“Detective,” I said finally, “I'm tired. I've been up almost twenty-four hours, so pardon me if my brain ain't all it could be, but do not mistake me for a bimbo.” Deep inside I felt the Lavotini temper begin to well up.
“I may not have your training and education. I may not have a career in the limelight of society, but I am a good judge of character. I have solid, true friends. I stick with them, and they stick with me. So when I tell you that my friend Denise Curtis is on the straight, I don't need to be patronized or talked to like I'm some kind of idiot.” I took a deep breath. “I will tell you again everything I know, and then I am going home to bed.”
I didn't care what John Nailor thought anymore. I didn't look for the little boy in him. I didn't even look him in the eye. I stared instead at the desk. I told him everything that had happened in Fort Lauderdale and everything leading up to finding Leon Corvase's bloody body. When I finished I took a deep breath and looked straight at Detective Nailor.
“Unless I need to call a lawyer,” I said calmly, “I'm leaving. I don't want a ride back to my car. I'll walk.” I pushed my chair back and prepared to stand. It was a great exit, spoiled by Carla Terrance.
She pushed open the door and blocked my path, then glared past me at John Nailor.
“You're not letting her leave, are you?” she demanded.
Nailor stood up and motioned toward the door. “Excuse us a moment,” he said to me. An angry red flush began working its way across his face as he moved toward Carla. I could tell he didn't like her tone of voice in front of me. The door had barely closed when I heard the rumble of furious voices. I stood up and silently crept to the door. When I pressed my ear against the crack by the door frame, I could hear quite nicely.
“This is an open investigation,” Carla was saying. “I have my interests to protect. If you get in the way, so help me, I'll go to your chief and then I'll call my boss in Miami.”
“Don't threaten me,” Nailor said, his voice a quiet inferno. “We've got no reason to keep her. Your personal feelings are getting in the way here.” I plastered myself as close to the door as I could, rooting for Nailor.
Carla tore back at him like a wildcat. “Personal,” she spat. “Don't get personal! Don't flatter yourself, John. I'm here because I have to be; it's my investigation. Don't you think I would have done anything to stay away from you?”
Bad blood, I thought. This was getting good. There was a moment of silence and then Nailor's voice again.
“Carla, I didn't want to work with you any more than you wanted to work with me, but I like to think we're both professional enough to bury our feelings and do our jobs.”
“You sanctimonious shit,” she hissed. “Don't lecture me about professionalism. Do you think the DEA would've taken me on as a special agent if I weren't one of the best?” This was getting worse by the moment, I thought. These two hated each other. “That was always the problem with us, John. You couldn't handle a little competition.”
“No, Carla, that wasn't the problem. The issue was your insecurity. I was proud of you. I backed you all the way, but you never believed it. I gave our relationship everything I had, but it was never enough.”
Relationship? But they broke off as a third voice interrupted.
“Is there a problem here?” The deep male voice didn't wait for an answer. “I knew it was a mistake putting you two together, but there was no option. If I was mistaken about the caliber of your abilities, then⦔
Carla and John rushed to reassure him there wasn't a problem.
“Then I don't want any more of this bickering,” the gruff voice continued. “I got a call from the lab. You got two blood types at the scene. The medical examiner hasn't set time of death yet, says she has to run a few more tests. They'll do the autopsy this afternoon. I want you there, Nailor. And Nailor?”
“Yeah, Chief?”
“Pull the others off whatever they're working on. This takes precedence. I want this one wrapped up in a hurry, before we have some kind of media zoo.”
Heavy footsteps moved off down the hallway and there was silence for a few moments.
“Well, at least find out her blood type,” Carla said.
“I can get that from the hospital,” Nailor answered. “Let's wait for all the forensics to come back and focus on where she was at the time of death.”
I couldn't hear Carla's answer. I scampered back to my chair right before Nailor walked into the room. His face was a dusky red and his eyes were even more bloodshot than before.
“I'll give you a ride back to your vehicle,” he said.
“I meant it, I'll walk,” I answered.
