Aside from the ethical conflict, there’s a personal conflict: I’m glad the guy’s dead. If he was murdered, I agree with the locals: Someone did the world a favor.”
The woman’s smart, dark eyes filled the rearview mirror, looking into mine. “You realize you’re being recorded?”
I replied, “Yes.”
“Then I suggest you keep your mouth shut until we do the roll-by. I want to add, just for the record, that you don’t have to do the roll-by. Say the word, Dr. Ford, and I’ll cancel it. Or we can wait while you consult your attorney.”
Once again, I checked my watch. Eight hours ten minutes until deadline. I said, “I signed the papers. As long as we get this done as fast as possible, I’m willing. But, just for the record, Detective Palmer, whatever your witness says won’t change the fact I’ve been telling the truth.”
29
At midnight, I stood in the ten-acre parking lot of a retail minicity, Edison Mall, hoping either mercy or bad memory would prevent the woman, whose killer I had killed, from sentencing me to a murder charge or, worse, a night in jail. If Will Chaser was still alive, his death was only eight hours away.
The lot was empty except for security carts and three squad cars sitting at angles beneath yellow sodium lights. I also noticed a fourth car. It was parked on a curb, in shadows, behind monoxide-poisoned shrubs. Its rear window was cracked a few inches, the glass tinted.
Durell had told me to walk to the nearest lamppost, turn left, turn right, then stand until he waved me back to our black sedan. Because he said it was okay to look at the squad cars, I did. But I focused on the less obvious car, using peripheral vision.
When I got to the lamppost and pivoted, I saw a facial oval—female eyes, a portion of nose and forehead—studying me from the unmarked car. As instructed, I turned, turned again, then stopped. I wasn’t looking directly at the car but could see the rear window. Durell had also told me to remove my glasses, so I did. Cleaned them on my shirt before straightening them on my nose.
The window dropped another two inches. In the sterile light, filaments of hair appeared, framing the woman’s face. Something odd about the left eye. It was swollen the size of my fist, I realized, the eye a solitary creature within, as if peeking out from a cave. Six days since Heller had beaten her. No wonder the woman was afraid to be alone at night.
The face disappeared for a moment—the witness was saying something to the driver—then reappeared. Because of the tinted window glass, the face took the shape of an antique cameo. The woman’s eyes were intense, unwavering. They invited contact. I refused.
The woman said something else to the driver. A moment later, I heard the radio squawk, then Durell talking before he called to me, “Walk toward the highway.”
I started for U.S. 41, with its lighted stream of Saturday-night traffic, pickup trucks, tourist rentals and tricked-out pubescent coupes. When I was within ten yards of the woman’s window, Durell hollered, “Far enough! Come on back.”
As I turned, the woman and I locked eyes for the first time. The human iris does not communicate, but facial components do. I watched her one good eye focus, then widen . . . and I felt a sickening dread. She recognized me. No doubt about it.
The window dropped another inch. I saw a healthy conformation of cheeks, full lips, hair that was sun-streaked, glossy, one side of her face articulate, thoughtful, but the other side a bloated mask. The woman wanted me to know she recognized me, I realized, just as she wanted me to get a glimpse of her face. Her focus was tunneled, my personal conduit into whatever it was she was thinking or had suffered.
Still staring at me, the woman nodded—a slow-motion assent or signal of some unavoidable honesty, I couldn’t be sure. She spoke to the driver once more, then disappeared behind the glass.
When I returned to our vehicle, Durell was in the front seat. “Think the witness recognized you?” he asked.
The man already knew if the woman had recognized me or not. He was baiting me once again, and I was tired of it. “Something wrong with your radio, Les? Wait here while I go tap on the window and ask.”
“No need to get smart-assed about it.”
I’d closed the door but now opened it to get out. “I don’t know what your problem is. Too many years, not enough promotions? Whatever it is, I’m done with your chess game. Either arrest me or I’m calling a cab.”
Detective Palmer said, “Hold on.” She reached to make certain the recorder was off before saying to Durell, “Why not have one of the uniforms take you back to the station? We’re done here.”
