“Is it a gang? Was Dewayne Turner involved?”
She acted as if she had trouble comprehending what I was asking. “I'd like a drink,” she said.
“Stick to orange juice.” I refilled her glass and she drank some, but didn't seem too happy about it.
Then her demeanor suddenly changed. Her mouth dropped and she sat up and clutched at my arm. “That boy was killed, you know.”
“Yes I know, Camille. I was the one who found him. Remember?”
She giggled, shaking her head. “Yes, that's right.” She pulled away and lay back on the couch. “Oh Christ, Frank, I've made a mess of things. The money … everything … I …” She began to cry.
I'd seen those tears before, on drunks or on addicts in the tank. Nothing that a pint or a smoke couldn't handle.
“You're willing to let Nicole take a rap and maybe go to prison, to let yourself go to waste? For what?” I said.
“You just don't understand. You don't know what I've been through. You were never here.”
“I'm here now though, aren't I?”
Her eyes went cold again. She turned away and spoke into the couch. “Goddamn you for messing up our lives…”
She seemed to absorb her own epitaph, her body wracked with sobs, curled on her side deep in pillows. I waited for maybe a minute, before looking up to see Lucita in the doorway again, a question on her face.
I threw the grande dame a tissue as I left.
* * *
“Looks like you and me need to have a little talk.” Sheriff Cowan was just exiting his cruiser, parked behind my truck in the driveway out front. He leaned against the vehicle, crossed his arms, and frowned.
“What about?”
“About whether I arrest you now or you turn yourself in down to the department.”
“Come on, Cowan. I told you I'd back off, and I am. That doesn't mean I can't go visit my ex-wife.”
“It doesn't, huh? Just a social call then?”
“Right. A social call.”
He stared at me.
“She's lying, you know. You even said it yourself. She's the one on meth, not Nicky.”
“Know that for a fact, do you?”
I held out my hand toward the house. “Why don't you go ask her for yourself?”
He puffed his cheeks and blew out some air. “I'm not the bad guy in all this, Pavlicek.”
“Never said you were,” I lied.
He snickered. “Shoot,” he said under his breath. I was pleased to hear him make reference to rather than attempt to perform the act. “Let's talk about you.”
“All right.”
“Still hard for me to believe you just so happened to find the dead Turner kid.”
“Sure.”
“You being a PI already puts you under suspicion in my book. Somebody wanted to set something up, you'd be the kind they'd ask to do it.”
“Right. Except I didn't.”
He stared at me long and hard. It was the same stare he'd used in the conference room earlier, only this one had a trace of fear in it, like he was out there on the edge of something and knew it. “So you say,” he finally said.
“Somebody's going to go down for Dewayne Turner's murder.”
He shrugged. “Then I ain't got nothing to worry about. How about you?”
“Does it make any sense, if I did, I'd be hanging around here talking with you?”
“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not.”
“We don't even have to take sides, do we?”
“You become a nigger-lover since you went and killed one when you was a cop?”
“No,” I said. “Before that.”
He chuckled and scuffed his boot against the driveway. “Tell me about your buddies Toronto and Cahill.”
“What about them?”
“You three were pals up in New York, right?”
“Not really. That is … not until after the shooting. Jake and I were partners, but we didn't know Cahill until that night.”
“Ummm,” he said.
I waited.
“Your old chief up there says you and Toronto were good cops.”
“We pay him to say that.”
He didn't see the humor. “Look, Pavlicek. We ain't gotta like each other when it comes to this Turner thing. We just gotta figure out what happened to the boy.”
“At least we're in agreement there. What about Ferrier and his partner?”
He shrugged. “I ain't too proud to work with them, but like I told you before, this is my county. This thing's gonna get solved.”
“You think you got it figured out?”
He worked his jaw around a little. “May be getting close.”
“Care to share any theories with an old detective?”
He shook his head. “Un-uh. Not yet.”
“Just feel free to waste my time then.”
“You tell me then, Pavlicek, how am I not supposed to wonder when your daughter's caught haulin’ coke and you show up the next morning, all but carrying a dead dealer in your arms?”
The man did have a point.
