Season of Fear

by Brain Freeman

  ‘But sometimes victims kill their abusers,’ Cab said.

  Caprice was silent. Then she said: ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Diane paid money to Frank Macy two days before the murders. What was that money for?’

  The silence dragged out again, even longer this time. ‘I can’t believe you’d even suggest something like that.’

  ‘Diane was seen with Macy.’

  ‘I don’t care who saw what. Diane did not have Birch killed.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Cab, do you think we could have kept what Birch did out of the press without Diane being involved? I talked to her personally. Just her and me, woman to woman. It was her choice to keep it a secret. It was her choice to go on with the campaign. You may find this hard to imagine, but she believes in Common Way, and she believed in it back then. She chose to stay silent about Birch, because she wanted him to win despite everything else. Do you think she would turn around and have him murdered?’

  ‘Do you have another explanation?’

  ‘I don’t,’ Caprice said, ‘but I know Diane. She wouldn’t do that. Besides, we’re not just talking about Birch. Can you honestly tell me that you think Diane would let innocent people die?’

  ‘Not if she knew what was going to happen. Maybe she didn’t know.’

  ‘You think she paid Frank Macy, but she didn’t know what he was going to do?’ Caprice asked.

  ‘Macy’s not an idiot. He’s smart. He’d protect himself. Murder Birch, and people wonder why. They ask uncomfortable questions. But assassinate Birch and make it look like domestic terrorism? Now it’s a political crime. Now there are fall guys. Ham Brock. Chuck Warren. The Liberty Empire Alliance.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ she said. ‘Frank Macy sold drugs to Drew. Diane blames him for Drew’s death. That’s all I know. If she paid him, it wasn’t for the reasons you think. It was something else. Maybe she just wanted him to go away.’ She paused, and then she added harshly: ‘And I’ll tell you another thing. It’s no accident that this is coming out now. Whatever went on between Macy and Diane, I’m certain that Ramona Cortes knows what it is. Ramona was Macy’s lawyer. She wants it exposed, and she wants your fingerprints on this, not hers.’

  ‘I still have to talk to Diane. I have to know what happened.’

  ‘Do whatever you need to do, but I’m begging you to be discreet. The suspicion alone will destroy Diane if it becomes public.’

  ‘You think I don’t know that?’ Cab asked.

  ‘I think you do, but you don’t seem to care.’

  Cab wondered if that was true. Tarla had accused him more than once of being obsessed with answers, regardless of who got hurt. After Vivian Frost’s betrayal, he’d come to believe that anyone in the world was capable of evil. He took it personally when people lied to him.

  Maybe that was the problem. This was personal. Diane had never told him about the loss of his child, and he wanted to hurt her as a kind of revenge. He was ready to believe she was guilty of something terrible. He was ready to ruin her.

  ‘I care about this more than you think,’ Cab told her. ‘I hate what Birch did to Diane.’

  He waited for an answer but heard only thunder. ‘Caprice?’

  And then again: ‘Caprice?’

  Finally, she came back on the line. Her voice was different. She didn’t sound like a politician anymore. ‘Cab, we have a problem.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Ogden Bush just called me on my other line. Peach was in his office a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Peach? Why?’

  ‘Apparently, someone broke into her house last night,’ Caprice told him. ‘Her brother Deacon is missing. Peach says Deacon was talking to his prison contacts about Frank Macy before he disappeared. Cab, I don’t know exactly what happened ten years ago, but right now, I don’t care. I’m more concerned with what’s happening today. Get inside, and check on Diane.’

  40

  Peach crept along the scrub-lined gravel road through the docklands area. The pavement was invisible under the rippling water. Pebbles and sand cracked on her windshield like bullets shot by the fierce gales. Her wipers fought a losing battle against the rain, and she leaned forward, trying to see. A quarter mile ahead, the road split. A dead end led toward the port, where she could see a mammoth tanker docked in the water. To her left, a sign pointed toward Picnic Island Park. She headed that way, thudding across railroad tracks and driving slowly, unsure of the depth of the water underneath her tires. Ahead of her, palm trees and evergreens bowed toward the east, as if to say: Run. Run that way. Run fast.