I liked the sound of that but listened closely, hoping for a more definite acquittal.
“What’s the problem, Shelly? You got a hot date waiting?”
“What I have is a professional obligation to take Dr. Ford wherever he wants to go. That’s why you need to catch a ride . . . Les.”
“You’re not taking anyone anywhere, Detective,” the man snapped, “until I say the word.”
Palmer’s eyes filled the mirror once again, and I was startled when she lifted her eyebrows, sending a message—a private and personal message just for me.
“Captain, what’s going on here?” she said. “I don’t want to have to note in my report that in my opinion we risked a harassment charge. The witness just told us Dr. Ford’s not the man. Absolutely sure of it, no room for error. And Sarasota says there’s no reason to hold him. Their resident confirmed he accidentally hit a security alarm, a big misunderstanding. So what I’m going to do now is thank Dr. Ford for his cooperation and take him home—with your permission of course, Captain.”
I was trying very hard not to show my relief as she glanced into the mirror again, buckling her seat belt. I was also busy processing what she’d said about Myles not pressing charges. From the way it sounded, the man had covered for me. Why?
Durell was getting out of the car, moving slower than he once had. He’d put on twenty or thirty pounds. “You’re gettin’ kind of smart-assed yourself, Shelly,” he said. “What I think is, you got an itch that’s not been scratched in way too long. It’s making you snotty. Boys at the station don’t say much when I tell ’em. Just sorta look uncomfortable, like I made a bad joke or I might order one of ’em to help you out.” He made a hacking sound of laughter before he slammed the door.
In the game of good cop-bad cop, the pros sometimes take the role that least reflects their convictions about the suspect. Not because it’s fair—even though it is—but because it can broaden the range of inquiry. Palmer had been the good cop all along.
Before we pulled away, the woman told me to get in the front seat, then handed me her cell phone, saying, “The guy in Sarasota County, Nelson Myles. He passed along word he wants you to call. It wasn’t appropriate for me to tell you earlier. While you’re talking, you want me to drive you to Sanibel or back where you started?”
I said, “Give me a minute?” then punched the buttons as she read off the number.
Myles sounded relieved when he recognized my voice, which was unexpected. “I’ve been thinking about the Cubans,” he said. “I don’t know of any reason they’d want to stop at Tamarindo—the island’s only two miles from my property—but I remembered that Fred’s GPS was programmed with the route because the channel’s narrow and it’s not easy even when the tide’s high. The island was probably right there on the screen when they started the boat because it’s the only place Fred goes when he’s in Florida. So I’m heading to Tamarindo—it’s only five minutes.”
Myles told me he had brought the Tiara around to his private dock, next to his house, and was getting it ready.
I said, “I’m surprised.”
“Don’t be. No matter what you think, I’m not a monster. I don’t want anyone to get hurt, particularly a child.”
That isn’t what had surprised me. I’d expected his first words to be about Annie Sylvester. Had I told police?
It made Myles more convincing when he added, “After only an hour with yo
u, Dr. Ford, I think I can say with confidence my standards of moral conduct are at least as high as yours.”
There was no arguing the point.
I said, “I apologize for being surprised. But it’s a bad idea, you going alone, even if it is only a couple of miles from your dock.” I noticed Detective Palmer paying attention as I continued, “You have enough political clout with the local police, probably the FBI, too. Have them send a helicopter. Or a boat, if they—”
“It’s been taken care of,” he interrupted. “The sheriff told me, personally, a helicopter was on its way. They’ll use searchlights, and, if it looks like there’s a problem, they’ll land.”
“They need to put down on the beach no matter—”
He interrupted again. “I’m aware of what should be done, Ford. That’s why I’m meeting them. Please stop instructing and start listening. I looked you up on the Internet. There wasn’t much, but I see you run a little marine-research station. I assume that means you’re good with boats. I’m offering you a chance to go with me if you want. But no more rough stuff.”
