A Witness Above

by Andy Straka

  “Sometimes,” I said.

  After we hung up I fixed myself a quick turkey sandwich with a glass of milk from Jake's refrigerator, then went out to the mews to check on Armistead.

  The air was getting colder with what felt like the beginnings of a winter wind. I wore my work boots and zipped my three-quarter jacket around me. Armistead seemed full of energy, fanning her wings and footing her perch.

  “I know, girl. You're busting to get out. Don't worry. Jake will be back a little later, and we'll all walk out together. In the meantime, I've got a couple little errands to run myself.”

  I might have been officially told to bug off the investigation, but that didn't stop me from talking to family, even ex-family for that matter.

  Lucita answered the front door at the Rhodes estate again. She understood English perfectly, despite the accent and halting speech, which was helpful because, from the way she described things, Señorita Rhodes still didn't seem to be doing all that well.

  “Is she awake?” I asked.

  “Oh yes, señor, but like I told you, she is crazy. I think she is ill.” She led me into the house.

  “Did you call a doctor?”

  “No. No, she say no doctors.”

  “Have other men been out to talk to her yet today? The sheriff?”

  “Sí señor. A couple hours ago.”

  We made our way to the same atrium where Camille and I had spoken the night before. The room had taken on a different quality now, much brighter, from all the windows. On the Oriental rug Camille lay shivering under a heavy comforter. Her forehead was bathed in sweat. I helped Lucita get her onto the couch.

  “Hello, Frank,” she managed to say.

  “You need a doctor, Camille.”

  “Oh hogwash … Thank you, Lucita. That'll be all for now. I'll call for you if I need you.”

  “You sure, Mrs. Rhodes?” The maid hesitated.

  “Yes, of course I'm sure. Go ahead. Mr. Pavlicek is here and if something drastic happens, I'm sure he can manage the situation.”

  Lucita disappeared into another part of the house.

  “Come and sit next to me, Frank,” Camille said. She gestured toward the end of the couch.

  “You remember our visit last night?” I asked.

  “Yes. Yes, I'm sorry I fell asleep on you, but as you can see, I haven't been feeling too well. I've been under a great deal of stress lately.” There was a box of tissues, a big pitcher of orange juice, and an empty glass on the table in front of her. I smelled the juice. No booze.

  “Well, I wasn't really referring to the falling asleep part. I thought you might remember stripping back your dress and grabbing hold of me in the dark.”

  She lowered her head, crossed one arm under the other, and put a hand to her brow. “I'm sorry, Frank, I …”

  “Nothing happened. I put you to bed.”

  “I guess I should thank you for that.” Or maybe not, she seemed to be thinking.

  “Did the sheriff and the state police come talk with you this morning?”

  She nodded. “They asked me a lot of stupid questions.”

  “About Nicky?”

  “Yes.”

  “I talked with Nicky in her cell again this morning. She says you haven't been in to see her.”

  “No. I've been busy, and, as you can see, I haven't been feeling up to the trip.”

  “She claims she's not using any drugs, Camille.”

  She pulled the comforter up around her more and squeezed it with her fingers. “Well, of course she would, wouldn't she. That's what kids usually do when they've been discovered.”

  “The needles and stuff you showed me,” I said, “the cops confirmed it's methamphetamine. On the street they call it crank.”

  “It sounds … it sounds awful.”

  I sat down and, before she could react, reached beneath the comforter, took hold of her arm, and twisted it out and up for her to see.

  “Ouch!” she said. “What are you doing?”

  “Don't try to tell me you've been donating a lot of blood.”

  She stared at her arm with an almost surprised look. Then she began to smile.

  “Well, that—those marks mean nothing. I mean, every once in awhile I—”

  “More than every once in awhile, if I don't miss my guess.”

  “What do you know? You have no right invading my privacy. I …” She turned on her side and curled into a fetal position, staring blankly at the sofa.

