"Do you know if she and Seworth were dating?"
"They weren't."
"You sound positive."
"Because I am. She couldn't stand him."
"Then how well did she know him?"
"If you were female at this hospital, you knew him. If you had any sense, you avoided him. She had a great deal of sense."
"Was she giving him a ride home?"
"Never.” Clarice walked over and adjusted the alignment of the top sheet by a quarter of an inch. “No woman with any sense ever found herself alone with him. Though there were enough who found him attractive—at least to hear him tell it. Hard to have lunch in the cafeteria without hearing one of his tales told to fools. His buddies from the lab."
"Maybe she had a moment of attraction?"
"No.” She turned and faced Bubba. He looked down at her from his six-foot-five height. She probably wasn't used to many people looking down at her.
"How do you know? People have secrets."
"I know. Besides, what difference does it make?"
"She was driving. She was responsible for what happened. That's what the lawsuit says. To the tune of seven figures."
"So you're just trying to save State money. No one cares what really happened."
"No reason I can't care about both. I'm a multitasker."
A flick of smile changed Clarice's face. “Why should I believe you care at all?"
"You know Gina in E.R.? Ask her."
Clarice looked at him for a long moment and then went to the phone and punched a number. Bubba stood by the window until the low murmur of conversation ended. He turned and raised an eyebrow.
"Gina vouches for you with her cat's life. That's about as sure a thing as I'll find around here. Patsy and I had plans to drive to Tampa, to Ybor City, to go to a private club the night of the accident."
"Maybe she changed her mind?"
"The last person in the world she'd change for would be that strutting, aggressive little rooster, Bill Seworth. He gave her the willies.
"He'd been hitting on her for months. She finally told him not if they were the last couple on earth. She'd rather have roaches rule the world than continue his DNA. He didn't take it well. Seemed offended. But that's what happens when you pat a person's ass in the cafeteria."
"So you're sure she didn't have anything going on with Seworth?"
"I was sure enough that night that I started calling police when she was an hour late to my place. I got here when she was still in the E.R., I know.” She pushed a strand of hair away from Patsy's forehead. “I have to get back. Anything else I can tell you?"
"Do you have a key to her apartment? I'd like to look around. See if there's..."
"No use. Everything is in storage. She only had a small place, kept some of her clothes there and such. I brought her pictures up here. I found no secrets. She was the Patsy I knew."
"Anything else you think is important?"
"She's going to die like this. If you find out the truth, please don't bury it just to help some insurance company."
"I won't."
Clarice stuck out her hand and they shook. She followed Bubba out of the room and shut the door behind them, blocking the blip of the monitor. They took different elevators away from the sixth floor.
Bubba left the hospital through the E.R. He wanted to thank Gina for her help, but she was listening to a mother explain about her child's broken arm and could only nod to Bubba as he passed by. He hated hospitals.
"Want a ride?” Bubba turned and saw Harold coasting up.
"Hello, Detroit."
"Hop in. We'll see if this thing has enough horsepower to get both of us to your Bronco."
"Why the service?"
"I asked around. People said you weren't a redneck peckerwood and to be nice."
"So I can park in the police area next time?"
"Not if I'm on duty, but I will give you a ride in my official security-mobile because you don't look like jogging is your strong suit."
"You either. This cart's struggling."
"You working on the Seworth death, aren't you?"
"Good hospital grapevine. You know anything useful?"
"Tons, but nothing about that little prick. Tried to tell me where he could park. She was sweet. Always a smile. I had to let his folks through the gate to retrieve his truck after he died."
"It was in the employees’ area?"
"Next to where Patsy usually parked. We try to keep an eye on the women in the parking lots. Going to and getting out of cars leaves them vulnerable. Usually never have any trouble. Because we have a good plan and we watch. At least on my shift."
"Anything else you can think of."
"Nope. I'm not paid to think anymore. Just keep ‘em moving so no one complains to a suit. After I move my daily quota, I go home and look for buried treasure with my metal detector. Another Florida lie. Here you are."
