Dead Silence

by Randy Wayne White

  I was almost to the door when Roxanne saw me. When our eyes met, I waved and shook my head—Sorry—then offered a thumbs-up. She could take that any way she wanted. The house phones would soon work, then I would be out of there. I thought it was my last look at Roxanne Sofvia.

  Wrong again.

  I opened the door and there was Greta Finnmark coming up the walk toward the kitchen. She smiled, but then stopped smiling when she realized who I was. Her head swiveled toward the mansion, then back to me. Her expression was puzzled, as if she’d gotten off the wrong bus.

  “You are . . . Guardian’s friend,” she said, using her pet name for Tomlinson.

  I had to stop. No other way to handle it.

  “Isn’t your name . . . ?” It took Greta a moment. “You are the biologist. Yes, I know you. What are you doing here, Dr. Ford?”

  I started to make up a story about helping a sick repairman but then realized that Greta wasn’t listening. She was focused on Roxanne, who was standing at the window sobbing, no longer on the phone.

  Greta was stricken, her reaction confirming her relationship with Roxanne. It was touching, but that’s not why I didn’t run for the truck.

  I said, “Let’s go inside. Your daughter needs your help, Greta.”

  I needed it, too.

  22

  Roxanne was ignoring me, watching a little wall-mounted TV over the breakfast bar, where a newscaster had just said, “In what is now believed to be a homicide, Florida police say they are seeking ‘a person of interest’ in the drowning murder of Bernard Heller, a former NFL lineman, himself a convicted murderer. Police aren’t releasing the name of the individual, but on Sanibel Island local fishermen think they know who it is and they are talking. More on that story when CNN returns . . .”

  I was thinking, Bernard?, not surprised that police wanted to question me. Bernard made me think of Barney Fife, the funny little deputy on Andy Griffith, not the three-hundred-pound freak who’d spent a lot of time in the weight room but not enough time in the swimming pool.

  “You mind turning that thing off?” It was the second time I’d asked, but Roxanne was pretending I wasn’t there, sitting at the kitchen table, while Greta flitted around making tea to cover her own aggravation. Greta was irritated because I kept pressing, rewording my question after she’d already said she hadn’t seen Norvin Tomlinson in more than five years.

  “Does that mean Norvin hasn’t been back in five years? Or that you haven’t seen him in five years? A house that size, he could stay for weeks and you might not run into each other.”

  Greta had started to answer when Roxanne turned the volume louder, interrupting, “I’m thinking about moving to Florida. Get the hell away from the ice and the insanity. It’s warm enough, apparently, even psychos get out on the water. But wait”—she flashed me a sarcastic smile—“I forgot, you’re from Florida. So maybe I’ll try Grand Cayman instead.”

  I said, “Enough. I’m trying to save a boy’s life. Give me fifteen minutes. Do you mind?”

  Roxanne had not told Greta about the lab test and wasn’t aware that I knew. Act sympathetic and she would suspect. A smart woman.

  Big sigh, but Roxanne touched the POWER button as Greta explained, “Even if Norvin came home for one hour, I would have seen him.” With her accent, it came out I voould hap seen him. “He would not come back and hide from me. I raised those boys! Norvey isn’t affectionate—not like Guardian, who is still so sweet. But he is not rude.”

  I was thinking, Tomlinson avoids contact for fifteen years, that’s sweet?

  “Norvey would speak to me,” Greta said. “Sometimes he sends cards from far places. Only a word or two, but it shows he still cares. Five years ago, he looked so terrible I didn’t want him to leave. But he went anyway and hasn’t come back.” She turned to Roxanne. “Why doesn’t he believe me?”

  Roxanne was holding a jar, reading the label, before spooning honey into her tea, probably already thinking of homeopathic remedies. She said, “You mean, the liar who claimed to be a phone man? The one who’s pretending to be a cop now? Maybe he’s hung up on the truth.”

  I nodded, conceding.

  She said, “Everyone who comes here lies. Blame this goddamn mausoleum”—she stood and slapped a light switch—“it’s so goddamn dark, only lies can survive.”