  “There's treatment, Camille. I want to help. Nicole will too, if you would just—”

  “Nicole.” She laughed hoarsely. “That daughter of yours is turning out to be more trouble than she's worth.”

  “You don't need to let this stuff destroy you,” I said.

  “It's not destroying me, for chrissake. What do you know about it? I'm just a little under the weather. I can quit anytime I like.” Her eyes avoided mine.

  “I need to know who's supplying you,” I said.

  “What for? You back to working Narcotics now? I didn't know they let private detectives do that kind of work.”

  “Is it a gang? Was Dewayne Turner involved?”

  She acted as if she had trouble comprehending what I was asking. “I'd like a drink,” she said.

  “Stick to orange juice.” I refilled her glass and she drank some, but didn't seem too happy about it.

  Then her demeanor suddenly changed. Her mouth dropped and she sat up and clutched at my arm. “That boy was killed, you know.”

  “Yes I know, Camille. I was the one who found him. Remember?”

  She giggled, shaking her head. “Yes, that's right.” She pulled away and lay back on the couch. “Oh Christ, Frank, I've made a mess of things. The money … everything … I …” She began to cry.

  I'd seen those tears before, on drunks or on addicts in the tank. Nothing that a pint or a smoke couldn't handle.

  “You're willing to let Nicole take a rap and maybe go to prison, to let yourself go to waste? For what?” I said.

  “You just don't understand. You don't know what I've been through. You were never here.”

  “I'm here now though, aren't I?”

  Her eyes went cold again. She turned away and spoke into the couch. “Goddamn you for messing up our lives…”

  She seemed to absorb her own epitaph, her body wracked with sobs, curled on her side deep in pillows. I waited for maybe a minute, before looking up to see Lucita in the doorway again, a question on her face.

  I threw the grande dame a tissue as I left.

  * * *

  “Looks like you and me need to have a little talk.” Sheriff Cowan was just exiting his cruiser, parked behind my truck in the driveway out front. He leaned against the vehicle, crossed his arms, and frowned.

  “What about?”

  “About whether I arrest you now or you turn yourself in down to the department.”

  “Come on, Cowan. I told you I'd back off, and I am. That doesn't mean I can't go visit my ex-wife.”

  “It doesn't, huh? Just a social call then?”

  “Right. A social call.”

  He stared at me.

  “She's lying, you know. You even said it yourself. She's the one on meth, not Nicky.”

  “Know that for a fact, do you?”

  I held out my hand toward the house. “Why don't you go ask her for yourself?”

  He puffed his cheeks and blew out some air. “I'm not the bad guy in all this, Pavlicek.”

  “Never said you were,” I lied.

  He snickered. “Shoot,” he said under his breath. I was pleased to hear him make reference to rather than attempt to perform the act. “Let's talk about you.”

  “All right.”

  “Still hard for me to believe you just so happened to find the dead Turner kid.”

  “Sure.”

  “You being a PI already puts you under suspicion in my book. Somebody wanted to set something up, you'd be the kind they'd ask to do it.”

  �
��Right. Except I didn't.”

  He stared at me long and hard. It was the same stare he'd used in the conference room earlier, only this one had a trace of fear in it, like he was out there on the edge of something and knew it. “So you say,” he finally said.

  “Somebody's going to go down for Dewayne Turner's murder.”

  He shrugged. “Then I ain't got nothing to worry about. How about you?”

  “Does it make any sense, if I did, I'd be hanging around here talking with you?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not.”

  “We don't even have to take sides, do we?”

  “You become a nigger-lover since you went and killed one when you was a cop?”

  “No,” I said. “Before that.”

  He chuckled and scuffed his boot against the driveway. “Tell me about your buddies Toronto and Cahill.”

  “What about them?”

  “You three were pals up in New York, right?”

  “Not really. That is … not until after the shooting. Jake and I were partners, but we didn't know Cahill until that night.”

  “Ummm,” he said.

  I waited.

  “Your old chief up there says you and Toronto were good cops.”