Bubba stood and the cart lifted. He held out his hand. “Thanks for the ride."
"Anytime. How did Patsy look?"
"Peaceful."
"Too bad. She's lasted too long already.” He spun the wheel and left in a poor imitation of a wheely. Bubba smiled and cranked up the Bronco. There was work to be done for his client's client.
He called the parents of the passenger and made an appointment with a quiet woman to meet with her and her husband at four when he got home from work.
Bubba stopped by the ATM, then on to the WHPD downtown office. There he slipped in the back door. They hadn't changed the lock in the years since Bubba retired from the Polk County Sheriff's Department. During his career, he had accumulated keys to almost every entrance door in the city departments. They came in handy. Roger was behind his desk with a tall stack of manila folders on one side of his desk and a smaller one on the other.
"Looks like you are about done for the day,” Bubba said.
"When there is only one stack, I can leave,” Roger said. He pushed back from the desk and stood to shake Bubba's hand. Bubba stood a head taller, but Roger weighed a wide two hundred fifty pounds. His bald head had a white circle where his Florida Gator hat always perched when he went outside. They both sat, and Roger pulled a manila folder from the side drawer. He tapped its side on the desk.
"That it?” Bubba asked.
"A bad one, like I said. Take a look yourself."
Bubba flipped through the file, noting the important parts of the familiar forms. Apparently, Patsy Jenks had lost control of her Toyota in the construction zone on Cypress Gardens Boulevard and hit a concrete embankment head-on. Her passenger, William Seworth, had gone through the windshield and landed in a drainage ditch that fed Lake Roy. He had not been wearing a seat belt. She had and remained in the car. The air bag had inflated, but her head had shattered the side window. The passenger was dead when the EMTs arrived and Patsy had been taken to WH Regional unconscious.
He drove out to Cypress Gardens Boulevard, past the Publix shopping center, onto the winding curves between the small lakes. It was an easy drive but congested with tourists who apparently had never encountered a construction area on their migration to Florida. The curve leading to the concrete embankment was mild, not even needing a camber. The concrete stood a dozen feet off the road with the ditch running beside it. At forty miles an hour, sixty feet a second, the Toyota would have been on it in a blink. Unless the passenger had been watching the road, he'd never seen it coming. Unsnapped bra, probably not looking at the road. Bubba pulled over and stopped, ignoring the honk of an RV horn.
The gash on the concrete was embedded with blue paint. There were glass particles and plastic fragments piled against the column. Someone had swept. Bubba squatted down and felt the knot in his back tighten. He looked and found nothing of interest. Then he walked over to the ditch and looked down at the drying mud. There hadn't been much rain in the last month. But it was still too soft to walk on; a person could probably drown in the mud if they were paralyzed. Was drowning the right word for mud?
More probably suffocate, or terminally muddled. Bad death either way. Bubba headed back to the Bronco. He hadn't expected to see much after two months, and he wasn't disappointed. Since there weren't any clues at the crime scene, it was time to learn about the people. People always left clues.
Bubba drove slowly, dreading any conversation with parents about their dead son; he'd done too many of those while in uniform. He found their concrete-block house with the big yard at the end of a long driveway off Eagle Lake Loop Road. The house was freshly painted. The yard mowed, trimmed, and edged. The truck in front of the garage shined. Two hounds of indeterminate breed crawled out from under the truck when Bubba stopped but crawled back when he straightened up and stared at them. He had not reached the porch when the front door opened. A compact man with a severe crew cut walked out onto the porch and stopped with his thumbs in the belt of his ironed jeans. A huge silver buckle gleamed between his hands. He looked freshly showered; his chest stretched the white T-shirt, even if it was probably a size small.
"I don't have to talk to you, Bubba Simms,” he said.
Bubba recognized him. He had not placed the name until now. He didn't think he'd ever known the last name.