  The road ended at a crescent beach adjoining the bay.

  The sprawling waterside park was the heel on the boot that made up the Tampa peninsula. Facing west, she stared at the narrowest point of the channel leading into Old Tampa Bay, across the water from the city of St Petersburg. The low-lying park was webbed with marshes and creeks. It was mostly wild and unkempt, matted with sea grass. Fuel tanks and mountains of crushed sandstone loomed in the industrial area bordering the park. A concrete pier jutted into the water beside a boat launch. Angry waves threw themselves over the pier, sending up twelve-foot clouds of spray.

  She turned off the engine. The sky was black, like night. She could barely open her car door into the wind. When she stepped into three inches of water, she felt herself thrown backward by the force of the gusts. Her clothes were sodden. The rain pelleted her face; she had to shield her eyes. The noise of the storm was deafening, a shrieking chorus of water and wind.

  At first, she thought the parking lot was empty, but then she spotted a car hidden inside a grove of trees. It was a red Cutlass, heavily dinged with years of abuse. The car was littered with wet leaves and had obviously been stranded here for hours. She staggered in a zigzag across the lot. Something slimy brushed her ankle, and she realized it was a fish, swept from the bay into the shallow lake that now covered the parkland. Better a fish than an alligator. She splashed forward onto spongy mud that sucked at her sneakers, and when she reached the abandoned Cutlass, she yanked open the door and piled inside.

  The car smelled of smoke and French fries, despite an old pine air freshener dangling from the mirror. Its torn leather seats were buried under crumpled food wrappers and newspapers. A GPS navigator was suctioned to the dashboard. She spotted an old gallon milk jug one-third filled with a yellowish liquid, and her lip wrinkled in disgust.

  Peach looked in the back seat. She saw a pair of binoculars and realized they were made for night vision. She spotted the corner of a laptop poking out from under a Penthouse magazine, and she needed two hands to lift the machine into the front seat. The laptop was a Toughbook, made for rugged use. She traced a USB cable plugged into one of the computer ports to a digital camera.

  This was a stake-out car. A spy car.

  She opened the glove compartment, which was crammed with electronic charger cables and receipts. She rifled through the pile of papers but didn’t find any insurance information or owner records. She lifted the lid of the laptop and pushed the power button, but the battery was dead.

  Peach flipped down the sun visor. She found a stack of more than a dozen identification cards tucked under an elastic strap. She pulled out the laminated cards and flipped through them. The card issuers were all different. State and county agencies. Trade associations. Corporations. Banks. The cards were fake, using a variety of aliases, but several of the cards included a photograph, and she recognized the man in the pictures.

  It was Curtis Ritchie. Ogden Bush’s private investigator. The man she knew as Curtis Clay.

  Peach slid her phone from her pocket and called Annalie, and she was grateful when the woman answered. The connection was intermittent and ripped with static, but she could hear her.

  ‘Peach, what is it? Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’m over in Picnic Island Park.’

  Annalie’s unhappiness cut through the line. ‘I told you to stay
in the office. What are you doing there?’

  ‘The man who was following me in the red Cutlass, he’s a PI named Curtis Ritchie. He works for Ogden Bush. Bush said that Ritchie was following Frank Macy last night, and the trail led here. I found the car, but he’s nowhere around.’

  ‘You should get out of there,’ Annalie said. ‘Right now.’

  ‘There’s no one here—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Someone may be coming back to get that car.’

  ‘I need to see you,’ Peach said.

  ‘It’s not safe to travel. The storm’s getting worse.’

  ‘Please. I’m going to Justin’s safe house. Can you meet me there?’

  There was a long pause, and she thought Annalie might say no. Then the woman replied: ‘All right. It will take me an hour. Be careful.’

  Peach hung up the phone.