  “We pay him to say that.”

  He didn't see the humor. “Look, Pavlicek. We ain't gotta like each other when it comes to this Turner thing. We just gotta figure out what happened to the boy.”

  “At least we're in agreement there. What about Ferrier and his partner?”

  He shrugged. “I ain't too proud to work with them, but like I told you before, this is my county. This thing's gonna get solved.”

  “You think you got it figured out?”

  He worked his jaw around a little. “May be getting close.”

  “Care to share any theories with an old detective?”

  He shook his head. “Un-uh. Not yet.”

  “Just feel free to waste my time then.”

  “You tell me then, Pavlicek, how am I not supposed to wonder when your daughter's caught haulin’ coke and you show up the next morning, all but carrying a dead dealer in your arms?”

  The man did have a point.

  “Kind of makes things interesting, doesn't it?” I said.

  “What's that?”

  “The mutual suspicion.”

  He shook his head and looked toward the house.

  “What was so important it made you fly all the way up to New York?”

  For a moment he seemed on the verge of telling me, but something stopped him. Fear maybe. Maybe pride. “This thing's turnin’ out to be some kind of god-awful mess, I can tell you that.”

  It was my turn to sigh. “God probably wishes he could sit this one out.”

  27

  Armistead dropped out of sight below the ridge line where a stand of sugar maples shed their last bit of gold against a backdrop of gathering gray. Her bells were no longer audible. We had put a tail transmitter on her so it would be no problem locating her with the telemetry unit, but I was perturbed and a little fearful of losing her, nonetheless.

  Jake walked about ten paces behind me, whistling. “Some say you don't truly know falconry until you've lost your first bird.”

  Mr. Encouragement.

  The temperature hovered just above freezing, and the brown landscape was looking more barren by the day. Soon there would be little cover left for prey to conceal themselves from a pursuing hawk.

  Priscilla had shown up at the trailer with a bag of fresh donuts and coffee just as we were setting out. She said she would wait, maybe tidy up a little, until we came back, which caused Jake a half-worried, half-hopeful expression that earned him a peck on the cheek. The wind was picking up. Armistead, skillful flyer that she was, seemed to revel in its strength, as if drawing from it her own. She had spotted a groundhog earlier and made a halfhearted swoop at the thing before the sizable critter disappeared with unexpected swiftness down an unseen burrow. To my relief, she popped above the maples again and glided forward to alight near the top of one.

  “There's a meadow other side of this hill,” Jake said.

  “She holds her station, we can get down over there and flush a rabbit or two.”

  We climbed together to the crest. The meadow on the other side was not large, but the grass was serviceable, the ground soft and ripe for tunneling. Prime rabbit habitat. Beyond the field the forest began again, but there were open spaces there as well. Armistead stayed put, swaying a little when the branch moved with the breeze.

  We separated, about twenty yards apart as we entered the meadow, loping downhill. We had only gone about ten paces when they started, a trio of cottontails raised instantly from sleep into a crash of twigs breaking, a panic-stricken dash for their lives. Armistead flashed by us and went after the slowest. She took the prey with ease.

  “All right! Attagirl!” I turned to see Jake stepping toward me with a smile on his face.

  I let out a war whoop into the cold as Jake and I slapped palms.

  “I knew you had her trained, Frank, but, man, she's gonna be a hunting machine.”

  We let her feed for a short while before calling her off the kill with an even bigger reward: a piece of one of the quail Jake raised. If we let her grow too sated, we risked the loss of her seeing us as the best provider of her next easy meal. The rabbit looked healthy; its pelt could be turned into clothing or decoration and it would make an excellent stew.

  Later, after Jersey had enjoyed a successful hunt too, we sat over coffee, hot soup, and donuts in the trailer.

  Priscilla was still there. “You guys love this, don't you? This hawking thing,” she said.

  “Yeah.” Jake was tying some new jesses while we ate. “It kind of gets in your blood.”

  “It's a little savage, you know, for a city-bred girl.”

