A Witness Above

by Andy Straka

  “Yes, sir?” Her accent was thick. She looked to be about fifty.

  “Good evening. My name's Pavlicek. Mrs. Rhodes is expecting me.”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Pavlicek. Come in. She very upset.”

  But as she turned to let me enter, her boss stepped in behind her. “It's all right, Lucita. I'm up now. Thank you for coming in so late to help clean up,” Camille said.

  “That's okay, Mrs. Rhodes. Anything more I can do?”

  “No. Thank you. I'll take care of this gentleman. You go ahead and run along down to your house. I'll see you in the morning.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Rhodes,” the woman said and walked toward the back door.

  “She live on the property?” I asked.

  “Yes. We have a little cottage behind the stable with a separate driveway. The men who take care of the farm come in that way too.”

  Camille's hair was pinned up in back and she wore a satin bathrobe. She opened the door a little wider, leaning on it as she did.

  “Thanks for coming over, Frank. I hope you won't mind if I lie on the couch.” She led me through the dining room again but this time to a bright, glass-walled atrium with a sofa and several large plants and a large, expensive-looking throw rug covering part of a flagstone floor. She reclined on the couch with her eyes half closed, her head propped against a mound of pillows.

  “I'm sorry it's so late. Would you like some coffee or something?”

  “Already had some of Jake's.”

  “Right. I forgot you're staying with him.”

  “You don't mind if I drink while we talk, do you? It helps calm my nerves.” There was a half-full bottle of tequila with some orange juice and a glass on a small portable serving table in front of her.

  “It's your home,” I said.

  “With everything that's gone on lately, I guess I'm still, as you can imagine, in a little bit of a state of shock.”

  “Understandable, I suppose.”

  “You talked to him, didn't you?”

  “Who?”

  “Kevin.”

  “Weems? Yes. Earlier today …” I glanced at a clock on the wall. “Although I guess it was yesterday now.”

  “That's why he ran then. He knew that you were on to him about his ex-wife. Not that it matters much now.”

  “You knew who he was then, about the name change and everything?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you just let him keep living with you anyway, in the same house as Nicky.”

  “Oh, pooh. Nobody cared, until now.” She waved her hand to indicate she wasn't interested in pursuing the topic any further. She settled deeper into the pillows. “Come on, Frank,” she said, patting the cushions beside her. “Sit down. I won't bite.”

  “That's okay, Camille. I think I'll stand.”

  She made an exaggerated pout with her lips over the rim of her glass.

  “You said you had some things you wanted to tell me,” I said.

  “Yes. But first, do tell me, how do you find living in Albemarle County?”

  “I'm not really up for socializing in the middle of the night, Camille. Charlottesville's fine. Why?”

  “I have some good friends there you know. The Darlingtons? They have a place out in Farmington. Wonderful views. I went riding up there last year,” she said.

  I nodded, not wanting to encourage her chatter any further.

  She said: “I apologize for being so evasive the other day. And I didn't mean to insult you with the offer of money. I should've expected you to come down. I mean you are Nicole's father after all. You've every right to be, now that … well, now that George is gone.”

  “Camille, you and I both know I don't have any rights when it comes to Nicole,” I said. “But she's in trouble, and if there's something more that you can tell me that might help matters …”

  “There is.” She sipped her drink. “Ummm … there is, and I'm sorry I didn't tell you this sooner.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Our daughter … well … Nicole is an addict,”

  “A what?”

  “She uses drugs. She's hooked. That's what you call it, isn't it?”

  “I haven't seen any evidence of that,” I said.

  “She manages to hide it well.”

  It didn't make sense, did it? Though Nicky being a junkie could explain a lot, maybe even the coke in her car. Dewayne Turner's murder as well?

  “What is she using?”

  “What kind of drugs, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don't know. I think they call it speed or something.”

  “Pills?”

  “No, but I found a box and some syringes in her room.”

  “Show me.”

