said nice things they remembered about Dewayne; Priscilla and Warren were among them. In the end the choir swept us all away again on the strength of their voices, a power that seemed able to transcend death itself. As they sang the pallbearers carried the casket from the church.

  Afterward, I joined a procession of cars with their headlights on led by a deputy in a patrol car—the sheriff was no longer in sight. The long line of vehicles flowed for a mile or so into the countryside to a large cemetery where a stream ran through a grove of beech trees. With the sky absent of any clouds, we might all have been going on a picnic had we not been following the black Cadillac wagon with its curtains drawn. Most of the graves bore simple markers, but the grass and shrubs were well-tended. Pastor Lori led the brief interment rites, quoting scripture and allowing that, all things considered, it was a beautiful day to praise the Almighty for another soul gone to heaven.

  When it was over, the crowd dispersed and left the casket to a group of three men wearing coveralls, one of which drove a back hoe. I paid my respects to Carla and Graham, who smiled and thanked me for coming. I didn't see Priscilla after that, but Warren was there and beckoned for me to wait.

  “Sad occasion,” I said.

  “Yup.” He glanced back at the burial site where the men already were beginning to fill the grave.

  “You doing okay?”

  “I'll be all right.”

  I waited for him to continue.

  “The meeting's all set for tomorrow night. You cool with that?”

  I nodded. “You talk to Priscilla?”

  “She said ‘Let's go.’ “

  “Okay then. By the way,” I
said, “I haven't seen anybody around here that looks like they belong to a gang.”

  Warren chuckled. “They don't operate like that. In the cities they control projects, whole neighbors. Around here they're more interested in keeping a low profile.”

  “The sheriff said something about them being like moonshiners.”

  “A little, I guess …” He chuckled to himself. “We still got them too. Moonshiners, that is.”

  We started walking back toward the cars. “Something else I wanted to tell you,” I said. “You remember me mentioning Regan Quinn?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She's pregnant.”

  “That right?”

  “Dewayne was the father.”

  He stopped. “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn't he tell me?”

  “Guess they were trying to work things out,” I said.

  He said nothing. We started walking again.

  “I didn't want to tell your mother directly. Thought that might be best coming from you.”

  “Thanks for telling me, man,” he said.

  21

  Toronto and I were on I-64 in Waynesboro, my pickup climbing toward the crest of the Blue Ridge. The Temptations crooned “Just My Imagination” off my Greatest Hits of Motown CD. Behind us the evening sun dipped over the distant Shenandoahs, turning the mountains magenta, the valley mauve, the sky mandarin fading to rose.

  “You wanna know what I think?” Toronto said.

  I doused the music. “What?”

  “I think Pete Cowan is probably on the right track.”

  “Really?”

  “I mean, what else could it be, unless you figure Cowan is crooked? You said yourself you don't think this Weems character would be up to any killing. Odds are it was either a gangster hit or tied in with Morelli. Maybe both, with the Turner kid's background and everything.”

  “If you're right, Priscilla and Warren and I may be walking into some trouble tomorrow night.”

  “Exactly. Which is why I would argue it's time for you guys to back off and let the cops handle it from here.”

  “Not you too. What, you don't trust Warren Turner?”

  He snickered. “Oh, I trust him all right, about as far as I can throw him. But that's not what has me worried.”