The Sign Painter

by Davis Bunn

  She left the apartment, walked down the covered sidewalk, and asked, “Don’t you ever get bored?”

  “If an agent can’t be comfortable on surveillance or guard duty, he’s not much of an agent.”

  She nodded. “We’re about to have dinner. Want to join us?”

  “Better not.” He did not look up. “We’ve got eyes on us.”

  “The place is empty.”

  “Because I’m out here. But they’re watching.” He glanced over. “Thanks just the same.”

  “You’ll be here all night?”

  “I’m just making a statement. My teams are on patrol. After dark, they’ll swing by every hour to check on things.” He pulled a slip of paper from his shirt pocket. “You notice anything, you even think there’s something odd, you get worried, you call.”

  She stuffed the paper in her jeans. “How long will you do this?”

  “Long as it takes.” He met her gaze. “I meant what I said, Amy. You and your daughter are going to be safe.”

  Paul sat by his apartment’s front door as the sun drew late-afternoon shadows over the parking lot. His back was against the former motel’s wall, and the soundproofing was shabby enough that he could hear kids inside complaining that they couldn’t go outside and play. He knew they were trapped because of his presence. The parents would be fearful over a cop lurking outside their doorway. Having one living in the complex would make them all uncertain. He admired Lucy for giving him the place, because it risked alienating all her other tenants. It was a gift of trust that he intended to repay.

  He gave himself over to memories. It was something he rarely did. But the silent lot made for a powerfully reflective mirror. He had joined the FBI straight out of college. Becoming a fed had been his primary goal since high school. He had gone to the University of Maryland because its criminology department was one of the nation’s finest, and all federal agencies used it as a recruiting point. During senior year, he had been granted a coveted slot to attend the national police training program at Fort Benning; only sixteen university students were invited. It was considered a launching pad for highfliers.

  Paul had graduated from the FBI’s training program at the top of his class. He had been sent to headquarters in Washington, expecting great things. For other agents, it would have been a plum assignment. But he had hated the post with a passion. The infighting had astonished him, the petty office politics, the subtle slights, the bruising battles over any hint of advancement. He had managed to survive three years basically by holding his breath. But the strain had cost him dearly. He had married during his last year in college, and his young wife had watched helplessly as he became ever more silent and repressed. Stifling his frustrated rage had left him unable to feel anything at all.

  In his fourth year with the feds, he landed a position at the Baltimore office. Baltimore was a sought-after posting, close enough to be noticed by headquarters and a focal point for major crime. But Paul had been on the job less than six months when a raid went bad and he was shot while apprehending a suspect. His wife stuck by him through the hospital and the rehab and the medical discharge. Then she declared she’d had more than enough and left him. Paul had not thought anything could hurt him worse than the bullet, but the divorce had torn him apart. He had turned to his pastor, who offered the strength and solace of a caring man. When the pastor asked his help with another church’s moment of crisis, Paul had found a new purpose.

  If only his new work were enough to fill the void where his heart once resided.

  A deep voice startled him by demanding, “Hey, man, you got a minute?”

  Paul jerked out of his reverie as the large black man from the evening session weaved his way through the parked cars. “Absolutely. Can I get you a seat?”

  “I’m good. The name’s Uriah.”

  “Like the band?”

  “Yeah, only I don’t got time for any British white-bread seventies head-banging rock.” Uriah leaned against the sidewall. “Look, man, what are you doing here?”

  “Helping the church.”

  “I got that much from Lucy. And it still don’t explain nothing.” He jerked a thumb behind him. “Does that include helping yourself to the lady down the row?”

  Paul met the fierce gaze. “Absolutely not.”

  “Sure looks that way to me.”

  “Amy has been threatened by some bad people. I’m here to make sure it doesn’t go any further.”

  Uriah was not convinced. “So how did the lady’s problems suddenly become yours?”

  “The church has a situation. Amy got mixed up in it by accident. I can’t say more than that.”

  “This church problem got anything to do with that house over by the park? The one where the kids deal off their bikes?”

  Paul let the silence hang for a time. “What do you know about that?”

  “Enough to stay away. These retired cops been walking the beat around here, that was your idea?”

  “Mine and Granville’s.”

  “Granville Burnes is a good man.” Uriah’s jaw canted slightly to the left when he spoke. Paul suspected it had been broken and poorly set. “Maybe I will sit for a minute or two.”

  Paul rose and went inside and returned with the other kitchen chair. The black man seated himself and propped his feet on the narrow concrete ledge. Soon after, doors creaked open and children spilled into the afternoon light. Paul said, “Thanks for the stamp of approval.”

  “These folks, they got a lot of reasons to stay shy around cops.”

  “Do you live here too?”

  “Before. Not anymore. Been in my own place about a year now. I help out some. A lot of us try and give back when we can.”

  Paul hesitated, then said, “Thanks for helping me out last night. I mean, in the class.”

  “I know what you mean. I know it’s hard for a strong man to ask for help.”

