Defiled

by Mike Nemeth

  Tony gave me a look as though he no longer recognized his client. He exhaled. “Have the police interviewed you yet?”

  “You could call it that. They had a warrant and tore the boat up but didn’t find anything.”

  “I’m glad the police didn’t find anything, Randle. Would hurt to fire a client.”

  But wouldn’t hurt to fire a friend? “Relax, Tony, I’m clean as a whistle.” I couldn’t relax. The powers that be had thwarted my quest for justice once again. In a pique, I wrote another fake email although I was no longer sure they were being read by anyone.

  Tony,

  Let’s not wait for the trial to be approved. We know who MD is, so depose him ASAP.

  Randle

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The closing on the beach house sale took place at the West Florida Title Company in South Pasadena first thing Friday morning. While I attended to the closing, Glenda met the movers at the beach house where all of my earthly possessions were loaded into a PODS container and driven to a public storage lot.

  At the closing there was no happy young couple acquiring their dream home, just the speculator’s agent and attorney. I signed a pile of documents, handed the closing attorney a check for forty-five thousand dollars, and gave Jane Whitehead a hug. She didn’t offer to take me to breakfast or to Starbucks. She climbed into her black GMC Denali with her commission check and drove away with a perfunctory wave. I consoled myself with the thought that after the IPO, I’d be back in the market for something bigger and better than the little bungalow.

  I tried Connie’s cell phone multiple times without success. Instead of answering my calls, she sent a text: lose my number.

  My only home was the Wahine II, so I went there and waited for fate to find me.

  It took no time at all for fate to locate me. The boat rocked to starboard, toward the staircase that led from the swim platform to the aft cabin, interrupting the rhythmic rise and fall caused by swells off the Bay. Someone had come aboard. I slid out from behind the dining table in the salon, where I had been working, and grabbed the Beretta. I crouched at the bottom of the short staircase to the aft cabin with the cocked gun aimed at the hatch.

  The hatch slid open, and I squeezed the trigger to the safety point. Tony recoiled, but he wasn’t nimble enough to jump out of my view. “Damn, Randle! What are you doing with that gun?”

  “Never, ever come aboard a boat without permission. You’ll get yourself shot.”

  “Well, can I come in?”

  He looked like he had had a bad day. He was in shirtsleeves with the cuffs rolled up and his tie loosened. Sweat ringed his collar and soiled his underarms. “We need to talk,” he said.

  I laid the pistol on the dining table and slid into the circular seat. He took the opposing couch. I said, “Shoot.”

  Tony flinched, puffed his cheeks, and blew his stale breath into the chilled air of the salon. “Can you put that thing away?” He meant my pistol.

  I took it off the table and slipped it into my waistband. He gave me the look parents reserve for recalcitrant children. “Cancelling mediation was a bad idea, Randle. When I informed Her Honor, she said, ‘This won’t get you a trial, buster. Ms. de Castro will reschedule mediation with a mediator of her choice. Your motion will be held in abeyance until you make a deal at mediation, at which time the motion will be moot.’”

  “Tell her again that I will not submit to mediation. If she won’t give us a trial, ask for one in my countersuit.”

  Tony showed no emotion. “The judge upheld de Castro’s motion to dismiss your countersuit. Called it ‘frivolous and superfluous.’”

  The judge was herding me into her legal paddock like a steer going to slaughter. “All your legal system is good for is running up legal fees.”

  “I won’t be billing you anymore, Randle. What comes next is painful for me, but my partners insisted. I have to ask you to find another attorney.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Number one: The judge thinks I’m toying with her, and that will hurt your chances. Number two: The cops have gotten a search warrant for your storage unit. We’re not a criminal defense firm. Number three: I’m very nervous about the provenance of the pictures I gave to the judge. And number four: Some woman mysteriously turned up at the hospital with your wife’s diary. I don’t know who she was and I don’t want to know, so don’t say a word.”

  “Must have been her sister.”

