by Olivia Rigal
I nod and remember how shitty I felt after my first corpse. Lately, after several years of crime scene visits, there's really not much that shakes me anymore. Well, nothing but the smell of rotten flesh and the age of the victims. Young ones get to me.
As I reach the scene of the accident, the first thing that hits me is the smell of gasoline. It's overwhelming. The two lanes of the roads are covered with shiny spots. Pools of oil and pools of blood would be impossible to distinguish without the bugs. They are attacking in swarms. This is Florida after all. Nature always takes the upper hand.
I count six bodies covered with tarps and two teams of paramedics working on another mangled one with a machine. Captain Stevens is watching. The expression on his face reflects my feelings. Pity and rage. We can't fight stupid, but we sure can feel sorry for it.
Now I do love speed as much as the next guy. Probably more. It's heady and once you've tasted it, you're hooked. Yet I'm not suicidal. I don't drink and ride, and in my wildest days, I never smoked and rode.
Captain Stevens shakes his head and sighs.
"I called them," he tells me as I come closer. That explains the presence of the local television station reporter.
He's picking up a conversation we started a week ago after the last accident. While we usually keep the press at arm’s length during our investigations, we were debating calling in the local news people to let them shoot footage of accidents caused by this new drug.
"If the horror of it doesn't knock some sense into kids or scare the parents to death, I don't know what will."
He's gonna take heat from the brass. They frown on anything that can tarnish the picture perfect image of our blissful little town, but at this point in his career, the captain doesn't care anymore. The worst they can do to him is pressure him into an early retirement. He used to dread the idea, but now that he's got a new wife, the idea doesn't seem to scare him as much.
Hours later, I escape from the media circus, stop by the station for a bit, and return to the Styx in a foul mood. Kristal has to cooperate. If she doesn't, I may lose my legendary cool.
The delicious smell of freshly brewed coffee greets me as I open the door. In the ground floor kitchen, there's a full pot and a box of donuts. I have no appetite for the sweet pastry, but coffee is a godsend. I pour myself a cup and walk to the garden looking for Patricia. She's by the pool, wearing a tank top and shorts, going through her morning Tai Chi routine.
Her movements are fluid and graceful. Observing her is relaxing. So, instead of rushing to Kristal's room to confront her, I take a moment to watch Pat's precise motions. I badly need this cooling off period. Drinking my coffee slowly, I wait for her to finish. When she does, she picks up a towel from a nearby chair and strides to where I'm standing.
"You seem serene and happy," I tell her.
She smiles at me as she answers. "Why shouldn't I be? I've got my health, enough money to live comfortably, a job I love, and a pet I adore. Life is good."
Patricia walks into the kitchen and returns with her own cup and a sugar-powdered pastry. She bites into her donut, slowly chews and washes it down with coffee before asking, "What about you?"
Serene. Fuck no! Happy? I'm not sure. I shake my head and ponder. I do love my job, and so far, I've sincerely enjoyed my comfortable bachelor's life.
I used to think I would never want anything more.
I thought it was perfect.
Not anymore.
Lately I've been taking a long hard look at my life and realized I've changed.
"I'm sorry," she says, misunderstanding my silence. "It's a stupid question to ask. I saw your father last week. I understand he's close to the end. I'm sure it's hard on you."
"Yeah, there's that," I admit. "Plus I'm wondering about a lot of stuff."
"Like getting a home?" I nod. Life at the Styx is great. I love it here. It's peaceful and convenient. So much easier than having my own place, but some days I realize it's not an acceptable long-term solution. Especially if I remain on the police force.
"This place is not suited for starting a family and such," she says as if following my line of silent thought. I nod again and strangely enough she opens up. Patricia usually keeps her cards very close to the vest.
"Up to now, I've never wanted kids," she says. She pauses to drink. "I'm not sure I want any, but one thing I'm certain of is that it's nice to have someone." She winks and adds, "Who knew monogamy could have so much charm."
I laugh and raise my cup to her in a mock toast.
"To monogamous bliss."
She gently knocks her cup against mine.
"I'll drink to that," she says. "I'll go up and leave you the free run of the place for now." As she walks away, she turns and squints as if wondering whether she should say what's on her mind. She decides to go for it and her last remark is, "You've got good instincts, Everest. Trust them."
10
Kristal is fast asleep and perfectly naked when I enter her room. She's on her side, wrapped around the light comforter, hugging it as she would a lover. I take a minute to enjoy the sight and regret that we didn't meet under different circumstances. Her back is on full display all the way to her luscious ass. Her curves are so appetizing, that for an instant, I almost forget why I'm here.
Scolding myself for getting distracted, I pick up a terry cloth robe from the bathroom and stand by her bed.