  “Terrible,” Paul agreed.

  “Well, I guess I’m done here.” Uriah rose to his feet and offered the kids a languid wave. “I hear something about that house, I’ll let you know.”

  “Be careful,” Paul warned.

  “Man, you don’t need to tell me nothing about that.”

  Monday morning, Amy prepared her daughter’s breakfast and dressed for work feeling oddly calm. In a way, the appearance of that woman with her knife had changed everything. The woman had been sent to scare Amy into submission. And she had been halfway successful. Amy was most certainly scared, but she was not submitting. Not to them. No way was she giving up on this place, this home, this job, this church, this new chance at a life for herself and her little girl. Amy’s back was to the wall.

  Amy dropped Kimmie off at the church’s day care, then headed back across the parking lot. Paul fell into step beside her. “Got a minute?”

  “I’m headed for work.”

  “That’s why I’m here.” He waited for her to unlock the camper’s door. “Have you heard about the problem that brought me here in the first place?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to know?”

  She liked how he gave her a chance. As if her vote meant something. She looked at him fully. Paul Travers fit the classic version of handsome, tall and dark and lean and intensely strong. He also carried a hint of danger, a feral scent that surrounded him. She knew some women were drawn to that. She was not one of them. “Do I need to?”

  He took his time responding. “There may be a time when it’s necessary. I have a feeling that the two issues, yours and the church’s, are connected. But I don’t have any proof of that.”

  “Right now I’ve got all I can handle on my plate.”

  He nodded. “Granville has a friend on the force. They want you to come by the station and look at some photographs. See if you can identify the people who bought those cars and threatened you.”r />
  She felt the tight shiver of invading fear. “Do I have to?”

  “No, Amy. He’s asking. Not telling.” Paul offered a thin smile. “If necessary, I’ll remind him of that.”

  “Then I’m not doing it. I never want to go into another police station as long as I live.”

  Amy slammed her door. She started the car. Then she sat there. Staring at her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. It was one thing to be strong and determined in her little kitchen and another thing entirely to face up to what needed doing.

  Paul stood beside her door. Waiting. She rolled down her window. “How would this work?”

  “You come back here. Fix your daughter lunch. I’ll drive you over, then bring you back.”

  “You’ll stay with me?”

  “Every step of the way.”

  The truck’s seat was high enough for her to be right at eye level. She studied Paul’s two scars. One was a tight pucker on his neck, below the sharp angle of his jaw. The other was a streak along his right temple. It had clipped off a tiny fragment of his ear. For some reason, the evidence of his past struggles brought her the strength to say, “I’ll do it.”

  “It could help us. A lot.”

  She nodded and rolled her window up. She put the camper into gear and drove away. Before she had a chance to change her mind.

  CHAPTER 15

  The stoplight halted Amy at the main intersection fronting Denton Chevrolet. The lot was surrounded by fresh bunting that flapped in the hot May breeze. Balloons sprouted from everywhere. A mini-dirigible hung directly over the main building, emblazoned with the one word: Sale. Her windows gleamed brightly, all part of the festive allure. The light changed, and she drove down another block and parked in her customary spot. She sat there long enough for the heat to gather in the truck’s cab. Then she shifted the mirror over so she could look herself in the eye and say, “This is your big chance. Don’t mess it up.”

  Bob Denton was out front talking with a saleswoman Amy recognized. He waved her over, shook her hand, and introduced her to the other woman, whose name Amy was too nervous to remember. Bob took her inside and settled her at the desk outside his office, then rushed out to deal with a customer. Amy sat and endured glances from every direction. She had no idea what to do. Bob was back soon, apologizing and saying that the entire day would be like that. He brought with him a new sales contract and showed her how to enter the data into the system.

  Thankfully, she had learned her bookkeeping skills on the same computer program they used. She watched him work through the first two contracts, then she said she thought she could handle it, and he watched as she did the next two herself. The used-car contracts were a bit more complex, as the figures had to be registered against the incoming cost, which often included a trade and some necessary repairs. But by midmorning she felt comfortable with it all, and Bob clearly agreed, because he left her alone. From time to time she saw him rushing from one group of customers to the next. He stopped by twice more to ask how things were going. A couple of the salespeople came over to introduce themselves, but not many. Just before noon she spotted Drew as he entered the showroom. The young man was nicely groomed, as usual, but no amount of hair gel and flashy clothes could disguise the gray tint to his parchment-taut skin. He kept his sunglasses on in the showroom and pretended not to see her.

  Bob Denton chose that moment to walk over and deposit four more sales contracts on her desk. “I know it’s your first day and all, but is there any chance you could work late?”

  “I think so.” It was the opening she had been half wanting and half dreading. “I need to see if someone can watch my daughter. Could I take a little extra time at lunch?”

  He was already moving toward another gesticulating salesman. “Sure thing.”