  She set her drink down and stood, motioning for me to follow. We went back through the dining room, into the front hall again, and up the main stairs. At the top were a row of original oils in expensive wooden frames: one of George Rhodes, one of Camille, and one of Nicole. I thought the artist had done a good job of capturing Nicky's pretty face, but he had missed something. She looked too serene, too composed.

  Halfway down the hall Camille opened a door.

  “This is the sitting parlor off the master bedroom. George and I used to spend a lot of time here,” she said. “But I don't go in here much now. After I found the box I locked it in the safe in the closet in here. Nicole never said anything, of course. Although she must have realized I had found something.”

  “When was this?”

  “Oh, I don't know. Maybe a month ago.”

  “A month ago. And you didn't do anything about it?”

  “Well what was I supposed to do, Frank. Turn my own daughter in to the police?”

  “How about talking to her about it?”

  “I tried, without letting her know I had the box. She denied everything, of course.”

  We entered a small enclosed space that was nearly dark. No windows. At one end a door was partially open and I could make out a large bedpost in the bedroom. She flipped a switch and the walls glowed with soft light from a lamp in the corner. Books and magazines scattered about. Deep pile carpet. A layer of dust. Another couch.

  “I don't let Lucita clean much in here anymore,” she said, sounding embarrassed.

  The closet was built into the bookshelves and inside was the safe, a combination-style with a heavy metal door. She spun the dial, clicked open the latch, and extracted an old cigar box. In the cigar box were several Band-Aids, four or five needles, a looped rubber lube and a couple vials.

  “What is it?” she said.

  “Methamphetamine. I think.”

  Her voice became a little shaky. “What's that?”

  “It's bad news.”

  She put the box back where she had gotten it, closed the safe, and then the closet door. “What are we going to do, Frank?”

  “First, I'm going to have a talk with Nicky. And we're going to have to let the sheriff and the state police know.”

  “You think so? But isn't there some other way? I mean, it will be in the papers and everything.”

  “Nicky's already in the papers, Camille.”

  She nodded. Then she reached into a stack of books and pulled out a large binder that looked like a photo album, her hands trembling. She plopped down on the sofa.

  “Here,” she said, her voice quivering a little. “Come and sit down.”

  I sat beside her as she began flipping through the pages. She took her time until she found the one she wanted. She held the album open and handed it to me, pointing to a particular photo. It was another Polaroid of a smiling Nicole holding a large fish by one of its gills. She was framed by two men: Jake and myself.

  “She's always wanted to be like you. Even with everything I've tried to give her.”

  Her hands began to tremble again. She closed the photo album and held it beneath her chin with her eyes closed. A tear ran down her cheek. I rested my hand lightly on her arm, just to let her know I was there, to pr
ovide some comfort. When she settled down she put the photo album back, we both stood to leave, and she snapped off the light. As I turned in the sudden darkness something brushed up then came hard against me. It was Camille. Suddenly, her robe was peeled back, exposing her breasts. She had her arms wrapped around my back, her head buried in my chest and she was shaking again, her body fragile and desperate. I couldn't believe how emaciated she'd become.

  “I'm nothing but a whore, Frank,” she said. “An expensive whore.”

  She kissed my neck, which, even in her present condition started to bring the same old reaction, but I managed to find both her arms and grip them, not hard enough, I hoped, to hurt her, but firmly enough to hold her away from me. We stood motionless, like awkward dancers caught off guard, before she realized what was happening.

  “You son of a bitch,” she said and kicked and tried to claw at me with her pinned arms. “I've had better men than you. Kevin was better. I've wasted better men than you.”

  She continued to fight, but I kept my grip. She cursed some more and screamed at me. After maybe a minute she stopped and began to sob again uncontrollably. Then she collapsed against me, her eyes closed, face a pale mask, supported only by my arms, vibrating with minor convulsions.

  It was no act. I stood her upright and pulled her robe back up over her shoulders, got her moving while she was still semiconscious, almost carrying her down the hall. I found the master bedroom door, switched on a dim light, and guided her into her bed. Her forehead was hot to the touch. I pulled the sheet up to her chin. After moaning and moving around a bit, she fell asleep.

  I went to the bathroom and found a washcloth on the towel rack next to the sink. I soaked it with some cold water and placed it above her eyes. Just then I heard something tumble to the floor downstairs. The maid had already left, but we were not alone in the house.

  Had Weems returned? I crept down the hall toward the staircase. My gun was drawn and I kept my back to the wall. I don't care what anyone says, once you've been shot at for real, your attitude changes—you take little for granted. Another sound, from the kitchen, this a screen door slamming. Fleeing?

  I made my way as quickly and cautiously as possible downstairs to the kitchen where I did indeed find the back door ajar. No car started in the distance this time, however. No shots were fired. I turned on all the lights and searched the rest of the house thoroughly, but found nothing.

  Upstairs Camille still lay unconscious. There was a phone on the nightstand next to the bed. The radio-clock next to the phone said it was now after one A.M. I picked up the receiver and dialed the sheriff's office.

  “I'm calling to report a larceny,” I said.

  24

  Rashid Fuad called early the next morning while I was in the shower. Toronto took the message and handed it to me along with a cup of coffee when I showed up in his kitchen.

  “Hack Wilson? That who checked the weapon in and talked to the lawyer?”

  “No. Some guy from one of the Manhattan precincts. But Rashi says Wilson's talked to the guy. Knows him from police benefit work or something.”

  Wilson had been a NYPD detective long before I had joined the ranks. He was competent, but shallow. A glad-hander from way back.

  I dialed his number and he picked up on the second ring.

  “At work early this morning, aren't we, Hacker?”

  “Hey, a voice from the past. How ya doin’, Pavlicek? Rashi Fuad said you were gonna give me a call. Yeah, I made lieutenant, you believe it? We got the VP coming in here this morning. Boss wants everybody on alert.”

  “The vice president of the city council?”

  “No, you idiot. Of the whole friggin’ country. He's on a get-tough-with-crime tour. You know, waving the flag for the masses and everything … So how's life in the Himalayas?”

  “I'm a long way from the Himalayas, Hacker.”

  “Yeah? Hey, it might as well be that to me. Rashi said you was wanting to know about this lawyer who turned in the gun.”

  “Yeah. Seems pretty curious, doesn't it?”

  “Curious ain't the word for it. Guy I talked to says it was weirdness all around.”

  “Weirdness?”

  “Yeah. This greaseball who's worked for Boog Morelli for years shows up downtown and presents them with this weapon. Says it needs to be sent to Rashid Fuad's lab, for Fuad to check the serial numbers and he'd know what to do with it.”

  “That's it? Nothing else?”

  “That's it.”

  “What's the latest on Morelli?”

  “Ain't no latest. Guy's been in and out of the joint, you know, for years. Now, word on the street is he's creeped out.”

  “Creeped out?”

  “Yeah, you know. He's gettin’ older. Remember Howard Hughes?”

  “Still doing business?”

  “What do you think?”

  I recognized the pale Caprice. It was parked among the dozen or so cars, including Priscilla Thomasen's Saab, in the lot outside the municipal building with the engine still plinking, a little puddle of liquid dribbling from beneath the front bumper. Early morning sunshine had given way to a bank of steel-gray clouds advancing from the west. Ferrier and Spain would be a little saddle-sore if they had driven all the way from Richmond.

  The sheriff's department buzzed with activity. People came and went through the glass doors. Two deputies were in the office, one on the phone, the other doing paperwork.

  “Pavlicek. Suprised to see you up so early this morning,” Cowan said. He was standing in a doorway holding a clipboard against his hip with his other hand resting atop his gun. He was back in his work clothes today. The muscles in his forearms flexed like he was showing for Mr. Universe. “After that little party out at the Rhodes's house last night, I was afraid we might need to issue you a wake-up call.”