  “Her sister isn’t a redhead. Your wife had already been discharged, so the hospital turned the diary over to the cops. It’s one of the items missing after the break-in at your wife’s house.”

  Glenda! “I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Knock it off, Randle. When you get caught for the break-in, I don’t want to be within a hundred miles of you.”

  “When you’re back to sitting second chair, wining and dining fat cats, remember that I gave you a chance to be more than that.”

  It took a long time for Tony to compose himself and respond. During all that time, I wished I could stuff the words back down my throat and turn them back into air in my lungs.

  Appearing thoughtful, Tony said, “I used to wish I was more than a schmoozer, but after representing you, I realize I’m not a shark. I’m a panfish, and I’m okay with that.”

  “Fine. I can take care of myself.”

  He looked at me with pity emanating from those wet, brown Italian eyes. “You’ll need a lawyer, Randle. I can send you a list we recommend.”

  “Seriously, Tony, don’t worry about me.”

  Tony didn’t seem to know what to do—he just sat there like an overripe Roma tomato—so I motioned toward the hatch and he took the hint. He ascended the three steps, then bent down through the hatchway to say, “Don’t send me any more email. You can’t claim attorney-client privilege anymore.”

  And my best friend walked out of my life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY- NINE

  Saturday morning dawned routinely bright and sunny, Mother Nature oblivious to my plight. In a foul mood, I drank my wake-up coffee and marveled at how often my life seemed a neutralized combination of good news and bad news. The good news: Carrie had no motive to kill me. The bad news: If Carrie didn’t come to kill me, I had no way to win the divorce game.

  I dialed Connie’s cell phone one more time. As my phone beeped and beeped in my ear, I imagined Connie staring at her caller ID, waiting for the ringing to stop, waiting for me to leave another message. Tired of playing that game, I hung up and climbed into the Bronco and headed straight out to Central Avenue. At Thirty-Fourth Street, I made a right turn and drove north, past the Walmart Supercenter, past a row of no-tell motels, and into a nicer residential area. I had only been to Connie’s house once, but I was fairly sure I could find it. When I turned onto Twenty-First Avenue North, a neighborhood of retirees living on Social Security, I realized it might not be easy—all the houses were white, single-story, wood-frame bungalows with royal palm trees in the yards. I cruised slowly down the street and circled the block on Twenty-Second Avenue North.

  As I approached Thirty-Fourth Street again, nearly drained of confidence, I spotted Connie’s blue sedan in the driveway of a house that was somewhat distinctive. When I saw it, I remembered it. A miniature portico, supported by two skinny poles that couldn’t honestly be called columns, extended from the roof to the sidewalk that led to the driveway and provided shelter for guests as they approached her front door. I pulled in and parked behind her car, blocking it in. If she wanted to run, she would have to do it on foot.

  She may have seen me arrive because the moment I rang her doorbell, the front door swung open to reveal a tousled Connie Tomkins, barefoot and wrapped in a faded blue terrycloth bathrobe. She didn’t seem enthusiastic to see me.

  “You okay, sis?”

  “Sure,” she said, like a patient fresh from surgery. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You didn’t answer the phone. I thought there was something wrong.”
<
br />   She leaned out the door and glanced up and down the street before walking into her living room, giving me a view of white, sturdy legs over ankles as sharp as knife blades. I followed and closed the door behind me.

  As she walked, Connie said, “I’ll be okay. You’re the one with problems. Momma told me your trial has been denied, your countersuit has been dismissed, and Carrie can choose a new mediator.” Over her shoulder, she gave me the cat-who-ate-the-canary look. “She knows your lawyer quit. He notified the court that he is no longer representing you.”

  Tony wasted no time distancing himself. Wimp. I returned her look and said, “Carrie is smart enough to realize that none of that matters. I won’t do mediation. I’ll force the judge to grant a trial, and now I can hire a shark to swallow that little panfish she hired.”

  Connie stopped and gave me a doubtful look. “Your plans always fall apart. Carrie has won as usual, and you’ve lost. She even fooled the shrinks at the asylum. You should be used to this. I am.”