  Until we’d clashed over the TV, Roxanne hadn’t said much. Here she was in the middle of a personal crisis being questioned by a stranger when all she wanted to do was pack her bags, maybe break a few of Nelson’s personal items in the process, before slamming the door on her Nissan and on her dreams of traveling by Learjet and owning a castle in the Hamptons. She had that kind of temper. It was also possible she was that mercenary.

  I was beginning to believe Greta was.

  I said, “What about Norvin’s father?” I had asked before but she hadn’t answered me.

  Greta said, “Dr. Tomlinson is the executor of the trust. The trust pays me. If I worked for you, would you want me spreading gossip?”

  “I wouldn’t mind if it could save a kid’s life. If Hank Tomlinson visits from time to time, what’s the harm in telling me? If it’s true, it’s not gossip.”

  She said, “I don’t talk about the personal business of my household. It’s a code in the Hamptons.”

  “The service class, you mean.”

  “Yes, the service class.”

  “You protect your employer at all costs.”

  “Our households, we protect. It’s different. They are sacred.”

  “The household is like family, so you remain loyal.”

  “It’s expected of anyone who takes the job seriously.”

  “Are you devoted to the house? Or to the Tomlinson family? There’s a difference.”

  “Both. We protect each other. And that is all I have to say.”

  The woman was afraid. I saw the look she gave Roxanne.

  I took a chance. “Greta, which worries you most: that Dr. Tomlinson will find out you have a daughter or that you have a daughter and he will find out he’s not the father?”

  Greta got up, saying, “I don’t have to answer that! I’m a domestic, not a slave—” as Roxanne cut her off, saying in a louder voice, “He’s not my father. My father died in the war!”

  That silenced the room. Suddenly, I was even more interested.

  Roxanne said it again. “My father’s dead, okay? He worked for the Myles family. Then he joined the Army and died. End of story.”

  “Which war?”

  “Does it matter?”

  I said, “It might.”

  “I don’t think so, they’re all the same. A bunch of macho guys like you, carrying guns on their belts instead of tools. Is it the sound of metal that gets you off? Like cowboys with spurs. Knights in armor. Grown-ups playing games until . . . until . . .” Her voice softened, her attention turning inward. “That’s what men do . . . play games.”

  I said, “What was your father’s name?”

  “Billy. Is that a funny name for a man? Billy Sofvia. He was very handsome—smart, too. But not smart enough to realize what a dead end it is working for the Myles family.”

  Greta whispered, “Enough, Roxy!”

  “Why can’t I talk, Greta? You don’t want them to hear?”

  Greta said, “Please, dear.”

  Roxanne laughed as she looked around the room, seeing stainless-steel pots hanging above a butcher’s block, the industrial appliances, a double-wide Sub-Zero that cost more than most people made in a month. “You don’t know anything about the service class, Ford. Do you mind if I call you Ford? I’m really not in the mood to call you Doctor.”

  Greta was looking at her, asking, “What is wrong with you today?”

  Roxanne continued talking, telling me, “The reason the service class keeps secrets is because we have secrets of our own. Isn’t that the truth, Greta? Of course it’s true. My mother and father even dated secretly. When she got pregnant, they kept that a secret, too—�
��

  “Roxanne Sofvia! Be quiet!”

  “—because the feudal system didn’t end in the Middle Ages. It moved to the Hamptons, where staff is considered property. They’re expected to remain faithful, particularly attractive females. You would have to grow up in the system, Ford, to understand.”

  I said, “As a domestic worker,” to keep her going.

  “Or be one of them. Wouldn’t that be more fun?” Roxanne crossed her legs, becoming conversational, as if taunting the older woman. “Becoming one of them, it’s what the daughters of domestics dream of: marrying into the household. Isn’t that the phrase, Greta, marrying in? Domestics live the wealthy life, Ford. We see it every day. But we’re never more than ornaments or appliances unless we get lucky and marry in. Which never happens, of course. You know the old saying . . . why buy the cow?”