  “World can be savage sometimes. Doesn't always make it bad.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Even city girls can appreciate the call of the wild,” I said. “We're just giving more of the birds a better chance is all.”

  She looked at Jake. “I've watched him with Jersey. I know what you mean. … It's almost enough to make a girl jealous.”

  Jake simply smiled.

  “How are you holding up, Pavlicek? I mean with your daughter still in jail and everything,” Priscilla asked.

  “I've hardly slept for forty-eight hours, but Jake's coffee's keeping me going. I guess I'm doing all right.”

  “There's not much more we can do for you at the moment.”

  “Maybe there is.” I told her what I had told Cowan about Camille.

  “We'll see. Maybe we'll learn more tonight.”

  “Nicky's telling the truth.”

  “Detectives aren't usually known for being optimists,” she said.

  “Except when it comes to their own daughters.”

  Jake heard a sound, leaned over, and peeked out his curtain. “Someone's coming up the drive.”

  We all watched through the window as a small white Hyundai popped into view.

  “It's Pastor Lori,” Priscilla said. “Looks like he has Carla Turner with him.”

  The car pulled in front and came to a stop. The minister jumped out and went to open the door for Mrs. Turner. He wore a down vest over a sweater that seemed to add about thirty pounds to his wiry frame. Carla Turner hoisted herself from the car, using the pastor's arm and a metal cane for support.

  Jake went to help.

  “Hello, Mr. Toronto,” Carla said. “Ms. Thomasen. We were hoping to find Mr. Pavlicek still here.”

  “He's here, all right,” I said, stepping from behind them.

  “Oh, good, Mr. Pavlicek. May we come in?”

  “Come on in and pull up a chair,” Jake said. We waited while she made her way into his little kitchen and sat down.

  “Would you like something to eat?” Priscilla asked. “We've got soup, donuts, and coffee—it's fresh brewed.”

  “Oh, no thank you, honey. I
'm just fine.”

  “How about you. Reverend Lori?”

  The pastor shook his head.

  “What can we do for you then?”

  “Mrs. Turner here's the one insisted on coming,” the Reverend said. “Said she felt the spirit moving her. And who am I to argue with that?” He smiled, I thought, a little nervously.

  We all looked at Carla Turner who leaned toward me and said in a low voice: “There be rumors flying about some things happening tonight, Mr. Pavlicek, and well, like I told Pastor Lori, I just had to come.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, Mrs. Turner,” I said.

  “Lord, ain't no sentiment about it. Your daughter's still in jail, ain't she? You and me, we sharing an agony when it comes to a child.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I told the pastor, I just got to go over there and pray for that man.”

  “Oh, that's okay, Mrs. Turner. I mean, I appreciate it, but—”

  “No, no, Mr. Pavlicek. Prayer is what we need. I'm telling you, as sure as I be sitting here. Prayer's the thing.”

  The pastor nodded.

  I hemmed and hawed some more, but to no avail. A minute later she had us all around the table with our heads bowed and holding hands, talking, she said, as naturally as if it were to someone else in the room, to the Lord.

  I do not remember the words of her prayer. She might have prayed for resolution, for safety for Nicole, I'm not sure. Maybe my mind was fried from lack of sleep or I was too buzzed on caffeine. What I do remember is Carla Turner's voice, how it seemed to slow down, to modulate, to grow. If there were angels in the room in that moment, they sounded like Dewayne Turner's mother, who through love seemed to gather up and blow away all uncertainty. It was clearly a power beyond herself.

  When she finished I thanked her again.

  She took my hand in hers. “One thing to remember about prayer, Mr. Pavlicek. God always answers. It may not be what we want or in a way we can know right away, but you can always count on a reply. You understand?”

  I nodded. Jake seemed to take her words in stride the way he took everything. Priscilla dabbed at her eyes.

  “And you need to know,” she said. “Lots of times, when He answers … things, they gets a lot darker before they gets light.”