"Get up, Kristal," I say with the harshest tone I can muster. "We need to talk."
Startled, she sits up in the bed giving me a glimpse of her magnificent heavy breasts before hiding them under the quilt. She frowns, blinks a few time as if trying to remember where she is. Despite myself, I feel sorry for her.
"Where's your father?" I ask.
She tilts her head and snorts.
"What sort of cop are you?" Her tone is insolent. It's my turn to frown. What kind of question is that? The answer comes soon enough. "Does the right hand not know what the left hand is doing?"
She gathers her courage to snatch the bathrobe from me. Her hands are shaky, but she tries to hide her fear and throws me a nasty look.
I turn without actually giving her the privacy she silently requests. Quite the opposite since I now face the large mirror which decorates the adjacent wall. While enjoying the show, she puts on as she slides out of bed and into the robe, I wonder what to make of her answer. Does she believe her father is locked up?
I checked when I drove by the station. Her dad did get arrested three weeks ago, but he got lucky and drew a "get out jail free" card. He was released on a technicality by a clever attorney. Good stroke of luck for him since he was already on parole and would have fallen hard if the charges had stuck. His file indicates that before he got arrested, he'd already missed his last appointment with his parole officer and that puzzles me.
My initial thought was that he was playing his daughter out of pure greed, but now I'm considering another angle. He could be in actual trouble. That doesn't make him less of a bastard for selling out his daughter.
"If you're referring to your father's latest arrest, I have news for you, young lady, he got released ten days ago," I tell her without turning around.
Unaware of the fact that I'm watching her reflection she glares at me. If looks could kill, I'd be shredded to pieces.
She opens her mouth like she wants to snap back something nasty but holds back. She's opting for the silent treatment.
"Fine, if that's the way you wanna play it," I tell her. "You need to get dressed ‘cause I'm taking you in for some serious questioning."
All the color drains from her face and she leans on the edge of the bed. I turn and study her expression. Yep, I'm sure she has no idea what she's done.
"Is it about what was in the envelope?" she asks. Her tone has changed from aggressive to defensive.
"Do you have any idea what you were delivering?"
She shakes her head. "All I know is that I was asked to deliver two envelopes. One in Miami and one in P
oint Lookout."
"And you didn't even check what it was you were asked to deliver?"
"Of course not. The envelopes were sealed and I was returning a favor for ... someone."
I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. Instead, I take a big breath and attempt to get her to understand how she got into that mess.
"Listen, Kristal, you're in serious trouble. The drugs the Tornadoes confiscated yesterday got people killed last night and--"
"No!" Her eyes are spread wide in horror as she interrupts me. She shakes her head vigorously. "You can't pin this on me. Like you said, they confiscated what I was delivering so even if it was drugs..." She's so distraught, she can't find the words to finish her sentence.
"And what about your first delivery?" I bark at her.
"The papers for the lawyer?"
"What lawyer?"
"My father's lawyer."
"What's his name?"
She bites her lower lips and looks at her feet. I do too. They're very cute feet. The toenails are painted ruby red. The same color as her hands.
"John Smith," she whispers her answer so low I almost miss it. She looks up to me, and I can read in her eyes the sad realization that she got played.
"Where did you meet him?" I ask.
"I didn't." I gesture to urge her to give me more information. "I dropped the envelope at his attention at the reception of the Point Lookout Central Hotel."
"And that didn't strike you as strange?"
"No. Not really 'cause, you see, when I drove to his office on Friday, I ran into his secretary who was locking up. She told me she was closing early and that her boss had gone up north to Point Lookout for the holiday weekend." I roll my eyes at her and she sighs. "Well, I was driving to Point Lookout to deliver the second copy of the file to a private detective, anyway, so I was the one who offered to deliver it to him there."
"I see. So you spontaneously came up with the idea to drop it at his hotel." This doesn't make sense. Unless of course, she thought that what was in the file was so urgent that it couldn't wait until the lawyer returned to his office on Tuesday morning.
She closes her eyes and concentrates. When she opens them again, she's not all that certain anymore.
"The secretary sort of volunteered the name of the hotel and she may have suggested that if it was an emergency, I should drop it at his attention."
Oh, she got played all right. A babe in the woods.
I need to decide now what I'm going to do with her. I can take her in right away and let Captain Stevens throw the book at her. The man is so angered by the senseless deaths of the day that I'm pretty certain he would show no mercy whatsoever. The second possibility is to keep her here and see what sort of damage control I can do.
Why do I even consider this? I'm not sure. There's something about her that calls to me. I want her more than any other woman I’ve ever met. I stare at her, wondering what it is about her that is so special, and I can't figure it out.
