by Mandy Miller
“What do you mean he wasn’t? Spit it out!”
“Joe Harper said he was in the library before first period. Not in the parking lot with the defendant.”
I grab the edge of the desk to keep from crumbling into a heap. “Wait. He told me he was with Zoe!”
Another long pause. “I’m sorry, he said he never told you any such thing. I’m sending over a copy of his sworn statement now, but I wanted to give you a heads-up.”
It’s probably all in my mind, but I swear I can hear him smiling.
“Are you still there?”
“Still here.”
“Look, I haven’t mentioned it before, because the case against your client is strong, but maybe you would consider—”
“No! I won’t consider a plea.”
Hightower clears his throat. “I don’t think I need to remind you, she’s only eighteen. She’d be out in—”
“No! No deal.”
***
“Wait here,” I say, as Vinnie rolls to a stop in front of St. Paul’s football complex, an über-modern stadium constructed of glass and steel worthy of any Division I college team. Friday Night Lights may conjure up images of dusty West Texas where there are only two things in abundance—oil and football fanatics. But Florida and football are as synonymous as Florida and orange juice, more professional players produced from its high schools and universities than any other state in the Union. And since Joe’s the star quarterback there’s only one place he’ll be on a fall Friday night—on the field. Although he won’t be expecting the post-game interview I’ve come for.
“You’re no fun. You said I was your investigator.”
Were my nerves not jangled, I might make a joke in response. But, the only thing on my mind is the deadly serious business of finding out why Joe Harper changed his damn story. Either he lied in the sworn statement he gave to Sonny, which is a crime. Or he lied to me at the funeral, which means Zoe also lied to me.
“Touchdown, St. Paul’s!” the announcer roars as I walk toward the locker room exit at the side of the stadium, where a few groupie girls are assembled, waiting for their gladiators to emerge.
“How long ’til the game’s over?” I ask a diminutive brunette in jeans so form-fitting her panty line is visible like a tourniquet.
She pulls a boulder-sized wad of pink bubble gum from her mouth with thumb and forefinger. “Only a few minutes. It’s the fourth quarter.”
I park myself against the wall outside the locker room to grab Joe before his attention gets diverted by the bevy of beauties. The girls peck at their phone screens and giggle, whispering in each other’s ears confidences which surely relate to boys. I’m envious I was never like them—pretty and popular and totally in the moment. My mind was always two steps ahead. On college, then law school. On war. On the future where I’d be married and happy and rich. On where my next drink would come from. Never on the frivolous joy of the here and now.
Joe emerges twenty minutes later, gear bag slung over his shoulder.
I lever myself off the wall. “Joe!”
He keeps moving.
I grab his arm. “Why’d you do it?”
“Let go of me!”
“Why’d you lie, Joe?”
“I didn’t lie,” he says, making a beeline for the parking lot.
I trail him, taking two steps for his every one. “You sure did. You either lied to me at the funeral or you lied to Detective Sorenson today. You do know lying to the police is a felony, don’t you? And lying to me. That may not be a felony, but it could have fatal consequences—like the execution of the wrong person, a girl who thought you were her friend. But you weren’t really, were you?”
He casts a furtive glance around the parking lot, and pulls me into a shadowy spot, out of reach of the beams from the lights lining the periphery of the parking lot.
“You seem nervous.”
“Yeah, well, so what?”
“Why would a big strong kid like you be nervous? Maybe you’ve got something to hide?”
He pushes me aside. “I never should have talked to you. Go away and leave me alone.”
“I’ll ask again—Why are you nervous?”
He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, making him look more child than man.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
He swallows hard several times as if he can’t catch his breath, his Adam’s apple rising and falling like the weight on a high striker at a carnival.
“I can’t talk to you.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t risk it,” he says, striding away.
“Risk what? Seems to me as if you’re not the one with a lot to lose, like Zoe.”
