I turned off the air conditioning and rolled down all the windows.
I crossed the inland waters and headed up Tamiami. Traffic was sparse and I hit every green light, increasing the sense of wellbeing that the blissful weather had already delivered.
The man on the gate checked his clipboard. “Sorry, ma’am, your name isn’t here. I can’t let you in unless one of the owners calls and puts your name on the list.”
I called Sheila.
“I really don’t think I want to talk about RJ anymore,” she told me.
“Oh, I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say. It’ll give you a heads-up before the police arrive.” “Put the guard on your phone,” Sheila responded. I handed over my cell and the guard listened and said, “Yes, ma’am. She’s on her way.” He winked at me.
Sheila met me at the door. She didn’t look well, was tired and disheveled, and the welcome wasn’t as warm or as happy as the last time I’d stepped over her threshold. Inside the house was as cold as her welcome, in fact it was like stepping into a walk-in freezer, air conditioned to the point of discomfort.
Silently, she led the way out to the room overlooking the natural lands at the back. Lights were on in the family room, making it impossible to see anything happening outside in the eagles’ nest, but Sheila hadn’t drawn the curtains against the night. It gave me the creeps to see that big black expanse and know anyone could be out there looking in, although what they’d be doing in the middle of a swamp even I couldn’t imagine.
Sheila flopped down on the couch, one leg curled up under her and waited. I sat on the arm of the couch across from her and studied her. Her whole angry defensive attitude answered my questions before I’d even asked them. “Ray John told the Cagels that he met a woman living here who he’d arrested for prostitution when he was a deputy sheriff.”
If looks could kill, my life had just ended. “That’s what he had over you,” I guessed. She glared at me with real malice. “Don’t panic yet,” I said. “I’m the only one who has guessed your secret. Ray John didn’t give any names.”
“I was just a stupid kid.”
“Are you still stupid, stupid enough to kill Ray John?”
“That would be really dumb, wouldn’t it?” I’d played enough golf against her to know she was a risk-taker. Sheila never took the easy shot, the safe shot, she always went for the Hail Mary, trying to give herself an edge. Always pushing, she tried to make you play beyond your game, forcing you to make mistakes. There was never a laidback friendly game of golf when Sheila was around, not even in non-tournament situations. She’d made a few enemies at the Royal Palms with her aggressive play, so she had more than enough guts to kill someone. “Ray John recognized you from back then and was holding it over you, using it to control you, making you do what he wanted.”
Her jaw hardened. I was betting she was trying to decide if she would be better telling me to go to hell and toughing it out or pleading innocence and throwing herself on my mercy. She made her decision. She decided I was a soft touch. “I had just turned twenty. I got myself in a bad situation with some very bad people. They had a hold over me, took away all my choices.”
“Is there a record of your arrest?”
She hesitated, not trusting me but afraid to blow me off. I was betting Sheila didn’t trust too many people and that enlisting my help seemed like a better option than having me run to the cops with my story. “Yes,” she finally said. “But not under the name I use now.” She eyed me carefully, assessing me and how much risk I was to her. “So, unless I’m arrested and booked, I’m going to deny ever knowing RJ except as head of security for the Preserves. All right with you?”
“It’ll probably work until they take your fingerprints.”
“Are you going to tell?”
“No skin off my nose if you tell the police or don’t.” She let her breath out in a long whoosh of relief and said, “I wish I could get away from here.”
“But not right now, it would be a mistake. You’d call attention to yourself. Just keep your head down and don’t lose your nerve.” I smiled at her. “Pretend it’s all tied up on the eighteenth and you’ve got a twenty-foot putt to win. I’ve seen you make that, so I know you can do this.”
She gave me a faint smile. “Suppose you won’t want anything to do with me now.”
“Who says? What makes you think I’m that judgmental?”
“I’d do anything if I could just undo the past.”
“Wouldn’t we all?”
“But I really have done some things I wish I could change.”