“Kind of makes things interesting, doesn't it?” I said.
“What's that?”
“The mutual suspicion.”
He shook his head and looked toward the house.
“What was so important it made you fly all the way up to New York?”
For a moment he seemed on the verge of telling me, but something stopped him. Fear maybe. Maybe pride. “This thing's turnin’ out to be some kind of god-awful mess, I can tell you that.”
It was my turn to sigh. “God probably wishes he could sit this one out.”
27
Armistead dropped out of sight below the ridge line where a stand of sugar maples shed their last bit of gold against a backdrop of gathering gray. Her bells were no longer audible. We had put a tail transmitter on her so it would be no problem locating her with the telemetry unit, but I was perturbed and a little fearful of losing her, nonetheless.
Jake walked about ten paces behind me, whistling. “Some say you don't truly know falconry until you've lost your first bird.”
Mr. Encouragement.
The temperature hovered just above freezing, and the brown landscape was looking more barren by the day. Soon there would be little cover left for prey to conceal themselves from a pursuing hawk.
Priscilla had shown up at the trailer with a bag of fresh donuts and coffee just as we were setting out. She said she would wait, maybe tidy up a little, until we came back, which caused Jake a half-worried, half-hopeful expression that earned him a peck on the cheek. The wind was picking up. Armistead, skillful flyer that she was, seemed to revel in its strength, as if drawing from it her own. She had spotted a groundhog earlier and made a halfhearted swoop at the thing before the sizable critter disappeared with unexpected swiftness down an unseen burrow. To my relief, she popped above the maples again and glided forward to alight near the top of one.
“There's a meadow other side of this hill,” Jake said.
“She holds her station, we can get down over there and flush a rabbit or two.”
We climbed together to the crest. The meadow on the other side was not large, but the grass was serviceable, the ground soft and ripe for tunneling. Prime rabbit habitat. Beyond the field the forest began again, but there were open spaces there as well. Armistead stayed put, swaying a little when the branch moved with the breeze.
We separated, about twenty yards apart as we entered the meadow, loping downhill. We had only gone about ten paces when they started, a trio of cottontails raised instantly from sleep into a crash of twigs breaking, a panic-stricken dash for their lives. Armistead flashed by us and went after the slowest. She took the prey with ease.
“All right! Attagirl!” I turned to see Jake stepping toward me with a smile on his face.
I let out a war whoop into the cold as Jake and I slapped palms.
“I knew you had her trained, Frank, but, man, she's gonna be a hunting machine.”
We let her feed for a short while before calling her off the kill with an even bigger reward: a piece of one of the quail Jake raised. If we let her grow too sated, we risked the loss of her seeing us as the best provider of her next easy meal. The rabbit looked healthy; its pelt could be turned into clothing or decoration and it would make an excellent stew.
Later, after Jersey had enjoyed a successful hunt too, we sat over coffee, hot soup, and donuts in the trailer.
Priscilla was still there. “You guys love this, don't you? This hawking thing,” she said.
“Yeah.” Jake was tying some new jesses while we ate. “It kind of gets in your blood.”
“It's a little savage, you know, for a city-bred girl.”
“World can be savage sometimes. Doesn't always make it bad.”
“I suppose.”
“Even city girls can appreciate the call of the wild,” I said. “We're just giving more of the birds a better chance is all.”
She looked at Jake. “I've watched him with Jersey. I know what you mean. … It's almost enough to make a girl jealous.”
Jake simply smiled.
“How are you holding up, Pavlicek? I mean with your daughter still in jail and everything,” Priscilla asked.
“I've hardly slept for forty-eight hours, but Jake's coffee's keeping me going. I guess I'm doing all right.”
“There's not much more we can do for you at the moment.”
“Maybe there is.” I told her what I had told Cowan about Camille.
“We'll see. Maybe we'll learn more tonight.”
“Nicky's telling the truth.”
“Detectives aren't usually known for being optimists,” she said.
“Except when it comes to their own daughters.”
Jake heard a sound, leaned over, and peeked out his curtain. “Someone's coming up the drive.”
We all watched through the window as a small white Hyundai popped into view.