I run after him and block his way. “Look Joe, I don’t have the time for this. You need to tell me what’s going on, why you told me one thing and the cops another. Zoe’s trial starts Monday and unless you help me out here, she’s going to prison for a very long time, or worse.”
“You don’t know that,” he says, eyes drifting to a young man on a motorcycle, a young woman in back, hair flying out in a golden contrail as they disappear into the night.
“Oh, yes I do. Come on, Joe. The truth. I need you to tell me the truth. You owe Zoe that much. You lied to her before, about Serena. The least you can do is to tell the truth now.”
Set jaw. Clear eyes. A flicker of doubt. His resolve crumbling. I’m well acquainted with his type. For all his swagger, he’s a trust-fund kid schooled in the Anglo-Saxon Protestant tradition of noblesse oblige, the obligation to help the less fortunate to allay the guilt of one’s privilege, so I play to his congenital guilt, betting he won’t want to seem like a total douche.
“You don’t seem like the kind of guy who would let her be railroaded. At least not if she didn’t do it, right?”
He drops his bag at his feet and sinks to a squat on the sidewalk.
“You were with Zoe when Sinclair was killed, weren’t you?”
He covers his face. “Yes.”
“Why’d you tell Detective Sorenson you weren’t with Zoe in the parking lot? That you were in the library? That’s a lie, Joe.”
A quick glance over his shoulder to make sure no one is within earshot. “I’ve got this brother and he—”
“Sam, I know. Younger than you. Drug problem. Zoe told me all about him and the trouble he’s been in with the law.”
He stands and leans against a trash can. “He just can’t stop using.”
“You told Zoe what you saw at FCP, about her father and the bags of cash. You have to tell the truth.”
He clenches his fists and shakes them at me, his white knuckles a stark contrast to his scarlet face. “You’ve got it all wrong! I didn’t lie! I told that detective the truth, wrote it all out for him, how I was with Zoe. That she couldn’t have killed Mr. Sinclair because she was with me.”
“What? The prosecutor told me you said you denied being with her.”
He shakes his head hard from side to side as if trying to erase the memory. “After I signed the statement and gave it to the detective, he ripped it up.”
“What?”
“He said that if I ever told anyone about being with Zoe that day, that,” he says, his voice quavering, “he said he would set Sam up, make it so he goes away to prison for a very long time. “And he said he’d kill me. And feed me to the sharks.”
“Oh. My. God.”
He swipes at a runaway tear with the back of his hand. “Now you understand why I can’t help you?”
I give him a few seconds to gather himself, until he’s squared his shoulders in a futile attempt to give the impression he’s got everything under control. “I understand, but if I promise you that if you testify you were with Zoe when Sinclair was killed, I will make sure you and no one in your family is harmed, would you do it?” My words may be spoken with confidence, but it’s an act, one borne out of desperation. I have no idea how I’ll be able to keep that promise, given my less tha
n cordial relationship with law enforcement.
He sighs. “Ms. Locke, I can’t take that chance. My mom and dad have suffered enough.”
“And what about Zoe? It’s a young woman’s life I’m talking about here.”
“And her dad? Yeah, like he’s not the cause of so many people’s suffering.” He lets out a sinister laugh. “I have to leave now.”
I grab his bag and sit on it. “Remember Joe, lying in court’s a crime.”
“I’m not going to court,” he says, eyeing the bag, trying to figure a way to dislodge me.
“So, what do you say? Will you do the right thing? Or will you just stick your head in the sand? Imagine how you’ll feel when Zoe gets convicted, knowing you were too cowardly to tell the truth.” I brace myself, half believing he’ll rush me and knock me on my ass to get his bag. “I didn’t take you for a coward, Joe. But then again, maybe you are. Appearances can be deceiving, can’t they?”
A few of the longest seconds of my life pass, my heart aching at the thought of Zoe alone in a windowless cell for twenty-three hours a day until she takes her final breath. Then, like the light of dawn cleaving the darkness, the fear lifts from Joe’s eyes, replaced by a narrow-eyed scowl of determination.
