The Miracle Strip (23 page)

I peered out into the house and saw him chatting with Vincent. Neither one looked happy.

“Rusty,” I called, “give me two minutes. I got company.” Rusty cranked up the bumper music and nodded, his eyes glued to the house curtains.

Vincent's entire body was twitching by the time I walked up. Whatever Nailor was saying went against Vincent's good nature. And Nailor wasn't looking too happy himself. His suit and shirt were immaculate, and his tie was a dark wine that added luster to his tanned skin. But he was angry with Vincent, and it showed in the rigid way he held his shoulders.

“So,” I said, hooking my arm through Nailor's and trying to edge him away from Vincent, “you didn't get enough the other night, and now you're back.” Vincent watched us walk off, his eyes narrowing warily. I led John Nailor over to a front-row table and gently pushed him into a chair. I pulled up another chair right next to his, flipped it around, and straddled it.

“I thought I told you not to come in here,” I said. “It isn't good for my job security. And you pissing off Vincent is going to be very bad for me indeed.”

John leaned against the back of his chair and smiled. He was in a dangerously unpredictable mood.

“Maybe I'm so taken with the talent, I can't keep myself away,” he answered, then leaned forward, his face so close to mine that I could taste his breath. “Or maybe it's time to turn up the heat.”

“Turn up the heat, Officer,” I purred, “or turn the heat on?” Nailor didn't give, didn't move an inch. “Well, stick around, big man,” I said. “I'm about to do my last set. Maybe I can help you raise your thermostat.”

“Oh, I'm not going anywhere,” he said. “I'm taking you home.” His steely eyes went right through me and I felt my stomach flip over.

“Is that right?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “I'm gonna stick so close to you, you'll think I was skin.”

“Really?” was all I could get out. The scent of his cologne, the warmth of his breath on my cheeks, the nearness of his hands as they wrapped around my chair-back, framing my own—they were all signs. I was losing control of the conversation and I wasn't sure my legs would carry me backstage.

“Yeah,” he said, sensing victory and suddenly pulling back, “I got more questions for you than you can ever answer, and I'm going to stay on you until I ask every one.”

“And to think I thought you were back for more of me,” I said, feigning disappointment.

He smiled and leaned back comfortably in his chair. “I wouldn't want to give you more than you can handle in one night,” he said. “You just focus on giving me answers.”

I'll give you answers, I smoldered silently. I'll give you every answer I've got. I made my way backstage and took five cleansing breaths. When the curtain went up and I walked to the edge of the stage, John Nailor had vanished.

*   *   *

He turned up again as I was leaving. I found him sitting on the hood of my Camaro. His tie was loosened and he sat with one foot on the ground and the other on my bumper.

“Hey, watch it with the car,” I yelled. “You could dent my hood.”

Nailor didn't move, just watched me walking toward him, his eyes casually wandering down my body and up to look at my face. He was making me uncomfortable.

“This thing as fast as your mouth?” he asked.

“Could be close,” I said, stopping within a foot of where he stood. “You wanna go for a ride?”

“Yeah,” he said, his eyes continuing their inspection, but always returning to stare directly into mine. Nailor cocked his head to the side and smiled slightly.

“You're a little bit intimidated by me,” he observed. “That's good, I think.”

“Bullshit,” I answered, my heart racing in my throat. “Get in the car and we'll see who scares who.”

I walked over and hopped into the driver's seat.

“Remember you've got an escort,” he said.

I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the unmarked police car start up and switch its headlights on.

“Well,” I said, “looks like I got a little dilemma. You want to see what I can do, and he doesn't want to lose me. That's a real problem.” I cranked up the V-8. “But I figure,” I said, revving the engine and suddenly letting up on the brake, “you can fix the ticket if he can catch us.” I floored the accelerator and tore off out of the lot and onto Thomas Drive. Sierra Lavotini was behind the wheel and fear was not even a factor.

“Where are we headed?” I asked as we rounded the corner onto Joan Avenue. The T-tops were off and the windows were down. The cool late-night air streamed into the car, blowing our hair back and making conversation almost impossible.