He sighed, frustrated. “Don't be ridiculous. It's three miles and you've been up all night.” He walked to the door and held it open for me. Three miles in stilettos is a hell of a statement, no matter who you are or how accustomed you are to wearing spike heels. I took the ride.
He didn't say a word the whole way back to the Blue Marlin, but I could tell he was stewing. When we pulled into the lot, the mobile crime scene unit from Pensacola stood parked in front of the motel pool. Technicians moved with calm efficiency in and out of Room 320. John Nailor pulled next to my Rent-A-Wreck and parked. I reached for the door handle and turned to look at him. He wasn't looking at me. His attention had turned to the crime scene.
“By the way, it's type O,” I said in his direction. “Me and approximately forty-five percent of the rest of the world.”
He whipped his head toward me. “What?” He looked irritated.
“I'm type O. I thought maybe you could tell that to your partner and she'd climb down off your ass.” He looked surprised, like he couldn't imagine for a moment how I knew. “Relationships are a real bitch, Detective,” I said as I opened the door. “The way I see it, you can't win for losin'. People are just like magnets, Nailor, they're always drawing the worst out of each other.”
Nailor frowned. “I thought magnets repelled each other,” he said. “Only opposites are drawn together.”
“The trouble with you, Nailor,” I said, “is that you think too much.”
I closed the door before he could answer. Poor dummy, he was probably clueless. He was probably one of those poor guys who thinks all you gotta do is lay your earnest card on the table and it's clear sailing from there.
The only way a relationship makes it is if both parties happen to stare into the mirror in the morning and say, “Hey, I'm no bargain either.” I couldn't see Carla Terrance looking in the mirror and admitting she wasn't a bargain. That was the problem with their whole relationship, as far as I could seeâCarla was too insecure to admit she wasn't perfect and Nailor was too busy being earnest to realize Carla was afraid. Of course, that and a buck won't buy you a cup of coffee in Panama City. It certainly wouldn't help Leon Corvase or his ex-wife. Leon was an ice cube and Denise was missing. I hoped Denise hadn't decided to take matters into her own hands.
Nineteen
Fluffy and I worked the kinks out of our relationship years ago. She didn't hold it against me if I stayed out too late, as long as I left her some food and made sure the miniature doggy door was in working order. When I straggled in and headed back to the bedroom, Fluff was waiting, her head nestled on the pillow, a welcoming smile on her face.
“You know, Fluff,” I said, stripping off my clothes and reaching for a nightshirt, “you're about the one true thing, you know what I'm saying?” Fluffy seemed to nod reassuringly.
“I mean it, girl,” I said, crawling under the covers next to her. “Who else can I rely on, day or night?” Fluffy sighed, content in her place within my universe. “That guy that pulled the hook out of your paw?” She watched me, her features impassive. “He's dead.” She licked my cheek. “Denise? Who knows where the hell she is? Then there's this new bartender, Lyle. He goes off to call the cops and never comes back. What kind of reliability factor does he have, eh? I'm thinking he rates a zero. I'm telling you, Fluff, it's me and you against the rest of the idiots.”
Fluffy moaned in disgust and I felt my eyelids filling with sand, making it hard to hold them open.
“Oh, I know, girl,” I murmured. “Raydean and Pat, but honey, Raydean's a lost ball in high weeds and Pat's too old to worry about us all the time. We should be taking care of them. The guys at the club, well, there ain't no free lunches, Fluffy. That's all I can say.” Fluffy had fallen asleep, her warm dog breath brushing softly against the crook of my neck.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
I couldn't have slept more than two hours, although my clock said I'd slept well into the afternoon. Someone banged incessantly at the kitchen door, sending Fluffy into a frenzy and irritating the hell out of me.
“Hold on,” I yelled out impatiently. “I'm coming.” Fluffy ran past me to the door sniffing and yelping. Apparently, she knew my visitor and approved.
“Fluffy, tell your mama to come on,” Pat's voice groused through the door. “Any type of decent person'd be up already.”
When I opened the door, Pat almost fell through in her hurry to get to me. She smelled of fish and sweat and saltwater. Obviously, she'd come straight from the boat without stopping to shower or change. Her blue eyes glittered with emotion and her stark white hair framed her face in a windswept halo. Unflappable Pat was rattled and that worried me instantly. Whatever was bugging her had to be important.