  She thought for a moment. “Lucky, hah! That’s a laugh. Domestics grow up knowing the truth about rich families but it doesn’t change the way the families think. They know they’re no smarter than the domestics. They know they’re not as competent, and certainly not as solid, but domestics still hang on to the dream of marrying in. Isn’t that sad? I mean, if you really think about it, how damn sad! Most of them, in fact, are completely crazed fuckups. The Tomlinson family—a classic example—but it doesn’t change anything.”

  “That does it, I am leaving!” Greta was getting her purse, looking for her keys.

  “No you’re not!” Roxanne said, moving toward the door. “You’ll never leave and you know it. I’m leaving. I’m leaving this house and this sick society and never coming back. I can’t believe I let you talk me into it in the first place.”

  Greta’s anger collapsed. “Roxy . . . why? Did something happen?” “Between me and Prince Charming, you mean? What happened is, I found out it’s true what they say about frogs. I kissed one. You want proof?” Roxanne reached for the lab report but caught herself as she started to hand it across the counter. “Do you mind, Ford? I have something personal I want to share with . . . my mother.”

  I was nodding, unsure how to handle it, then said, “Okay,” and went out the door.

  I fixed the phone lines, then paced, slowing time by checking my watch too often. It was almost noon. Will Chaser had been in the ground for at least three hours, if the photo was authentic. Probably already dead, but if he wasn’t—and if the air system worked, as the kidnappers claimed—I still had twenty hours, maybe a little longer, to find him.

  As I paced, I battled the ridiculous notion of returning to the road and seeking mystic insights from the rock, if I could find the damn thing. Had the boy been here? Had he been riding the gray stallion when it was shot?

  I fixed my thoughts on a more reasonable hope: If I waited, played nice, maybe Roxanne would come out and answer my questions, including Which war?

  Half an hour later, Roxanne did come out.

  I wasn’t imagining the chill in Barbara’s voice when she said, “Did you happen to read a news story about the football player who washed up on a beach near Sanibel? One of my colleagues brought it to my attention. They think he was murdered.”

  I said, “No, I don’t follow football,” then told her I wasn’t being a smart-ass, there were more pressing matters to discuss.

  Was there anyone in the country who didn’t know of Bern Heller’s recent landfall? It kept me from asking the name of the woman’s colleague. Only the guilty are interested in their accusers.

  Barbara replied, “That’s not true. One of Tomlinson’s friends is a coach with the Jets, so I know you follow football. His name is . . . well, I’m positive you told me, whatever his name is. Ask the Tin Man, he’ll remember.”

  I said, “Mike Westhoff,” in a way to let her know how irritating she could be. I wasn’t going to argue with a woman who argues professionally, although it was grating that Barbara—like almost everyone—was charmed by Tomlinson’s star power and credited the man with virtues that friends and fellow boat bums knew were undeserved. But when people got their asses in a sling, who did they come running to?”

  “I stand corrected,” I told her.

  I was in my hotel room, phone wedged between shoulder and ear, packing to return to Florida. The dispatcher at Air Transport Services had been even frostier than the senator when I requested a flight to the Gulf Coast. Now here was Barbara going off on tangents rather than cooperating. I was beginning to suspect it wasn’t a coincidence.

  Barbara said, “I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it. I was given the information in confidence.”

  I said, “No need to say another word. A secret’s a secret. But back to finding a plane for me—”

  “Unfortunately,” she interrupted, “this could have a bearing on our relationship. Doc, just between the two of us—and please stop me if the matter’s already been settled—but police are saying you’re a person of interest. I don’t know the legal definition, but to me when police say someone is ‘a person of interest’ they mean that person had something to do with it.”

  Two hours thrashing around in a hotel room did not constitute a relationship, but now was not the time for precise definitions. Or was it? I needed a fast flight to Sarasota, and the lady was unlikely to help unless I dealt with this first.

  I said, “I have a friend, a big-time attorney, who keeps her boat at the marina. She says there is no legal definition for the phrase person of interest. Material witness, yes. Suspect, yes. But person of interest—according to my friend anyway—is what police use to manipulate journalists. It’s meaningless.”