  “You’re forgetting there are things she wants.”

  A look of genuine surprise erupted on her plain face like the sun peeking through the clouds to signal the end of a storm. Walking again, in a tentative voice she said, “You do have her diary and jewelry?”

  I found it interesting that Connie thought her sister had been lying. “She knows exactly what I have. So what’s her next move? Will she come to the boat to talk, or will she come to murder me?”

  Connie spun on her heel, her face flushed with emotion. “How would I know? I’ve been ostracized. In front of everybody she said, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? He’s still my husband.’”

  I spread my hands in the there-you-go gesture. “That’s what you get for trying to help her.”

  “They used me, Randle. My entire life they used me, and now they don’t need me.”

  I knew, of course, that Connie wanted to be used. She wanted the family to be dependent upon her because that was her only source of self-esteem. “Carrie still needs you. Reach out to her.”

  Pointing an angry finger at my face, she said, “You used me too. You had no interest in me as a person.”

  I stopped, and heat rose through my neck and into my cheeks. “I’m sorry about how our dinner ended. I shouldn’t have pressed you about Dickson.”

  She shook her head. “Was it too much to ask that you comfort me for one lousy night? Who were you being loyal to? Surely not my sister.”

  Easing toward her, I gently said, “I didn’t want you to think I was taking advantage of you.”

  Her nostrils flared and heat flashed in her eyes like summer lightning. “So, you were saving me from myself? I wouldn’t have been sorry in the morning, Randle. You wouldn’t have had a crybaby on your hands.”

  That pissed me off. “You aren’t interested in me either, Connie Mae. You just wanted to sleep with me to get revenge on your sister.”

  Connie collapsed and knelt in front of me like a Catholic at Mass. “I did hope you’d like me, but not anymore. I’m done with you and my sister.”

  “And she’s done with you. She played you for a fool. When she gets her settlement, she’ll become the family bank and you’ll become irrelevant.”

  She began to weep, silent grief flowing down her ruined face. I moved to her, and she let me help her to her feet and steer her toward the couch. After I wiped her tears with my handkerchief, I chose an easy chair across from her. A low wooden coffee table separated us. As I remembered, the furnishings were humble. She folded her hands in her lap, waiting for hope.

  I cleared my throat. “On Monday, someone broke into my boat and trashed it. Had you heard about that?”

  She didn’t make eye contact as she said, “No.”

  “On Tuesday the cops searched my boat. They were looking for her diary, her pistol, and her jewelry. Did you know about that?”

  She jumped to her feet and wandered toward the dining room. She didn’t turn around, so I couldn’t see her face as she said, “No.”

  “The night we went to dinner, someone broke into the beach house and stole my pistol. Did you tell her we’d be at dinner?”

  She spun toward me, like a revolving door set on slow speed, her face blank and her chalky skin the color of a bleached hospital bedsheet. She sounded like a mechanical announcement on an airport tram as she said, “No.”

  “The cops know who did it. They have a warrant for his arrest.”

  Connie nearly collapsed again, but she caught herself with one hand on the dining room table.

  “You should let her know, Connie. And let me know what she wants to bring this to an end.”

  Stunned, she said, “Carrie doesn’t tell me everything.”

  “Only enough to use you. Did they talk about a settlement when you were at the beach?”

  Her face drew a blank again. She was behaving as though she had taken drugs that had dulled her senses and slowed her thought processes. “Just a minute,” she said as she headed for the kitchen. I heard her run tap water into a glass. When she returned, she sat on the far end of the couch, putting some distance between us. Holding the glass, she looked at me and said, “She wants the house, a car, alimony, and enough stock to be set for life.”

  “If I’m dead, there’s no alimony.”

  She grunted and took a sip of water. She ran her hands through her hair, pulling the stray strands away from her face, holding the hair back as though it interfered with her thoughts. Squeezing her head to force the next thought into the conversation, she said, “If you’re dead, she gets all the options, life insurance, and the house.”