“Do you have a gun?” The question popped out of my mouth without registering in my brain. If it had gone through any form of filter before it reached my mouth I wouldn’t have said it.
I’d just worn out my welcome. She stiffened and all signs of weakness and vulnerability disappeared. “Why are you asking?”
“In case the police check for registered firearms for everyone in the Preserves.”
“No,” she said and crossed her arms. “I don’t have a gun.”
“Oh, I see, it isn’t registered, is it, because you’d have to give fingerprints? You probably stole it off an old boyfriend. What kind of a gun is it?” “I didn’t say I had one.”
“You didn’t need to, your reaction answered for you.” She grimaced.
“If it isn’t the same caliber as the one that killed Ray John, you’re off the hook.”
“I’ve got a 9mm Glock. What caliber was the gun that killed RJ?”
“I have no idea.” I was wondering if it was the same size as the Beretta. Did the size of a gun represent the size of the caliber? Was a Glock something you could stick in a bag without anyone noticing? “How big is a Glock?”
She uncoiled herself without speaking and left the room. While she was gone I went to the window and searched the near dark for whatever horrors it might hold. I don’t much like the dark anymore. Life has thinned out my courage. I heard Sheila’s footsteps and turned to see her enter the room, holding a gun out in front of her with both hands. She was pointing it at the floor but with her legs spread in a shooter’s position. Her eyes told me her intent.
“Don’t,” I pleaded.
C H A P T E R 5 0
Crazy fear. Was she really going to kill me? I wasn’t sure. All I knew was the dull grey piece of metal with the black hole in the center, rising to find me, looked like death. I locked my eyes to hers.
She smiled an evil smile. “Am I scaring you, Sherri?” “Yes, now put the damn thing down.”
“I’m not pointing it at you, well not where it will do you any harm. I thought you wanted to see it.” “Put it down, Sheila, before there’s an accident.” She smiled again, “Oh, if I shoot you, it won’t be an accident.”
I waited for her to decide if she was going to kill me, afraid to say anything in case it was the wrong thing, afraid to push her over some edge that only she could see.
“Everything I worked for could be lost. I don’t deserve this. I’ve tried so hard.”
My eyes went back to the circle of death, the small back hole about to eat its way through me. Was it my imagination or was the barrel of the gun coming still higher?
“You’re the only one that knows about me,” she hissed. I watched the dull metal barrel rise from my ankles to my knees and now to my waist.
“Killing me won’t solve anything.”
“You’re the only one who knows. I could put you out in that marsh there and leave you to nature.”
“The guard knows I’m here. So does my staff. I told them where I was going. If you kill me, Styles will see you get the death penalty. We still have one in Florida, you know.” I wasn’t sure if that was still true.
The gun wavered a little. She took a different tack now. “I didn’t say I was going to kill you. Where did you get that idea?”
“You gave a real good impression of it. Now put that damn thing down.”
“I’m just showing you the gun
like you asked. You did ask for it, Sherri.” It was back to my knees. “I thought you were interested in my little friend. It’s a semi-automatic with ten rounds in it and it weighs about…” she thought for a minute, “say, half a pound of butter and its barrel is six inches long. Is that what you wanted to know, Sherri?”
All I wanted to know was if I was going to get out of there alive.
“I don’t want to lose everything,” Sheila said in a hypnotic singsong voice. “For the first time in my life I have someone who truly loves me, who wants to take care of me. And he’s rich. That’s always nice, isn’t it? You know how nice rich is, don’t you, Sherri?”
“I’m leaving now.” I said it but it took a little time for my legs to get the message and start to walk.
Slowly with sweat creeping down my sides, I stepped towards her. One step and then stop, and then I repeated the crazy hesitation waltz of fear, like a bridesmaid going towards her execution. My whole being was focused on the Glock. If the muzzle came up even a fraction of an inch I was ready to dive under the nearest piece of furniture. Another step. I fixed on those eyes locked on me, hoping to see what she planned soon enough to give me an edge. Her eyes were hard, never blinking, never telling her thoughts. I glided on. When I was two feet in front of her I stopped again.