“Your place,” he yelled. I looked over at him, but he was staring out the window at the road in front of us. My place it was.

*   *   *

I concentrated on driving, enjoying the power of the Z28 and the thrill of being uncatchable and invulnerable for one brief stretch of night. I reached the Lively Oaks Trailer Park in ten short minutes, coming to a stop inches from my bottom stoop.

“Not bad,” Nailor said. “Where'd you learn to drive like that?”

“I dated a NASCAR driver for a little while,” I said, opening the car door and stepping out. “Come on in.”

“Sierra, wait,” he said. His hand was reaching inside his suit coat, unhooking his holster. “Just for my peace of mind, let me go in first and make sure it's all clear.”

“As a favor to you?” I said. “Knock yourself out.” I stepped aside, handed him the keys, and let him go first. We both turned at the sound of crunching tires behind us. Faithful Detective Donlevy had arrived, catching up at last. The lights on his car went out and he sat, two car lengths away, with the motor running.

Nailor raised his hand and waved, then turned and walked inside the darkened trailer. Lights went on, one at a time, as he made his way through the length of the mobile home. Two minutes later, he appeared at the back door.

“Coast is clear,” he said.

I'd spent a little time cleaning up in the afternoon, but that only meant that the kitchen was reassembled and the living room habitable. The back of the trailer needed work.

“Take a load off,” I said, gesturing toward the living room. “You want a beer or something?”

“No,” he answered, “I want you to come in here and sit down.” He pointed to the other end of the futon. “I want to talk to you.”

“All right,” I said, taking a seat. “Start talking.”

“Not like that,” he said. “Move in a little closer.”

Butterflies started fluttering against my rib cage as I slid closer to him.

“Give me your hand,” he said.

“What?”

“Just do it,” he said. “I won't bite you.” He stretched out his hand to me, palm up, and waited for me to place my hand in his.

“Good,” he said as I gently rested my fingers on his palm. His fingers tightened slowly around mine. “Now I want to play a game.” His fingers tightened again, gently enfolding my hand. In spite of myself I felt a little nervous. His hand was firm and strong.

“I used to play this when I was a kid,” he began. “It's kind of like truth or dare.” I attempted to snatch my hand away, but his grip tightened again and this time I couldn't move.

“Let go,” I said, squirming.

“No. Listen to me.” I made an effort to relax and act like he was boring me. “I'm asking the questions,” he said, “so I hold your hand. If you lie when you answer, I'll feel it in your fingers.”

“No you won't,” I said. How could that possibly be true?

“Yes,” he said, “I will. They'll twitch. Here, I'll ask you some easy questions and then I'll tell you if you lied.”

“Oh, go ahead,” I scoffed.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Twenty-eight,” I answered, watching my fingers.

“Good,” he said. “How long have you lived in Panama City?”

“Two years, three months,” I answered.

“You like me, don't you?” he asked suddenly.

“Get out,” I laughed, trying to pull my hand away.

“Ah, you do,” he said, laughing, “your fingers twitched. You don't think I'm all bad. Now, wait,” he said, his face serious again. I focused on making my fingers go limp. “Did you really learn to drive from a NASCAR driver?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered, looking into his eyes.

“Not so,” he said calmly. I could have sworn my fingers never moved. How could he know?

“Where is Denise?” he asked finally.

“I don't know,” I said, fear rising in my throat. “I really don't know.”

John Nailor's grip on my hand changed. He turned my palm over, face up, and gently stroked my fingers. He looked up, his eyes sinking into mine.

“I know you don't,” he said softly.

For a moment we sat still, my hand in his. The sound of a muffled groan interrupted the stillness in the room.

“What in the hell?” John said.

We both looked around, trying to determine the source of the sound. I stood up.

“It sounded like it was coming from underneath us,” I said. The noise began again, this time different, more of a squeak and growl. Abruptly, Fluffy came skittering out from under the futon. She turned and looked at the sofa as if expecting it to come after her.