I checked the time: 12:15 a.m. By car, it was forty minutes to Dinkin’s Bay, then another hour-ten, hour-twenty, give or take, to Tamarindo. If Detective Palmer was willing to push it, we could be at Falcon Landing in less than an hour.
It was the quickest way to the island, but I disliked the prospect of being aboard someone else’s boat, particularly at night, particularly on an oversized luxury yacht and most particularly when the pilot was an amateur.
I asked, “How many times have you run the Tamarindo channel after dark?”
“A few times,” he said, “several,” but I suspected by the way he hesitated, he wasn’t confident. When he added, “It’s certainly no harder then landing a plane at night,” I was sure of it. The real reason he was calling was because he’d found out I made my living on a boat.
Two factors tipped the scales. At the North Fort Myers substation, Palmer had let me call and check messages at the lab. It would have been helpful to have Tomlinson along, but he’d left a message saying he wouldn’t arrive on Sanibel until nine, Sunday morning. More important, the equipment I wanted to take wasn’t at the lab, it was stowed in the trunk of the rental car, beachside, near Shelter Cottage.
To Myles I said, “I’ll meet you at your place in about an hour. I need to get my cell phone anyway . . .”—I let that settle before adding—“. . . plus one or two other things.” I’d shoved the little Seecamp pistol under the seat and I wanted it back.
Demonstrating that he was in charge, not me, Myles said, “I can’t wait that long. You’ve got half an hour . . .” He stopped, and I heard what sounded like a tapping in the background. Someone at the man’s door? Apparently not, because he then finished the sentence, saying, “. . . that’s as long as I’ll wait. Call five minutes before you get to security.”
I touched the SPEAKERPHONE button and said, “Repeat that. I’m riding with a police detective, so it’s up to her.”
When Detective Palmer heard, she said, “Buckle up,” and flipped a toggle. Ten acres of asphalt echoed with blue strobes.
We were on I-75, cruising in silence, lights pulsing, doing ninety-five when traffic allowed, sometimes one-ten on empty stretches. As we’d left the mall, Palmer had asked how I got involved in the search for the missing boy. She seemed interested but preoccupied and soon went silent, her mind on something else. We hadn’t exchanged a word in the last twenty minutes.
Now, though, the road ahead was empty, and she spoke again, her tone puzzled, as she asked me, “Was Les always such a jerk?”
I found the question touching. This tough woman was still smarting from Durell’s heavy-handed cut: You got an itch . . .
I said, “Nope. A real professional, a forward-thinking guy, master’s in law enforcement. Maybe he had a rough week.”
“A rough two years,” she corrected, “that’s how long I’ve been with the department. I won’t go into his personal problems, but if you know of any close friends, they should take him aside, have a talk, maybe get him back on track.”
“Alcohol? Or diabetes?” I was thinking of the additional weight he was carrying.
The woman shook her head: Confidential.
I said, “I don’t know who the man associates with, sorry,” wondering if Palmer had any friends left outside the profession. Durell had been intentionally nasty, but he was also savvy enough to have ice-pick instincts when it came to veiling an insult. For maximum damage, he would poison his barbs with truth. I suspected the woman had ended a relationship, or an affair, many months ago, probably with another cop. Outwardly, she hadn’t shown much and she’d recovered quickly. But Durell had scored a direct hit.
“He’s an asshole,” she said, barely audible.
“We all have our valleys.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Her tone warned me to keep a professional distance.
“It meant I’m an asshole more than I care to admit. I do and say things that make me cringe later.”
“Homicide, for instance?”
I said, “If you’re still playing the good cop-bad cop game, I’ll sit here quietly until we get to our destination.”
“Our witness recognized you. You know it.”
“Maybe we share the same flaw,” I told Palmer. “I’m suspicious of anyone who claims to tell the truth in situations where I’d be tempted to lie. Familiar?”
“You were factual, not truthful.”
I said, “It’s an occupational hazard. First day of scientist school, they warn us.”