  “I don’t know, Doc. My reputation has taken such a beating in the last twenty-four hours—”

  “Barb, what probably happened is, your friend misheard. When a boat goes missing, a lot of times the Coast Guard contacts me. I chart drift patterns in the Gulf of Mexico and keep records. You know, if a boat—or a body—drifts for three days, where’s the most promising area to search? That’s probably why the police are interested in talking to me. They know where the football player was found, but where did he go in the water? I do that sort of consulting a lot.”

  There was a long pause. “Are you sure? You can trust me, if you want to talk.”

  Like her colleague had trusted her? I said, “Barbara, I’ve spent exactly four hours in Florida since I arrived in New York last week. I didn’t have time to kill a pro football player. We should be talking about: getting me back to Florida. The Sarasota area, but anywhere close will do.”

  The woman replied, “So you can spy on Nelson Myles,” sounding chillier.

  “No, so I can find William. It’s what I need to do.” I had just told her that I was now sure Myles knew something about the kidnapping. She had replied, “As sure as you were last night?”

  Tough to argue that one. Now, being a suspect in a high-profile murder investigation wasn’t helping my cause any.

  Barbara asked me, “Why do you have this thing against a man who, by all accounts, is not only respected in New York but in the national community? In fact, the international business community—and that’s not an exaggeration. Nelson Myles’s father was an ambassador, for godsakes!”

  I said, “The man buys and sells horses. He’s not a political figure, and liking animals doesn’t make him a saint.”

  It was tempting: Give her Roxanne’s number and let the two women talk. I didn’t blame Barbara for her reluctance to risk more embarrassment. But I didn’t expect her to jump to the man’s defense.

  “I have colleagues in D.C. who know Nelson Myles personally. They say it’s crazy to suggest he’s capable of kidnapping anyone, particularly a U.S. senator. Give me one good reason why a man with his money and background would choose to get involved with something like this?”

  I said, “I don’t think it was a choice. I think he’s being blackmailed,” and realized as I finished the sentence that I couldn’t tell the woman why I believed that was true. Accuse the man of murder next? Then hint that Myles was being manipulated by an in
terrogator from the Cuban Program, an operation that only people with high-security clearance could confirm existed? I wouldn’t have bought it. So I added a lame explanation, saying, “It’s just a hunch, but I think I’m right.”

  “You think you’re right. The FBI has shifted the investigation to Castro sympathizers in Miami and to an Islamic organization in Detroit. But you’re still determined to hound one of the wealthiest men in the Hamptons.”

  I said, “Hound has a negative connotation. I prefer stalk,” thinking I might hear a smile in her voice. No.

  Instead, I listened to several seconds of silence before she said patiently, “I appreciate what you’ve done for me, Doc. And I know you’re tired. How much sleep have you had since yesterday morning? You didn’t get any sleep Thursday night, I can testify to that.” Her laughter was ingratiating. Or was it? I found the context odd. She was probing for something . . . or politely laying the groundwork to distance herself from me.

  I said, “There’s something on your mind. What’s wrong?”

  “What could possibly be wrong? A boy whose life was entrusted to me has been buried alive. As of this minute, we have”—I could picture the woman in her D.C. office looking at her wristwatch—“eighteen hours until Will Chaser dies, and that’s if the sonsuvbitches are telling the truth about the air system.”

  I started to ask about the deadline—“They haven’t changed it . . . ?”—but she talked over me, saying, “The national press is watching every move I make, which I expected. But the international reaction is a shock, even to me. It’s all about blame. The United States and poor little Cuba. The imperialist giant reaps what it has sown. Justice—finally!—after a fifty-year embargo that started as a pissing match between a president and a banana-republic dictator. This morning, a German editorial came right out and said I invited a kidnapping because I voted to make Castro’s files public. That it’s my fault they got a fourteen-year-old boy instead.”

  Quoting someone—I wasn’t sure who—I tried to slow her down, saying, “The power of a dominant nation can be gauged by the sniping of its allies, not the denouncements of its foes.”