“It's Pastor Lori,” Priscilla said. “Looks like he has Carla Turner with him.”
The car pulled in front and came to a stop. The minister jumped out and went to open the door for Mrs. Turner. He wore a down vest over a sweater that seemed to add about thirty pounds to his wiry frame. Carla Turner hoisted herself from the car, using the pastor's arm and a metal cane for support.
Jake went to help.
“Hello, Mr. Toronto,” Carla said. “Ms. Thomasen. We were hoping to find Mr. Pavlicek still here.”
“He's here, all right,” I said, stepping from behind them.
“Oh, good, Mr. Pavlicek. May we come in?”
“Come on in and pull up a chair,” Jake said. We waited while she made her way into his little kitchen and sat down.
“Would you like something to eat?” Priscilla asked. “We've got soup, donuts, and coffee—it's fresh brewed.”
“Oh, no thank you, honey. I'm just fine.”
“How about you. Reverend Lori?”
The pastor shook his head.
“What can we do for you then?”
“Mrs. Turner here's the one insisted on coming,” the Reverend said. “Said she felt the spirit moving her. And who am I to argue with that?” He smiled, I thought, a little nervously.
We all looked at Carla Turner who leaned toward me and said in a low voice: “There be rumors flying about some things happening tonight, Mr. Pavlicek, and well, like I told Pastor Lori, I just had to come.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, Mrs. Turner,” I said.
“Lord, ain't no sentiment about it. Your daughter's still in jail, ain't she? You and me, we sharing an agony when it comes to a child.”
“Thank you.”
“I told the pastor, I just got to go over there and pray for that man.”
“Oh, that's okay, Mrs. Turner. I mean, I appreciate it, but—”
“No, no, Mr. Pavlicek. Prayer is what we need. I'm telling you, as sure as I be sitting here. Prayer's the thing.”
The pastor nodded.
I hemmed and hawed some more, but to no avail. A minute later she had us all around the table with our heads bowed and holding hands, talking, she said, as naturally as if it were to someone else in the room, to the Lord.
I do not remember the words of her prayer. She might have prayed for resolution, for safety for Nicole, I'm not sure. Maybe my mind was fried from lack of sleep or I was too buzzed on caffeine. What I do remember is Carla Turner's voice, how it seemed to slow down, to modulate, to grow. If there were angels in the room in that moment, they sounded like Dewayne Turner's mother, who through love seemed to gather up and blow away all uncertainty. It was clearly a power beyond herself.
When she finished I thanked her again.
She took my hand in hers. “One thing to remember about prayer, Mr. Pavlicek. God always answers. It may not be what we want or in a way we can know right away, but you can always count on a reply. You understand?”
I nodded. Jake seemed to take her words in stride the way he took everything. Priscilla dabbed at her eyes.
“And you need to know,” she said. “Lots of times, when He answers … things, they gets a lot darker before they gets light.”
28
Light from my headlamps blended with the parking lot illumination to make the pavement sparkle outside the
Leonardston Standard.
The spaces were otherwise empty. The temperature had not dropped significantly enough for it to snow, but the raw cold felt supercharged with moisture. I had pulled on a heavy sweater to wear beneath my slicker—no problemo, since 1 had no weapon to conceal. Sure hoped Ferrier and whatever forces he had brought with him were keeping us under good watch.
Sheriff Cowan, I would find out later, had told everyone at the last minute that he wasn't coming; he said had a more promising lead he needed to check out. Naturally, Ferrier and Spain were not too keen about proceeding on such a potentially volatile mission minus the sheriff. But they had a number of his deputies, even a few state troopers all set to go. In the end, it was decided that by not moving forward as planned, they might miss their best opportunity to flush out Dewayne's killer and maybe simultaneously put a dent in a major drug ring.
We were not supposed to see any danger. Unbeknownst to Warren, once he had done his thing and we approached whatever meeting place he and the gang had chosen, the plan called for us to cut out and let the calvary surround and move in. Priscilla had the task of informing Warren when the time came. No one was naive enough to think he would take it well.
The last thing Jake had said to me before I left was: