A Witness Above

by Andy Straka

  “Just wonderin’ what you were plannin’ on doin’ today, that's all.”

  “After this discussion, not much,” I said.

  “Good.” He tried to stop himself, but a little smile was beginning to creep across his authoritative demeanor.

  “You gave the sheriff's deputies your statement about your conversation last night with Mrs. … Rhodes, is it? The revelation of your daughter's, um, substance abuse. Anything else you've found out you need to share with us?” Ferrier said. His eyes flicked almost imperceptibly toward Cowan then back to me. I didn't think the sheriff caught it. He was too busy enjoying himself.

  “No.”

  “Okay. We'll be in touch then.”

  Priscilla said: “In the meantime, Mr. Pavlicek, anything changes, you be sure and contact us … Any questions?” She slid one of her cards across the table to me as she said this, which seemed unnecessary. I was about to turn it down, but the odd stare she gave me convinced me otherwise. When I turned the card over I saw she had written in small letters on the back so that only I could read them: Don't worry. This is all b.s.

  I looked at her for a moment, then said: “What about visiting Nicky?”

  “I don't see any problem with that,” she said. “You, sheriff?”

  Cowan clearly had been thinking about something else. “Um, no. I guess not.”

  Cowan and I pushed our chairs from the table and stood up. Priscilla returned to her notes. Ferrier and his partner sat stone-faced as before.

  “You've stirred up the pot some,” Cowan said. “Appreciate that.” He was actually grinning now. He stuck his hand across the table for me to shake. Maybe it was just my imagination, but he seemed to squeeze mine extra hard, as if he needed to drive home the point that he was still in command of the situation, that nothing could penetrate that perfect cop persona he had spent so much time developing. I had an eerie feeling the sheriff might genuinely be on to something, but I worried those in the room had yet to truly appreciate how virulent it might become.

  25

  A deputy led me down the corridor and through the by-now-familiar entrance to the cells.

  “I'll give you ten minutes. Can't get away with no more,” he said.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I understand.”

  Nicole was lying prone on her bunk, flipping through an old Good Housekeeping. When the deputy left she looked up at me with a frown. “Don't they have anything good to read in this place? I feel like I'm in an episode of the Twilight Zone.”

  “You know the show?”

  “Sure. Mom and I used to watch tapes.” She continued flipping.

  “I guess you must feel a little like Twilight Zone whenever you're around me too, huh?” I said.

  “You're not that bad.” She gave a poor imitation of a smile.

  “They treating you okay?”

  “You mean besides the fact the food tastes like microwave mush and there's nothing to do? Yeah. But you can tell Mommie Dearest I've learned my lesson.” She closed the magazine and tossed it on the floor.

  “She hasn't been in to see you?”

  “Nope. Not since that first night.”

  I moved across from her and stood with my back against the wall. “We need to talk about a couple things.”

  She sat up and crossed her legs, Indian-style. “Great.

  You want to play twenty questions again, I've got nothing better going on.”

  “Not twenty questions … First of all, I had a talk with your friend Regan.”

  She nibbled at one of her fingernails. I don't think she even realized she was doing it. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy around the edges. Hard not to cry when you're not even out of your teens and cooped up all day in a place like this.

  “I know about her baby,” I said.

  She shifted uneasily on her bunk for an instant, sat up, then nodded. “Okay.”

  “Was that what you and Dewayne were arguing about the night you two were arrested?”

  She stared at me for several seconds without moving. Then another nod.

  “He wanted Regan to have an abortion …” I said. “and you didn't. …”

  She made a funny noise, like she was blowing air out between her teeth, and frowned again. “You got it, Dick Tracy. That's … correct.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  “What would you know about it?” Her eyes burned defiantly.

  “You're right. Not much, I guess.”

  She said nothing.

  “How'd you and Regan get so close?”

  “Since grade school … we were always chums. Gonna go to college together too. But her parents … well … I kind of went one way … she went the other.”

  “But you stayed friends anyway.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And your mother doesn't like it.”

  “You kidding? She told me she ever caught me down at that place where Regan works, she'd kick me out of the house.”

  “Hard to stay friends with someone when they go down like that. Sometimes you have to let go,” I said.

  “But Regan's not going to stay that way, Dad. She's not like the other girls down there. You watch … after she has her baby and everything.”

  “She says she has money, and a place to stay afterward.”

  “That's right,” she said, almost proudly.

  I nodded, waiting for her to go on, but she didn't elaborate. “You think Regan's pregnancy might have anything to do with Dewayne's murder?”

  “What, you mean like, ‘cause she's white and he was black?”

  “Yes.”

  She thought about it and gave a little shrug. “Maybe you oughta be asking the sheriff.”

  I nodded. She wasn't giving me anything new I could use.

  “Something else,” I said. “Kevin Weems is gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Right. Weems isn't his real name, either, or at least it didn't used to be. Turns out he's a child-support fugitive from Georgia. Probably moves from situation to situation. Always trying to stay one step ahead of the authorities.”

  “Big surprise there,” she smirked. “Hey, do you think he put that stuff in my car, I mean, to get back at me because I wouldn't. … ?”

  “No, I don't think so. I think it may have been someone else altogether. Ever hear of a man from New York named Morelli?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I'm beginning to think he or someone who works for him is behind Dewayne's murder.”

  “Over drugs.”

  “Probably.”

  “So they put the drugs in my car?”

  “Maybe. We'll see.”

  Well … I'm glad Weems the Sponge is out of here,” she said. “Mom sick?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “She always gets sick when something bad happens.”

  I thought about that. “She drinking a lot?”

  “Probably. Who knows?”

  “Regan's baby and Weems—that what you and your mother been fighting about?”

  “Right.” She laughed bitterly. “Now you know all my little secrets.”

  “Maybe not all …” I moved toward the bunk. “May I sit down?”

  “Sure.”

  “Let's talk some more about you.”

  “Okay.” She pushed an errant strand of hair from her face.

  “All these problems—Weems, Regan and Dewayne, your mother's drinking—how's that affected you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I said nothing. I tried to search my daughter's face for some trace of deceit, some sign that she had become what her mother had said she was, but I saw nothing. Was I that blind?

  She narrowed her gaze. “What's wrong, Daddy?”

  “I think you may already know, or at least suspect.”

  “Suspect what? What are you talking about?”

  I looked at my watch. Only a few more minutes. I reached in my pocket and pulled out a syringe, one I'd taken from the cigar box in Camille's safe. I'd had to clear
it with the guard to allow me to bring it in.

  “Ever seen one of these before?”

  Her top lip was quivering. “It's a needle, isn't it? Like the ones doctors use.”

  “Yes, but this one didn't come from any doctor. Your mother says she found it along with a lot of other drug paraphernalia in a cigar box in your room.”

  “What? What are you saying?” she said.

  “I think you already know.”

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

  “Honey, you don't have to—”

  “I told you before, I don't use drugs. That's the truth.”

  She shuddered then, a tremor so violent that it seemed to take both of us off guard. Her face dissolved into tears. Maybe because she thought for a moment I didn't believe her, even though the truth was, I did. I took her into my arms and held her head against my shoulder. Her own arms were strong and easily wrapped around me. I could only begin to imagine the pain she felt. The hard part was knowing that some of it was because of me.

  After awhile the crying stopped. We were running out of time.

  “Okay now?” I asked.

  She pulled away and nodded.

  “We've only got a couple minutes, babe,” I said, standing and looking down at her. “I want you to know—I believe you.”

  “Yeah, well great.” She half choked on a sob. “At least somebody does.”

  “This is very important. Can you think of any reason why your mother would want to accuse you of using drugs?”

  “Mom?” Suddenly, her face turned to stone. “Maybe.”

  “What is it?”

  She folded her arms and looked at the floor. She said nothing.

  “Are you scared. Nicky, is that it?”

  “Not scared, but …”

  “But what, honey? You've got to tell me everything you know right now, otherwise I may not be able to help you.”

  The cell was silent, except for the sound of water running through pipes, coming from the corridor overhead. She considered my words for a long moment, but then she began to slowly shake her head. I was losing her. Whatever torn loyalties she was haunted by, whatever spell her mother or Weems or Dewayne Turner or whoever else had over her, I wasn't going to break it in just a couple brief jail cell talks.

  “All right, listen,” I said. “I want you to do one thing for me right now. If you feel ready to tell me more, or if you think of anything else, ask to see me or the prosecutor, Miss Thomasen. Don't talk to anyone else.”

  “Now you're scaring me,” she said.

  “No reason to be afraid. But do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “One more thing. Was Regan Quinn who you were going to meet at Cat's the other night when you were arrested?”

  “Uh-huh. She doesn't work on Sundays.”

  “Did anybody else know you were going to meet her there?”

  She shrugged. “I don't think so. Maybe someone Regan talked to, maybe Uncle Cat.”

  “Okay.” I reached in my pocket. “Look … something I brought you,” I said. I pulled out the Polaroid I had pulled from her dresser and handed it to her.

  “You took it from the mirror in my room,” she said.

  “Right. Thought you might like it down here.”

  “Can I ask you something else?” she said.

  I glanced at my watch. “Sure, but you better make it quick.”

  “What really made you come all the way back down here to help me?”

  I looked at her figure stretched out on the bunk, how much she had grown. “There was a spring afternoon about ten years ago,” I said, “not long after we moved down here. Your mother and I were still married, but I knew not for long. I don't think you realized what was happening. I took you in the company car I had at the time and we drove way up on the Blue Ridge Parkway to do some hiking. You were only five or six then. You remember?”

  “I think I remember … a little.”

  “That afternoon it hit me—not only was the marriage over, but I was probably going to lose you too.”

  She reached up and placed her hand gently on my arm.

  “Anyway, I've always remembered that hike. The Winnie-the-Pooh sneakers and the little T-shirt that you wore. The way you ran all around and giggled and collected sticks. We had to hurry because your mother wanted you back by supper. …”

  The door to the cell block clanked open, and a second or two later the deputy fiddled with his keys on the other side of the bars.

  “I wish I could remember more of it,” she said.

  26

  “So what was all that about? The little maneuver with the card at the end was pretty nifty,” I said.

  “I used to pass notes in class,” Priscilla said.

  I held the receiver in one hand while I tried to balance the twin-blade and foam gel in the other. I had headed straight from the jail back to the farm, figuring if I were going to be stonewalled for awhile, I might as well catch up on some of the sleep I had missed the night before. Jake had gone into town to visit the bank and post office. Calling Priscilla at her office was easier after the nap.

  “Something's up,” I said. “Why else would Cowan want me off the case?”

  “C'mon, Frank. You know as well as I do that you're lucky they put up with you this long.”

  “That doesn't make it any easier to stomach. I was the one who started this whole thing. Remember?”

  “Yeah, well I wouldn't keep harping on that, if I were you. It only makes Cowan more suspicious. He's worried that you and Jake are running some kind of scam.”

  “Right. And we're also working for the CIA.”

  “Did you talk with your daughter again?”

  “Yes.”

  “How'd it go?”

  “Very well, actually.”

  She paused, just long enough to telegraph that she didn't have time for games. “You confront her about the drug use?”

  “I did, and she swears on a stack of Bibles she's not using and I believe her.”

  “Which would make your ex-wife a liar.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Which doesn't surprise you.”

  “Not really.”

  “Why would she falsely accuse her own daughter of being an addict, risk bringing shame and embarrassment on the family?”

  I finally wiped off with a towel and made my way with the portable phone from the door of the bathroom to the kitchen and sat down. “I haven't figured that one out yet. Besides, I'm off the case.”

  “You think this guy Weems was into something? Maybe that's another reason he did the ghost?”

  “I wouldn't rule it out. The guy was moling for someone. My gut says he turned tail and ran. Wouldn't be surprised if he turned up dead too before long.”

  “You're starting to sound more like Jake.”

  “Batman and Robin. We used to fight crime by night.”

  “Is he there, by the way? I'd like to talk to him.”

  “No. He's probably right down the street from you. Went into the bank and the p.o.”

  “Maybe I should have a talk with Camille Rhodes.”

  “Might not be a bad idea.”

  “But I'm sure Cowan or Ferrier will talk to her. They don't exactly appreciate my interference.”

  “What do you expect? Cops have to stick together.”

  “Cowan tell you what he found out in New York?”

  “No. I don't even think he's told Ferrier and Spain that much. He and Ferrier got into an argument over jurisdiction.”

  “Great. Just what we need. A glory hound.”

  The line was-silent for a moment. She said: “You know, it just occurred to me. What you said about cops. That might be the reason Dewayne Turner was killed. Maybe because of loyalty to someone, or something.”

  “Someone in the gang?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Interesting theory. The only way we're going to be able to test it, is if we go through with the meeting tonig
ht.”

  “That's not the only way. Cowan and Ferrier have been arguing all morning about whether or not to drag Warren in here and question him, maybe round up some of the suspected gang members. The sheriff says he already knows who most of them are.”

  “Sure. That would just convince Warren even more that the sheriff has something to hide. Speaking of which, where are you on that angle?”

  “Nowhere. I've talked informally with almost everyone who works here, including the two deputies who were on duty in the office the night Dewayne and your daughter were arrested. Even a cleaning lady who was in the building at the time. They all swear Warren Turner left the building sometime after Nicole did, safe and sound.”

  “Anyone see where he went?” I looked out the window. A gunmetal sky muted the brilliance of the red and gold leaves.

  “Just walked away, they said, down Main Street.”

  “Dewayne have a car?”

  I heard her flipping through some papers. “Yeah. Blue Audi, a leftover from his dealing days. It's still parked in his mother's garage. Looks like the sheriff and his people went over it long ago, after he was first reported missing.”

  “So we're back to the gang theory,” I said.

  “Don't forget your daughter. I know you believe her, but Cowan and Ferrier sure aren't necessarily inclined to. And if it were up to the sheriff alone, you'd be cooling your heels down here in his jail along with her.”

  “But, hopefully, they'll need me to go with you tonight.”

  “Hopefully.”

  “Why not send Ferrier or his partner? The gang members might not make them for cops.”

  “It's been discussed. Ferrier convinced Cowan to let you stay in the picture.”

  “Is that right? Nice to know I've earned a little bit of trust.”

  “Yes. But, don't abuse it.”

  “You talk to Warren about when and where we're supposed to get together?” I said.

  “Yes. He wants us to meet him in the newpaper's parking lot at seven-thirty.”

  “It'll be dark by then. Ferrier and Cowan and their people going to be able to stay with us?”

  “I hope so.”

  “You okay with deceiving the old boyfriend?”

  “No, but I guess it comes with the job.”