  Amy drove back and stopped by Kimmie’s day care. The after-hours service for working mothers cost a little extra, but it meant Kimmie could bed down in the cubby the children used for their afternoon naps, and she would be watched over by one of the center workers whom she already knew. Amy made the arrangements, then took Kimmie home and made her lunch. The center brought in meals from the church cafeteria, but Amy liked this chance to be alone with her little girl. She fixed herself a peanut butter sandwich but could eat only a few bites. The thought of what was about to happen congealed the food into a cold, hard lump in her gut.

  Amy walked Kimmie back to the center and tucked her in to the pallet for her nap. When she returned to the parking lot, Paul was there, waiting by his rental. She did not say anything as she walked over. It would be too easy to change her mind.

  The police station was located on the border of Brentonville’s original downtown section. Along several side streets, she glimpsed beautiful mock-Victorian homes sheltered beneath live oaks and bougainvilleas. Paul parked outside the station entrance, rose from the car, and walked around to hold her door. She liked how he stood in close, held her arm, shadowed her as they entered the station. Silently letting her know she was not alone, that she could rely on his strength. Which was good, because she wasn’t sure her legs could carry her forward.

  Amy had never been in a police station before her husband died. Now she had seen the inside of four. Twice she had been stopped on vehicle infractions and twice on vagrancy charges. The last time had been the most humiliating and terrifying. The policewoman had brought in a social worker who’d asked endless questions, tearing holes in the fabric that bound Amy to her little girl. Amy had seen the message in both of those hard gazes, just how close she was to losing her baby.

  Granville met them at the door. He must have seen something in Amy’s gaze, for he greeted her with “I got your back.”

  The farther they moved into the station, the more her tension mounted. Blood pounded in her head so loudly that Amy missed hearing the police detective’s name. She saw the woman’s gold shield and knew it meant she was a detective. Amy knew there was no reason to be this frightened. She knew the real danger was out there on the streets. She knew these people meant to protect her. But her anxiety kept growing until . . .

  Paul reached over and gripped her arm. “Why don’t we come back another day?”

  She saw the goodness in his face and eyes. And the concern. And the strength. It drew her back. Amy took a breath. “No. I’m okay.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  The woman detective started, “I’ve got a couple of questions I’d like—”

  “Later,” Paul said, his eyes never leaving Amy’s face, “let’s walk her through the book and we’re gone.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Paul made them stop. Amy had worked her way through three huge notebooks of mug shots, and the photos were beginning to merge into a single angry face. He drove her back to the church in silence and pulled up next to her camper. “You did good back there.”

  “I didn’t identify any of them.”

  “There were eight of them in the showroom, right?”

  “Three men and five women. Why?”

  “You had a good look at all of them, even though only the woman came over and spoke with you?”

  “I spent the whole time they were inside painting a window. There was nothing else going on inside the showroom. I saw them.” She took a breath. “And they saw me.”

  Paul nodded. “You heard what I said. Granville, too. We’ve got your back.”

  She started to rise from the car but stopped and said what she had been thinking all morning long. “I think we should tell Bob Denton.”

  Amy liked how he showed her idea respect, how he took time to consider it, though she already knew he disliked it. “I don’t know if that’s a good plan, Amy.”

  “He’s been very good to me. It’s the right thing to do.”

  “But can he maintain a blank face, knowing his business has been used by the bad guys? We know at least one
of his employees isn’t clean. Granville claims Denton is good, but can we be sure? You let him in on what’s happening, and we need to have answers to all these questions.”

  “He deserves to know.”

  Paul was still mulling that over as she rose from the car. She entered her apartment and washed her face and hands, trying to clear away the station’s smell and the sullen faces that crowded in behind her eyes. The men and women in the mug shots all wore numbered signs held to their chests. Their rage and the pain still shouted at her. Amy wanted to lie down and close her eyes and let the world slip away for a while. Instead, she got in her camper and drove back to her customary spot down the side road.

  When she returned to her desk, she found sixteen sales documents waiting beside her keyboard. She entered the information into the various systems, noting the charges and the loans and the VINs and all the other details. There was a numbing calmness to the work. It was both complex and yet straightforward. She lost herself in it, such that the next thing she knew, the world beyond her window had gone dark. She eased the cramp in her neck, then phoned the day-care center and spent a few minutes chatting with Kimmie. That was another special feature of Lucy’s program, how working mothers were permitted to speak with their children once each day, just have a chance to connect, no matter where they might be.

  As she hung up the phone, she saw death enter the showroom.

  That was how she thought of it later, when she recalled that moment. One of the men came in, accompanied by two women. Amy recognized them instantly. Drew was nowhere to be seen. But another salesmen rushed over and greeted the man warmly. Clearly, they had done business before. The customer accepted the salesman’s fawning greetings like a prince. He was dressed in clothes that must have cost a fortune, a gold and diamond bracelet on one wrist and an oversize gold watch on the other, and a white silk shirt. He was almost too black to be American. His features were very sharply defined. Amy had known some people who looked like that, from the Caribbean islands, folk whose blood maintained a pure tribal strain.