"No, you don't, Captain Bill.” Captain Bill had been running work crews for the county road department ever since Bubba could remember. The Captain had started back when there were prisoners on all the work crews. Not that the man on the porch had ever been a policeman, but he wore a uniform and demanded the authority. Captain had sounded good. Bubba glanced and saw that Seworth was wearing his usual pair of high-heeled cowboy boots, which left him about a foot shorter than Bubba.
"The fool wife said you could come by. I'd have told you to buzz off."
"That certainly is your right, Captain. But the thing is, the people at State Insurance pay me to look. I tell them this, I tell them that, then they tend to do what needs to be done. Otherwise, they have to be an insurance company, and you cannot imagine how long an insurance company lawyer can wait. So it's your choice."
The man hesitated. Bubba knew Captain Bill wanted to tell him to get off his land, but he resisted the urge on the off chance that Bubba just might have some influence with the insurance company.
"Might as well get it over with. Come on in.” He turned and went into the house. Bubba started up the steps to the porch. A woman opened the door and smiled a quick welcome as he went past her into the house. The living room was bigger than it looked from the outside. There were two recliners set to face the TV, a sofa off to one side with a coffee table in front of it. Framed pictures sat on all the flat surfaces. There were a few group shots, but most of them were father and son, fishing, hunting, with baseballs, basketballs, and one with a car engine torn apart. Lots of jeans and white T-shirts.
"Can I bring us some tea? I just made iced tea. Captain likes to have his fresh tea waiting when he gets home from work,” the woman said. She looked back and forth from Bubba to her husband. Standing beside him, her black hair was streaked with gray and twisted in a bun, she made Captain Bill look almost tall.
"He's not staying long enough for anything,” Captain said, waving his hand to dismiss her. She went to an armchair in the corner and picked up a knitting project. Bubba sat on the couch while Seworth kicked back in his recliner. With his feet up and his hands behind his head, he watched Bubba out of the corner of his eye. “Ask your damn fool questions, Simms."
"I am sorry for the loss of your son. Do you know if he was dating Patsy Jenks?"
"No,” said the father.
"Oh no, definitely not. He's engaged to a lovely girl, Brenda Styles,” Mrs. Seworth said. “He lived here to save money for their wedding."
"Be quiet!” the father said.
"Any idea why he was in her car?"
"No."
"She must have invited him. Billy was a polite boy. He'd never go anywhere he wasn't invited."
"Be quiet!” Captain turned his head and faced Bubba. “Junior was his own man. I raised him to be. Who knows what he and some chickie were up to. It's not like he was married or anything. He did what he wanted to do, what needed to be done. The stupid bitch killed him and now she's gonna pay."
"Patsy's in a coma,” Bubba said.
"Serves her right. Let her suffer."
"Oh Captain, no one should suffer like that,” his wife said, eyes down, fingers flying. “Billy was a wonderful son and I cry all the time, but it was an accident, and her being in a coma won't bring my Billy back.” She dropped her hands to her lap, and Bubba could see tears dropping on the knitting.
Seworth lowered the recliner and stood. “That's enough. Get out, Simms."
Bubba stood and started to say something to Mrs. Seworth but turned instead and left. Seworth followed him. When Bubba opened the Bronco's door, he turned. Seworth stood too close, at the edge of the door. Anger surged off him. His face was red, his breath came in snorts. He leaned toward Bubba, “You ever come around my place again, I'll gut you."
With a smooth practiced motion, Seworth pulled a knife from the case on his belt. The blade locked in place when his wrist flicked. It gleamed in the sunlight. Bubba felt a spurt of fear twist his stomach, then the flow of anger kicked in. The muscles tightened across his shoulders. His chest filled. Instincts said to kick Seworth in the closest knee and then stomp him into a mud hole when he fell.
Bubba didn't take well to having a knife pulled on him.
As he shifted his weight to his back leg to free the right foot, he looked into Seworth's eyes. The pupils were dilated, unfocused. Bubba thought he could see anger, fear, pain, hesitation; a parade of emotions. His son's death must be tearing him apart. Or Seworth was just loony.