“What is it, girl?” I looked over at Nailor. “I think whoever tore up the trailer last night must've scared Fluffy. It's not like her to do this. She's usually right out if she hears me come in. She must be doing this because you came in first.”

“Probably,” he said. He bent down, offering Fluffy a hand to smell. When she wandered over to be petted, he scratched her head and talked softly to her. Fluffy's little tail wagged happily. She'd found a friend.

“I'd better get going,” he said, straightening up.

“I thought you had questions,” I said.

“You answered the one I was concerned about.”

“You need a ride back?” I asked, wanting to prolong my time with him.

Nailor laughed. “I'll take my chances and have Donlevy call someone to take me back to my car. You're probably tired.”

“No, I just got my second wind,” I said.

“Sierra, you're lying again,” he said softly. He didn't need to hold my hand to see the truth in that statement. I could feel my eyes burning with fatigue, and I knew the makeup had long since worn off my face.

“Don't get into any more trouble for a while, okay?” he said.

He didn't need to convince me. My headache was beginning to return, reminding me that I was supposed to be taking it easy.

I stood watching the door after he left, finally plopping down onto the futon and pulling Fluffy up onto my lap.

“He likes you,” the futon said. “And you like him, too, I can tell. You get that fuzzy tone to your voice.”

I jumped up and whirled around.

“Denise, where are you?” I yelled, pulling the futon away from the wall. Denise lay wedged behind the sofa, her tiny frame pulled up into a ball.

“Oh God,” she groaned. “Help me up, will you? I thought you two were going to sit on me all night.” She turned to look at Fluffy. “And you,” she said, pointing her finger. “You shouldn't eat food that doesn't settle well. Stinker.”

Denise, aside from her voice and stature, was not the Denise of almost two weeks ago. Her beautiful long red hair was gone. In its place was a choppy mop of black. She wore a tight faded pair of blue jeans and a white T-shirt, and no makeup or jewelry. At a quick glance, she almost looked like a small boy.

“How'd you get in here?” I asked.

“You still keep your spare key under the propane tank,” she answered, grinning. “Jesus, you've been hard to get to. You got cops all over you.” She looked around the trailer. “And who did this?” Denise was in overdrive. “You got my package, didn't you? And the earring? I figured you'd know I was all right if I left you a sign, you know?”

Here was Denise, in my living room, totally fine, without so much as an “I'm sorry” or “Hope I didn't freak you out too bad.”

“Sit down,” I commanded. “We'll get to your questions when I get done with mine.” Denise stopped and looked at me. “You think you can run out on me, leave me to face the cops, get my tail in a sling, and scare me to death without so much as a ‘Kiss my ass'? I don't think so.”

Denise arranged her face to appear contrite, but I wasn't having it.

“That guy you think likes me is a cop, remember? He's looking for
you,
as you may have overheard. They think you killed your ex-husband. I thought you were dead. I want to know, right now, what the hell is going on?”

Denise sank slowly down onto the futon, her shoulders slumping. On closer inspection, she looked the worse for wear. Her jeans were fashionably ripped out at the knees, but they were dirty, as were her running shoes. She was thinner, much thinner than before, and her eyes were rimmed with dark circles.

“All right,” she said, sighing, “no bullshit, but you aren't going to like it.”

“I don't have to like it,” I said. “I need to know what I'm dealing with.”

Denise nodded, running her fingers through her close-cropped hair.

“Leon was on me the day he got out of prison. He'd never intended to leave me alone. That was obvious when Joey V., Leon's other drug courier, showed up and insisted that I accompany him back to the
Mirage.
Joey wasn't any too happy about coming to get me or having Leon back on the outside. He said Leon was crazier than ever, that he was going to go right back into the business even with the feds all over him. Sierra, I was scared.” Her big green eyes stared up at me. “You couldn't imagine how Leon can terrify you, hurt you until you'd do anything he asked, just to get away.” I thought back to my brief encounter with Leon in Fort Lauderdale and nodded.