She was trying to decide. I could see it in her eyes. We stared into each other’s souls while she made up her mind. Her eyes flicked away and her hands slowly dropped. The muzzle of the gun pointed at the floor.
I started walking again, passing her without a word. Goosebumps ran up and down my arms. The hairs on the back of my head were standing out like little antennae, my skin was prickling, alive and taking in sensory data. Everything was suddenly clear and sharp. I could smell the potpourri in a blue-and-white Chinese bowl on the table; the clicking of my heels on the hardwood echoed like the sound of a gunshot to my head. From outside came the barking of a dog and the sound of a man’s voice calling. I wanted to be out there, alive and safe with sane people, people who were normal and good, because I’d just seen evil in those green eyes. I’d seen death.
I waited for the sound of the blast as I walked slowly towards the front door. Did you hear the explosion or would the bullet hit ahead of the sound?
“Don’t tell anyone or I’ll come find you,” she screamed behind me.
At the door now I fumbled for a second with the lock, my mind unable to grapple with the simple act of turning the bolt.
The lock gave up its secret and opened the door and I stepped outside. A light over the door flicked on and the warmth of the night wrapped around me like comforting arms after the icy chill of the air-conditioned house.
Joy bubbled up in me, the possibility of life filling me with hope. “Don’t run,” I told myself. “Don’t run.” I still wasn’t convinced that I was free.
Surely she wouldn’t shoot me out here where everyone could hear and someone might see? But who knew what the bitch would do and who was there to see in the dark and empty street. No, I wasn’t safe yet. I had my keys out before I reached the pickup, jerking open the door and locking it behind me as though that would keep me safe from bullets, as if the windows weren’t still down, allowing anyone to reach in and grab me. My hands were shaking, the key not fitting into the ignition with my palsied rumba. Finally, more by accident than trying, the miracle worked and the truck started.
Sheila came out on the step, watching me, but there was no sign of the gun in the overhead light. Maybe she wouldn’t kill me. I backed away from the house. I was safe. Please god, let it be true. And please don’t let her come after me. I checked Sheila’s house again, expecting to see the garage door go up. It wasn’t Sheila who came after me.
I peeled out of there, going too fast for a residential street. The security guard who stopped me before I hit the first intersection must have thought so too. In fact he must have been parked in the shadows in front of Sheila’s house.
C H A P T E R 5 1
The red light on the roof of his SUV went on and a siren made a woof woof sound. I debated ignoring him. He wasn’t like the real police, was he? Common sense kicked in and I pulled over to the curb and watched him get out of his car, taking his time strolling up to the pickup, checking it out as he came. I turned on the overhead light in the cab, wanting anyone looking out their window to see what went down. But there was no one to see. The houses, with mature and lush plantings, were set too far back from the empty street for the owners, locked inside watching reruns, to hear or see anything. The security guy and I were all alone.
He leaned an arm in my window, a pale hairy arm. “This is a residential area, ma’am. There are children playing here and the speed limit is thirty miles an hour.”
His faded red hair was only slightly thinning; the freckles on his face hadn’t turned into age spots or pre-cancerous lesions, but his body had run well ahead of him into ugliness. His belly sagged over his belt and his shirt was way too tight. His name tag said Mark Cummings. He was the guy who found Ray John’s body.
Anger triumphed fear and words spewed out that were better left unsaid. “I was just visiting your friend, Sheila, your little playmate.” Without ever being word-checked by my brain, the words flew out of my mouth like a bird released from a cage. “You remember, the wild party girl Ray John introduced you to.” I hadn’t even begun to think about this on a conscious level, it was just that wild imagination of mine taking a huge leap. Ray John liked power. While Sheila might not appeal to him, a little old for Ray John’s taste, he wouldn’t be above humiliating her by shopping her around. He probably used her to pay favors and debts and keep a hold on the old men he came up against in the Preserves. If you can’t batter the enemy, find a way of blackmailing them, that’s the way Ray John would work. And farming out Sheila to Mark Cummings would make sure he stayed away from the rec hall when Ray John was entertaining; it would keep Mr. Cummings happy and doing Ray John’s bidding. It would also keep Mark Cummings from reporting Ray John’s involvement with underage girls.