“Sierra, I don't know what you've been up to, Sugar, but you've certainly stepped in it.” Pat paused and looked me over, waiting for me to react.
I headed for the coffeemaker, deliberately taking my time. I wasn't going to give Pat the feeling that I was in any kind of trouble. She'd been through enough with me. I was going to manage whatever it was without involving her. I glanced over at Fluffy. She was licking Pat's leg and sniffing warily. Maybe Pat's smell reminded her of Fort Lauderdale and fishhooks. Whatever it was wasn't making Fluff any too happy.
“Pat, what do you mean, âstepped in it'?” I filled the coffee carafe and carefully poured the water into the machine.
“Catfish, I've got kids older than you, meaner than you, and, I'm starting to think, smarter than you. Don't play innocent with me.” She was glaring at me. I could feel her eyes boring into my back. “A detective from the Panama City Police Department was waiting for me when I docked the TCB this afternoon. He wanted to ask me a bunch of questions about you.”
With that comment, my heart started racing and my stomach began to churn. Why were they talking to Pat about me?
“Oh yeah,” I said, playing it cool, “Detective Nailor. He's on some personal vendetta and thinks I know where Denise is. Don't worry, he's harmless.”
Pat shook her head. “It wasn't him or that woman he had with him at the hospital. I never saw this guy before. He was a young fella, about mid-twenties, flattop haircut, well built, kinda cute, actually.”
Who in the hell was that? I let my mind race back over the crime scene and the police department. I hadn't seen any other detectives.
“Well, who was he?” I asked. In spite of myself, I could hear my voice rise an octave with anxiety.
Pat drew a white business card with the Panama City Police Department insignia on the top right side. “Dennis Donlevy. He was real nice, said he was checking on some background information for a homicide investigation. Asked me what kind of tenant you were. Did you pay your rent on time and in cash or by check. Did I notice any unusual activity in the park, especially around your trailer.” It was Pat's turn to play cool. She laid the information out like she'd been pleasantly chatting with the guy. She had to know it was eating at my guts.
“Oh, that's all,” I said, nodding. “They just want to check me out. Standard operating procedure when you investigate homicides. No big deal.”
Pat's frustration finally showed. “Damn it, Sierra. When were you going to tell me you'd found another dead body? And come to think of it, when were you going to come around again after your little Fort Lauderdale escapade?” Her face reddened with anger and her hands flailed uncontrollably at her sides. “You know, Catfish, I'm trying to be your friend here, but you make it hard sometimes. You've got that wall you put up, like you're expecting the worst from the world. Just run off to Fort Lauderdale, don't say thank you or kiss my ass or nothing.”
“I didn't want to bother you any more than I already had,” I said. Next to me, on the counter, the coffeemaker hissed. Strong, black coffee began dripping into the pot.
“Bother me?” Pat sputtered. “You scared me and your friends half out of our minds. Now you've got the cops investigating your background, trying to figure out where you've been when and if you're the kind of person who'd kill or help kill two people.” Pat shook her head again. “How can I defend you when I don't even know what's going on?”
It was beyond my control. I could feel myself shutting down. The thick wall slowly moved into place, and as much as I wanted to give Pat everything she needed, I couldn't. Sometimes the world wanted more than I was ready to risk.
“Pat,” I finally said, breaking the long silence that lay between us, “you're right. I should have called or come over. I just really didn't want to put any more on you.” But the words had a hollow, mechanical ring to them and Pat saw right through me.
“I don't know if that's the case, or if you were just plum self-centered. Either way, I'm disappointed in you. It's time to step up and be responsible, Sierra. I'm not your mother, I'm your friend.” Pat didn't wait for me to respond. She turned and walked out of the door, leaving me to stare after her.
If it all wasn't bad enough, when I went to the window to see if Pat had really left or was maybe still in the front yard waiting for me to do the right thing, I saw an unmarked white police sedan parked a little way down the drive from my trailer. I was being watched. Detective Nailor hadn't been as secure in my story as I'd thought.