  “I could say the same about you. How was New York?”

  “Interestin’,” he said. “Real interestin’. Your state police pals are finally here. Just arrived, in fact, but I guess maybe you already knew that.”

  I nodded. Call me Sherlock Holmes.

  I followed him down a corridor that led to a stairway door and a set of concrete steps. We went up half a flight to another door that led down another hallway with yet more doors.

  “Will I be able to get in to see my daughter again this morning?” I asked.

  He stopped and turned and looked at me before he spoke. “We'll see.”

  We entered a door with a sign next to it that read: CONFERENCE ROOM B. Agents Ferrier and Spain sat talking with Priscilla Thomasen at a long table. They all stopped speaking when we walked in.

  “Look who's come to join us this morning,” the sheriff said. “Guess there's no need for introductions.”

  I nodded at the two investigators and Priscilla. Priscilla was the only one who gave me any sign of recognition.

  Cowan and I took chairs across the table.

  Cowan said: “Agent Ferrier here was just about to tell us how you said you found the Turner boy's body.”

  I looked at Ferrier. “I thought we'd been through all that already,” I said.

  “Yes we have,” he said. He gave me a funny look.

  “You've got a choice to make, Pavlicek,” the sheriff said.

  We stared at one another. No one else said anything. Priscilla was looking down at her notes.

  At last Ferrier said: “What the sheriff's leading up to, Frank, is—you either back off now or he'll have to take you into custody on suspicion of obstructing justice … and for your own protection. These people have already tried to kill you once. We all just need to do our jobs here.” There was no change to his expression as he said this.

  So that was it. Either Cowan had managed to convince them they needed to watch out for me, or Nicole might be going down, and for obvious reasons they didn't want me to be part of it. I needed to talk to Priscilla alone. But right now that seemed impossible.

  “Did you find something out in New York? I
s Morelli involved?”

  No one volunteered any answers.

  “When family's involved, easy for anyone to lose their objectivity,” Cowan said. He'd produced a toothpick from somewhere, stuck it between his teeth, and pursed his lips. If I could have, I would have reached across the table and smacked it out of his mouth.

  “I tampered with evidence,” I said. “I've admitted as much. But every one of you, in my shoes, would've done the same thing.”

  “It's not just that,” Priscilla finally said. Her look seemed to be telling me, Shut up for your own good.

  I waited. No one else offered anything.

  “Okay,” I said, placing my hands on the table. “You guys say back off, I back off.”

  Cowan looked surprised. “Just that simple?”

  “Just that simple.”

  “Look, sheriff,” Ferrier said. “Frank here is a pro. Let's cut him some slack.”

  “I prefer you stick around town though,” the sheriff said to me. His tone was the bland one he probably used at county meetings and on speeders.

  I looked at Priscilla. “What about the meeting Warren Turner set up for us tonight?”

  “I was just getting to that,” Cowan said. “My opinion is, and I'll say it again—absolutely no way. I don't want any cowboy civilians killed on my watch. Whole thing seems like a fiasco, you ask me. But the Commonwealth's attorney here feels strongly otherwise.”

  “We've agreed to let the meeting proceed, on the condition that the sheriff and his deputies, as well as Chad and myself, are there to track your every move and to provide full backup and support,” Ferrier said.

  That sounded reasonable, under the circumstances. Except it probably wouldn't work.

  “You think Warren's going to sit still for that?” I said, looking at Priscilla.

  “He will if we don't tell him,” Cowan said.

  Priscilla said nothing.

  “Either way,” the sheriff added. “Like I said, the whole thing's most likely goin’ to turn out to be a wild-goose chase. This office's investigation has, um, taken off on some more productive tangents. …” His eyes tried to outstare mine.

  “If you've got something concrete of which you want to accuse me, Sheriff, I wish you'd quit beating around the bush.”