“I spent hours talking with that witness. I saw the way she reacted. You’re the man who interrupted the rape. Probably her murder, too.”
I said, “I’m not that noble.”
“I never thought you were. You use facts to avoid the truth. Whoever went aboard Heller’s boat that night didn’t go there to save anyone, but I’m glad he showed up. Heller had almost beaten her unconscious by then, and I like that woman. She’s incredibly smart, and also incredibly stupid to fall for that bit Heller used to trick her into opening the car door.”
I replied, “I don’t buy the premise that rape victims are somehow to blame for being raped. That includes all variations of bad timing, misplaced trust, sexy clothing and naïveté.”
“Well, aren’t you the modern male,” Palmer chuckled, unimpressed. “A real—what did you call him?—forward-thinking guy, just like sweet ol’ Captain Durell.”
The way the dash lights framed Palmer’s eyes and dark hair brought back the image of the female victim, one side of her face showing an articulate beauty, the other a grotesque mask.
I said, “It was that bad, huh?”
Her silence communicated confusion, so I repeated myself.
She said, “What are you talking about now? I was telling you how Heller tricked the woman. He followed her out of a 7-Eleven waving a twenty-dollar bill, saying it fell out of her purse. Suddenly, you’re on a whole different subject. Whatever it is, I don’t care to hear—”
“The cop who dumped you,” I said, “that’s what I’m talking about. Or did his wife figure it out?”
The woman was a solid driver. Hands comfortably at ten and two, when there was traffic. No abrupt lane changes, nothing to surprise the civilians. Now, though, the car veered slightly, as her hands went white gripping the wheel. Lips barely moving, she snapped, “That bastard Durell, he said you two hadn’t spoken in years. How much did he tell you?”
I said, “Nothing.” Thought about it a few seconds, decided I’d stepped over the line, so explained why I said what I’d said.
Palmer sat fuming in silence as we took the Venice Beach exit and turned west, toward the Gulf. Minutes later, after maneuvering through a red light, she said, “You hit a raw spot. It’s been almost two years. But I’m over it now.”
“I can see that.”
“I am. The detective . . . the man I was involved with went back to his wife. He didn’t want to. I
insisted. Then she got pregnant, trapped him, although he was too damn dumb to see it. This was in Pittsburgh, before I transferred. He still calls, wants me back. So I changed my number. I’ve gone on with my life.”
Before I could stop myself, I said, “Who are you trying to convince, me or you?,” but then held up my hands before she could respond. I said, “It’s your business, Detective Palmer. That was unfair, and I apologize. I should concentrate on what I’m doing. And you still have a report to write.”
I was surprised by her smile. It was one of those self-damning smiles that says To hell with it.
“Truce,” she said. “Okay? And don’t worry about my report. I have Sundays and Mondays off, so I can finish in the morning. Officially, I’ve been off duty since eleven-thirty, so I can take all night if I want.” When she realized how that sounded, she amended quickly, “Don’t take that the wrong way. It wasn’t an invitation.”
“For the record?” I asked.
Palmer said, “Isn’t everything?,” with a bitterness that told me no, she had few friends outside the profession.
People in the emergency services are good at what they do. They have to be. Lives depend on it. They’re far smarter than the caricatures fronted by popular media and seldom credited with the sacrifices they make or the emotional dues exacted. The job is thankless, dangerous and underpaid. They deal with the worst imaginable people under the worst imaginable circumstances. Yet it is the toll—the emotional toll—that in the end is the most dangerous occupational hazard of all.
There was nothing I could say to make Detective Shelly Palmer feel better or to bridge the chasm between us. So I returned to business. Business at least guaranteed the comfortable formality of strangers.
“Mind if I use your phone? Myles told me to call.” It was only 12:45. The lady’s driving skills had exceeded expectations.
On the third ring, someone picked up, then hung up without a word. I touched REDIAL and got the recorder.
I was thinking about a noise I’d heard when I was talking to Myles, a sound that resembled someone knocking on a door, as I asked Palmer, “Do you have another number?”
Dead Silence Page 30