  She gathered up Ritchie’s Toughbook and digital camera, and she grabbed the charger cables from the glove compartment, hoping they matched the devices. She shoved the equipment under her shirt, which provided meager protection against the storm. The hardened plastic shells were cold on her damp skin. She opened the door and ducked out into the rain and kicked the door shut behind her.

  Clutching the equipment against her body, Peach struggled back to her Thunderbird. She was nearly blind. Twice, the wind literally blew her to her knees. Pine needles whipped around her face, stinging like razors. The water at her feet swirled in foamy whirlpools, keeping her off balance. At her car, she dumped everything onto the passenger seat and heaved herself inside. She was shivering. She turned on the engine and blasted heat into the interior. The wipers shot back and forth.

  She examined the electronic equipment, hoping it wasn’t permanently damaged by the storm. When she checked the cables, she found a car charger with an adapter end that fit the laptop. She plugged it in and connected the power end to the car’s cigarette lighter. The AC indicator on the damp machine turned green.

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured to herself.

  Then she jumped so high her head struck the roof.

  Someone rapped sharply on the driver’s side window. Peach saw a man completely wrapped in a yellow slicker. His face was flushed and wet, and he looked as young as she was, with a pimply face. His hood was pushed down, and he wore a security officer’s cap, robed in plastic. Behind him, ten yards away, she spotted a white SUV labeled PARK RANGER. The lights were on. The engine was running.

  Automatically, Peach hit the lock on the car doors. The park policeman rapped on the window again. She lowered the window an inch, and he pressed his lips close to the gap and shouted to be heard.

  ‘Ma’am, the park is closed.’

  She smiled and shouted back. ‘I was just leaving!’

  ‘Are you okay? I saw you fall.’

  ‘I’m fine! Thank you!’

  His eyes traveled to the laptop and camera, and then he looked across the roof of the car to the border of the parking lot, where he spotted the Cutlass. She watched his eyes squint with suspicion.

  ‘Ma’am, what are you doing down here?’

  ‘What?’ She pretended not to hear.

  ‘Does that equipment belong to you, ma’am?’ he demanded, pointing at the Toughbook on the seat.

  ‘You mean the laptop? Of course.’

  He frowned. ‘Can you show me some identification, ma’am?’

  ‘Is this necessary? I need to get home. I’m sorry – I didn’t know the park was closed.’

  ‘Your ID, ma’am,’ he repeated.

  Peach sighed and dug in her back pocket for her wallet. She slid out her driver’s license and passed it through the crack in the window. Rain flooded down the glass inside the car.

  ‘Turn off your car please, ma’am.’

  ‘Look, officer, I’m cold and wet. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Can I please just have my license back?’

  He didn’t return her license. Instead, he pushed through the flooded park toward the Cutlass. She saw him peer inside and make a circuit around the vehicle. He opened the door, seeing what she saw: the clutter of a man who lived much of his life in his car. He popped the trunk release, checked it, and slammed it shut. He climbed inside the vehicle, and she remembered that she’d left Curtis Ritchie’s roster of fake ID cards on the passenger seat in full view.

  It didn’t take long. The officer was smart enough to know that something was very wrong. He re-emerged into the storm, his face grim. He retreated from the car and headed straight for her. Peach knew where she was headed next. A prison holding cell.

  She watched him come closer. As she debated what to do, she saw the park policeman pitch forward into the green water. He’d tripped on something snagged on the trunk of a palm tree. Whatever it was jutted above the surface like the back of a turtle. As he pushed himself up, the officer’s arm disappeared under the water, and Peach watched with a weird sense of horror as his hand reappeared a second later, holding something at the end of his fingers.

  It took her a moment, through the wild rain, to see that the policeman was clutching a fistful of hair. He was holding a head. A head, white and pale and dead, connected to a body.

  She knew that face. It was Curtis Ritchie.

  Peach screamed.

  She shoved the Thunderbird into reverse and shot backwards, spinning the wheel. The car spun, as if she were riding a Tilt-a-Whirl. It turned, kicking up spray, its tires grinding on gravel and water. The engine coughed once and then roared. She shoved the gear down again, and she sped out of the park without looking back.