Either way, this was neither the time nor the place for a fight. He let out the deep breath he'd been holding and climbed into the Bronco. He shut the door and started the engine, put the truck in reverse. When he reached the end of the drive, Seworth was still standing there, knife at his side, as if he didn't know what to do next.
The little bastard pulled a knife on me; he can kiss the chance of a quick settlement good-bye. Pull a knife on me. See if you get a cent. Bubba turned the vehicle for home. There was something to be said for a quiet evening throwing the ball for Elvis.
* * * *
Brenda Styles was a waitress at the Waffle House out on Highway 27 at the I-4 interchange. He had talked to her on the phone after Elvis collapsed from fun. She'd said in the morning around eleven was a good time to talk, between rushes. She told him she was the blonde whose name tag said BREN. He told her he'd be the triple waffle, ham on the side, wearing the Georgia Bulldog hat. She said that that didn't narrow it down much at Waffle Houses. He said he'd find her.
He saw her talking to the grillman when he entered. Bright blond hair in a french twist, dark eyebrows, and olive skin. BREN on the name tag when she turned and smiled. She pointed to an empty booth and pantomimed coffee. He nodded and eased himself into the booth.
"Triple waffle and homefries with cheese is more like it,” she said as she set their cups on the table and perched on the other seat like a happy parakeet.
"I'm dieting."
"Ha. Like I am. Eat everything that can't escape and hunt some down at night.” She opened two sugars and two creams and stirred them in.
"And you weigh, what, with all your fatness?"
"Been five foot, ninety pounds since I was thirteen. I've got cutoffs I've been wearing for twenty years. Missed the growth spurt. You want a waffle? We make the best."
"No, but thanks. Just some information about Bill Seworth.” Her eyes dulled for a moment, then she smiled ruefully.
"Billy was sweet. At times. Difficult at others."
"How so?"
"He couldn't decide if he was tomcat or a husband-in-waiting. He'd bug me to marry him at the damnedest times, and I kept telling him to grow up. For God's sake, he was thirty and living at home."
"Did you see him often?"
"Whenever he wanted to party.
I must say he did show a girl a good time, all night long. Then I wouldn't see him for a week or more. I feel bad about that last day. We were supposed to party, but I had to fill in for the manager. Talked to him at noon and a couple of hours later he's dead. Life's a bitch and then you die."
Bubba nodded and finished his cup of coffee. Bren automatically left the booth and brought the pot to refill their cups. She moved deftly on her thick-soled shoes.
"Sure you don't want a waffle?"
"Sure. Did Billy ever show signs of violence?"
She stopped with the pot in her hand. Then she returned the coffee to the brewing unit and sat back in the booth.
"Things are going to jump in a few minutes, so we have to finish this up. No, not violence. But he could make a show of being a badass. I had to talk us out of a few places before he got hurt, knife or no knife. There are people who aren't afraid of a knife. Those are the violent ones. No, Billy wasn't violent, just an angry boy at times. Anything else?"
"Did you like him?"
"There were moments. Let me get you a go-cup for that coffee.” She returned with a Styrofoam cup and lid. Bubba reached for his wallet.
"No charge.” She looked him in the eye; they were level while he sat. “Drop by sometime when you aren't working. Maybe we'll have a moment."
"There are moments, and then there are moments."
"Isn't that a fact.” She patted him on the shoulder and went back behind the counter, smiled at him as he left.
Bubba drove home with mixed feelings. He liked the visit with Bren but was beginning not to like this case. The car wreck of unrequited lovers was devolving, so he decided to ask the Queen of Devolution: Detective Robin Johnson, Supervisor of Crimes Against Women at the Polk County Sheriff's Office.
First, he had to let Elvis out of his pen, hug him, hold him in his arms after a leap against his chest, and then watch him run circles finding the scent of trespassers in the back yard. Bubba propped open the porch's door, grabbed the portable phone, and sat in the rocker where he could throw tennis balls. He threw a tennis ball, watched Elvis tear after it, then dialed Robin's direct line.
"Johnson,” she said.
AHMM, November 2006 Page 4