“Hell, my folks have done everything they can for Sam. I can’t hide behind my brother as an excuse. Sooner or later, he’s going to have to straighten himself out or he’s as good as dead, but that’s his choice. But Zoe doesn’t have one.”
“So you’ll testify at Zoe’s trial and go with me to the authorities to tell them about what Detective Sorenson said?”
He extends a hand to pull me to my feet. “Yes, I will.”
“Thank you. And one more thing.”
“What now?”
“Last thing, I promise. Were you mad because Sinclair was sleeping with Serena?”
“Is that what Zoe said?”
“Not exactly.”
His cheeks redden. “Yeah, I was mad. But not because she was fucking him. But because she was dealing, just like him. I thought she was better than that.”
“Dealing?” I ask, trying to sound surprised given my unconfirmed suspicions after I saw her at the clinic and the widow’s place.
“To kids on campus.”
“Holy shit.”
That’s why we broke up. She tried to sell Sam some dope. Can you believe that crap?”
Every nerve in my is body is electrified. “Sinclair and Serena were in business together?”
“Yep. Serena might have looked like a runway model, but deep down inside she was rotten. And so was he. I know it’s not right to speak ill of the dead, but the pair of them got what they deserved.”
“Not like that’s not enough, but is there anything else you want to tell me?”
“That’s everything I know. And now you know it too.”
“That’s more than enough. You’re very brave,” I say, handing him his bag. “And I’m sorry about what I said about your being a coward. Nothing could be further from the truth.”
He holds out his hand to shake mine. “No worries. It’s your job to do whatever it takes to save Zoe.” He strides away, seemingly without a care in the world.
***
Vinnie’s fully reclined in the driver’s seat, window open, humming some show tune I can’t quite put a name to. I bang on the windshield.
“Mother of God, sweetheart! You about gave me a heart attack.”
I get in and pinch his cheek. “You’re too young to die.”
He cranks the engine. “Everything go okay with the kid?”
“Roger that. Good news is Zoe didn’t murder Sinclair.”
“And the bad?”
“Sonny’s involved.”
“The pretty cop who used to come sniffing around The Hurricane looking for you?”
“One and the same.”
Joe’s Land Rover pulls out of the parking lot followed by a black Corvette.
My phone rings.
“Grace, I need to see you.”
“Why?”
“Better we talk in person.”
“I’ll come by your office tomorrow after court, maybe around—”
“No! It has to be tonight.”
I mouth “Manny” to Vinnie who motions for me to hang up.
“Okay. I’m on the way home and going for a run. If you want to come over after that, it’s up to you, but it’ll be late. Around ten.”
“See you then.”
Chapter 32
I gulp some water from the fountain outside the public restrooms at the South Beach parking lot, the halfway point on my run. This is the South Beach in Fort Lauderdale, not the one in Miami where movie stars and hangers-on go to stand in line outside the hottest clubs for the honor of paying a thousand bucks for a bottle of booze that costs twenty-five at Royal Liquors.
For the first time in weeks, I’m not carrying around a refrigerator on my back, nor is my stomach in knots. And to celebrate, I’m taking my longest run since the amputation—six miles. Zoe will go free and, as for the rest of it—how Sonny’s involved, how everything connects to drug dealing and the pill mills—I have no idea. My job is done. And well, if I say so myself.
I lean against the wall to stretch out my hamstrings.
Without warning, he’s on me, forcing my back against the fountain, the steel basin frigid against the backs of my thighs.
It’s as if he’s just stepped straight out of my mind onto the sidewalk.
“Jesus, Sonny! What the—”
“Don’t think for one minute I’m gonna let you ruin me and everything I’ve worked for,” he says, leaning his bulk against me, the piercing blue of his eyes tinged with yellow from the light above the fountain.
He rips off the armband holding my phone and crushes it under his shoe. “You’re not gonna need this, because you are never going to need to talk to anyone again. Especially not Joe Harper.”