Cummings stepped back from the window of the pickup. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Right, you stick to that story. Were you into little girls too or did Ray John keep them for himself?” He moved, fast and violently.
I jerked sideways, away from his hands.
Knuckles white, he gripped the door with both hands, his jaw working back and forth as he fought for control.
A terrible thought overtook my imagination. Maybe Sheila had called him and he had been coming to help her move my dead body. I put the truck in drive and I straight-legged the gas. Not for a second did I worry about running over him, I just wanted to get away.
I looked in the rearview and saw him running for his car. Stupid, stupid, stupid…pissing off yet another person with a gun. I’d just had one scary person drop off the radar in the shape of Ray John and now I’d gained two more. One day soon my mouth would be the death of me.
I took the first right, wanting to be out of sight quickly and then turned sharply left, watching to see if he was following me.
I zigged through the twisting roads, checking my rearview mirror over and over. Twice I was sure I saw Mark Cummings behind me. My hands tightened on the steering wheel, remembering being rammed by Ray John. Twice the vehicles following me turned into driveways as sweat slid down the sides of my body.
The Preserves is confusing to drive in at the best of times and these were far from the best of times. I was too intent on searching for Mark Cummings and cursing out Sheila to concentrate on my driving and it was only when I made the same weird turn for the third time that I realized I was going in circles. I stopped at the intersection, trying to decide where I was and how to get away. A tall black wrought-iron carriage light spread a soft glow over the road in front of me. The street sign said Turkey Trot. I went left instead of right and this time I came to a bridge over the stream and then to the lake. I followed this street around to the clubhouse and by the t
ime I reached it I’d slipped from anger to melt down. I was shaking. I was a danger to myself and everyone on the road. I pulled in behind the clubhouse and parked, a foolish thing to do. I never for a moment thought that if I wanted to avoid Mark Cummings the one place I shouldn’t be was at the community center for the Preserves, the place where Ray John had been murdered and where Cummings would come sooner or later. But I wasn’t thinking about him coming to the office. I wasn’t thinking, period.
The overhead light I’d turned on when Mark Cummings stopped me was still shining; the light made me feel comforted and safe as I collapsed on the steering wheel, trying to breathe through the panic.
The joy in being alive lasted all of a minute and a half. Miguel was right — from now on I was going to mind my own business. I’d messed up big-time by getting involved. Lacey wasn’t one bit better off because of anything I’d done; maybe she was even in worse trouble. I vowed right then and there never again to own a gun. They kept ending up in the wrong hands.
But no amount of self-censure could make me believe I deserved what Sheila had done and nothing would ever make me believe she wasn’t considering killing me. The only thing that saved my ass was that she didn’t want to get caught and she knew she couldn’t get away with it. If she had thought she could kill me and make the body disappear, I was dead. I still might be if she could talk Cummings into helping her. Instead of following me, what if he had gone into talk to Sheila? What if she had talked him into helping her to get rid of me? Underneath that beautiful exterior, sophisticated and urban, was a cold calculating creature. “Hello,” a voice said.
C H A P T E R 5 2
I raised my head to see the bride of Chucky. I gave a startled chicken sound. The Kewpie doll from the Royal Palms had turned into some kind of horrible caricature from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. “Dammit Janet, you’re too old to catch the bouquet,” flashed through my mind. Didn’t this woman have a mirror? Not even Thia could make this outfit work. The skirt and jacket were black and made out of what looked like material for jogging suits sewn inside out, the seams ragged and curling. I would have thought she’d made a horrible mistake and put it on the wrong way out if it hadn’t been studded with silver grommets outlining where a bra would be on a normal-sized person. “Hi, Sherri.”
3 A Brewski for the Old Man Page 23