  Not anymore. My share goes to Jamie, but you’re next in line for Carrie’s jackpot. I stared at her, and she matched my gaze. “So she wins either way. She won’t wait for another mediation?”

  Talking more to herself than to me, she said, “She knows you won’t cooperate. Her lawyer is useless. The judge doesn’t like her.”

  “Okay, Connie, tell her you’ve negotiated a deal with me. You convinced me to give her the house and a new Bentley to replace the Jag. She wants a Bentley.”

  Connie went somewhere far away, lost in her own world of conflicting emotions. I stood and started pacing. It was dark in the house, the blinds closed, the shades drawn. There were no sounds from the street.

  I waited a lifetime for her to say, “I can try.” She watched me pace.

  Over my shoulder, I said, “There’ll be alimony, of course, and I’ll split the options with her. I just want this to be over.”

  “Sure. If she’ll talk to me.”

  “I’ll want a few things in return, but I won’t prosecute her accomplice who broke into the house. Wouldn’t want Travis or your daddy going to jail for Carrie.”

  She choked back a scream just as her cell phone rang. She looked at the caller ID screen and said, “I have to take this.” She turned away and walked to the kitchen before answering the call. I couldn’t hear what she said, but she was back in less than a minute.

  I moved toward her so we were standing close together in the foyer. For an awkward moment, we jerked back and forth, hinting at an embrace and mutually deciding against it.

  She looked at me with faded blue eyes. “I have to meet someone.”

  “Sure. Let me know if she’s coming.”

  “She’s dangerous, Randle.”

  “I know.”

  Before I passed through the door, she said, “You have a new gun, don’t you?”

  Over my shoulder, I said, “Of course.”

  As soon as I got back to the boat, I checked the cloud account. Once again, Carrie had failed to check shadylady44. There’s something wrong with this picture. Remembering how stunned Connie was by the news that the cops knew the identity of the beach house robber, I decided to launch one last rocket at my target.

  Tony,

  The cops know who broke into my house and stole my gun. Probably the same guy who broke in a couple of weeks ago. They’ve asked for a warrant, and we shoul
d have an arrest any day now.

  Randle

  It was of no importance to me whether that note was attorney-client privileged. By late afternoon I was certain Carrie would not come to the boat today, but, not wanting to deal with her in diminishing light and not wanting to be in blue water after dark, I walked to The Vinoy and took a room. I slept like a well-fed baby for the very last time.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  In the movie Straw Dogs, the Dustin Hoff man character rigs his house to defend himself against the roughneck laborers who’ve been tantalized by Hoffman’s recklessly teasing wife. The Susan George character had taunted Hoffman’s character by arousing the laborers without any awareness she was creating a deadly situation. Carrie Marks could have played the Susan George role without having to act at all. I hoped I was clever enough to play the Hoffman part.

  In the hope that my visit to Connie would produce results, I spent Sunday morning rigging my boat for a potential encounter with Carrie. I rolled up the Plexiglas windows in the aft cabin so I would have a clear view of any intruders and a clear shot at them, if it came to that. The Plexiglas was old, stiff, and cloudy and might deflect a bullet fired through it. I climbed down on the dock and released all the mooring lines except the port bowline and the compensating starboard stern line. I wanted to be able to get underway as soon as Carrie arrived so I could get a head start on her daddy. If Carrie wanted me to go to the Gulf, I assumed her daddy would exit his marina via John’s Pass and intercept us off Clearwater Beach. He wouldn’t come through the Bay and risk being detected again as he followed us all the way up there.

  I went belowdecks to get my Beretta. I checked the clip but did not chamber a round. Carrie wasn’t strong enough to operate the slide to cock the gun, so if she grabbed it she wouldn’t be able to use it on me. I carried the gun back to the bridge and hid it in a pile of grease rags on the shelf under the instrument panel. Lastly, I pulled out the western Florida sea charts and determined the exact latitude and longitude of Mullet Key Bayou and the sheltered cove where we often anchored overnight. When I issued my Mayday, I wanted to have the coordinates handy.