I scan the parking lot for help. Empty. Not one car, not even the homeless guy on a beach cruiser who usually hangs around after the evening AA meeting on the beach to knock back a few in peace. The lot closes at 8 p.m. and it has to be at least 9:30, maybe later.
“See, like you, Grace, I’m meticulous about every last detail. After I warned Harper that it would be in his best interest not to blab to anyone, especially you, we sent Alexi to follow him, as an insurance policy, to make sure he kept his mouth shut until the trial was over. Turns out that was a good idea. You remember Alexi, don’t you? The rather large man with Serena at FCP?”
And the Sinclair home. And his black Corvette. But who is “we”?
“Alexi saw him talking to you. Had to shut his mouth forever.”
A sour taste invades my mouth. “He was just a boy, for God’s sake.” I manage to scratch his cheek, hard enough to draw blood.
He grabs both my wrists and forces them above my head with one of his hands and jams a gun against my temple with the other. “A boy who could have taken me down. Just like you.”
I open my mouth, but he smashes me in the face with the barrel of the gun. “Scream and I’ll kill you right here and feed you to the sharks. Move!”
He shoves me into his ancient Jeep Cherokee, face down on the back seat which smells like a used jockstrap, and cuffs my wrists and ankles with plastic zip ties. “Don’t move an inch, and don’t say a goddamned word.”
“Let go of me!”
“I told you to shut up!” He punches me in the kidneys. I bite my tongue to keep from crying out from the savage pain.
He jumps in and cranks the ignition. As he turns the car south on A1A, he opens the window, slaps an emergency light on the roof, and guns the engine.
I can’t see a thing beyond the interior bathed in the strobing blue light. But I don’t need to see to know where we are. We’re passing the Bahia Mar Marina, the fire station, and the Yankee Clipper, the iconic beach hotel where my father and I watched mermaids swimming in a huge tank behind the bar as patrons sipped slushy piña co
ladas.
I’m able to raise my face off the floor. “Tampering with a witness, not to mention threatening to kill him, that could really sink a cop’s career.”
“Hah! No one’s ever going to know.”
When he takes the curve onto 17th Street too fast, I roll off the seat onto the floor. “You’re scum, Sonny,” I say, but my words are swamped by the tires screeching as he pulls a fast right at the Pier Sixty-Six Hotel and brakes hard to a stop.
I bite back the searing pain long enough to arch my back enough to see out the side window. High above, the concrete underbelly of a bridge. The deafening clanging of an electronic bell from above—the parking lot under the Seventeenth Street bridge. It’s ironic. This used to be one of my favorite spots for liquid lunch breaks. Only five minutes from the courthouse, and always deserted. Like tonight.
He flings open the back door and slits the ankle ties with a hunting knife, pulling me up by the wrists, the sharp plastic edges of the zip ties sawing into my flesh.
“That hurts, goddammit!”
Holding the gun on me with one hand, he tosses an FLPD Official Business card on the dash with the other, and kicks the door shut. “Didn’t I already say, shut the fuck up?”
I refuse to move, and he presses the gun into my ribs. “You never were much good at taking orders, but now you’re gonna learn real fast. Move! And if you even think about kicking me in the nuts, I’ll blow your way-too-clever brains out.”
He marches me down a steel dock to a speedboat painted with FLPD Marine Patrol.
On board, he forces me into the chair to the left of the helm, cuts the wrist ties, and secures me to the chair with a pair of standard-issue handcuffs.
He pulls two FLPD hats from a grocery bag, and jams one onto my head. “Not exactly the high fashion you used to be accustomed to, but it’ll do. In case anyone gets close, which I doubt at this time of night.”
He puts his hat on. “And, one thing before we get going. Take it off.”
“What? Take what off?”
He points at Oscar.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” he says, with a whack to the side of my head.
Gun barrel resting on my temple, he unlocks the cuffs and watches as I press the pin mechanism on the inside ankle to release the leg, revealing my stump, sausage shaped and bound in white gauze.