  41

  A bodyguard met Cab at the front door of Diane’s estate. The man wasn’t tall, but he was heavily muscled, and his brown eyes moved constantly, surveying Cab from head to toe and studying the estate’s empty porch, where a curtain of rain spilled from the roof. He seemed competent. But he was one man, and it was a big house: he couldn’t be everywhere at once.

  ‘Where is she?’ Cab asked.

  ‘The sunroom.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘No, Garth Oakes is with her.’

  ‘Do you have a partner here?’ he asked the bodyguard.

  The man shook his head. ‘He was in an accident on his way up from Bradenton. I’m on my own.’

  Cab frowned. One man.

  ‘Stay alert,’ he told him.

  He hung up his Burberry trench coat and followed the bodyguard down the wood floor of the hallway. The house was warm. The sconce lights on the walls flickered. At the end of the hall, a wide oak door opened into an airy sunroom, but there was no sun. The room, on the corner of the house, featured a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, including two patio doors leading out into the garden. The glass was silver with rain.

  A chocolate-brown frieze decorated the floor, but the carpet ended twelve feet from the patio doors, where Italian marble took over. The wall on Cab’s left was white, with stylized square panels and gold molding. A chandelier dripped crystal from the ceiling and was bright against the darkness of the morning. A claw-foot settee, with Tiffany table lamps on either end, was positioned on the wall on Cab’s right. The room also included a breakfast nook near the tall windows.

  Diane lay face down on a massage table that had been erected in the center of the room. She was naked, with a towel discreetly draped across her backside. Garth, his hands glistening with oil, kneaded the muscles in her neck with his thumbs, under the fringe of her bobbed brown hair. The sound of the door made Diane open her eyes. She saw Cab and didn’t look surprised. Her eyes closed again.

  ‘Give us a few minutes, will you, Garth?’ she murmured.

  ‘Oh, sure, of course.’

  Garth wiped his hands on a towel. His tanned skin looked almost orange under the chandelier. He wore a silk lavender polo shirt, black-striped Zubaz, and Crocs that matched his shirt. He’d swapped his ponytail for a hair knot on top of his head.

  ‘Hey,’ he said to Cab.

  The masseur was subdued. He grabbed a sport coat, which sagged with weig
ht. Cab figured that the man’s gun was shoved into one of the pockets. The masseur brushed by him as he left the room. Cab turned away to give Diane privacy, and he avoided the reflections in the windows. He heard her climb off the massage table and listened to the swish of fabric as she covered herself with a robe.

  ‘I’m decent,’ she murmured.

  She sat in the breakfast nook near the patio windows. Her long fingers cradled a champagne flute, filled with a mimosa. She watched the storm assault the glass, and her face looked far away.

  Cab took a seat across from her. ‘It’s not safe sitting so close to the windows.’

  She shrugged. ‘They’re reinforced for storms.’

  ‘Not for bullets,’ he said.

  She gave him a strange look. ‘Is there a threat?’

  ‘There may be.’

  Diane showed no concern for her safety. She gave the French doors a curious look, as if seeing a gunman outside would be as interesting as seeing a lost doe. She was distracted, and he wondered if Tarla had called her. He wouldn’t put it past his mother to give her best friend a warning. Cab’s coming. He knows. As if reading his mind, Diane said: ‘Dr Smeltz talked to me.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Someone stole my medical files. He says it was you.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t me, but I was able to retrieve them. They’re safe. You won’t be reading anything in the papers.’

  Diane didn’t look comforted. Her face tightened with fury. ‘Do you have any idea how violated I feel?’

  ‘I think I do.’

  Diane tugged the flaps of her robe tighter below her neck. Something about the gesture gave him a vivid and unwanted memory of their two bodies together. He wondered if the same image was in her own head. It had felt right at the time, but almost immediately, it had gone wrong.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘You know.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  She leaned her head back and stared at the ceiling. She was a powerful woman who looked powerless. ‘I told you that afternoon changed my life.’