Obviously, I'm not thinking straight, ‘cause I decide I'm going to leave it up to her. My course of action will depend on the answer she'll give to my next question.
11
I take a step closer to her and put my hands on her shoulders. She looks up at me and blinks furiously to chase the tears pooling in her eyes.
"He's really out?" she asks.
I nod and she looks down at her hands folded as in a prayer. My eyes are on her luscious mouth waiting for her answer.
She bites her lower lip and hesitates. The seconds tick away in silence until she comes to a decision.
"Yes," she finally answers. "Yes, I would very much like to tell you my story from the start."
It takes all my willpower to refrain from hugging her. The urge to take her in my arms and comfort her is so strong that I force myself to take a step back and look away.
"Good. Now get dressed and meet me at the table near the pool when you're ready." This comes out a lot harsher than I want, but she doesn't seem to notice.
"I'll be out in two minutes," she says.
Rushing out of her room through the French windows, I return to the kitchen and pour the rest of the coffee into two mugs. I set up another pot to brew and pick up a couple of donuts. By the time I return to the patio, plate and cups in hand, she's already there, standing by the table.
She's wearing one of those large dresses my sister favors. It's fitted on the upper part of the body, putting "the girls" forward, then goes wide, hiding the rest. Ice and I never cease to tease her about those, but secretly we're happy she wears them. Where our sister is concerned we're regular cavemen, happy she hides her beautiful figure instead of flaunting it to the world.
Yet, right now, I find the dress frustrating because it hides too much of this mermaid's perfect shape. Same dress, opposite reactions. The delicious irony of life.
Kristal's eyes light up as she looks at the plate I set on the table.
"Sit and eat," I say as I pull out a chair for her.
The corner of her mouth twitches and I wonder why she's amused. Is it the absurdity of my good manners in our situation?
"Thank you," she says pulling the chair closer to the cast iron table. She stares at the plate and asks, "Which one do you want?"
"I'm fine, they're both for you." I take a chair and sit on the other side of the tiny table, directly across from her. She reaches greedily for the Bavarian cream. A bite and she closes her eyes to fully enjoy the savory goodness. A drop of cream stays on her lips and as she licks it away. My pants become awfully tight.
When she's done demolishing the two pastries, and drinking her coffee, Kristal folds her arms in a protective stance. The joyful demeanor that was hers a few seconds ago when she was attacking the food has now vanished.
"So what do you want to know?" she asks.
"Everything."
My answer is absurd, but it's the truth. My curiosity about her is immense. I truly want to find out everything there is to know about her.
She gives me a sad smile and starts talking, with her eyes staring at a distant point over my shoulder.
"You already know my name," she says. "I was born in Florida, but I've spent most of my life in New York. My mother moved there when I was a toddler. She was the headmistress of a private school, and until a few weeks ago, I thought she was my only family."
She takes a deep breath and unfolds her arms. She brushes imaginary crumbs from her dress as she continues telling her story with a tone so detached, it's as if she's talking about someone else.
"I had no memory at all of my dad so, of course, when I was younger I asked my mother a thousand questions about him. I could see it annoyed the heck out of her, but I couldn't help myself. I needed to know more. With the bits and pieces she gave me, I built myself a perfect father, a handsome hero. A tragic one, obviously, since he had died young in a motorcycle accident.
“And even though she kept repeating that if I had any sense I would do well to stay away from bikers, I had this crazy fantasy that one day I would also fall in love with a modern version of Prince Charming, a handsome bikers who would sweep me away on his roaring machine."
I repress a chuckle. Her mother's advice was sound. I picture her as a wise woman who wants to spare her daughter the hardship she's been through.
Kristal blushes and waves a hand chasing away the image of her crazy childhood dream she just invoked. For a second, she looks young and innocent. It doesn't last. Her shy smile vanishes as she gets to the saddest part of her story.
"Last spring, Mom got sick. One day she was fine and the next she felt so bad she couldn't get up. I took her to the hospital and they ran all sorts of tests." Kristal takes a big breath, forces her hands flat on the table in a poor attempt to hide the fact they are shaking. Her emotions are raw. "Three weeks later she was dead."
I reach out for her hands and she lets me hold them in mine. Has she let anyone comfort her yet?
Selfishly, I hope not. I wa
nt to be her refuge. She gives me no time to analyze this unfamiliar urge as she dives back in her story.
"The school gave me a week to move out. Thanks to a college friend, I moved into a tiny sublet, took the first job I found, and managed to keep it together."
So she hasn't been a dancing barmaid that long. Good.
"I lived in a haze for a bit and it took me a few months before I allowed myself to think. That's when I remembered Mom bitching about some life insurance contract she was always paying. I wanted to kick myself for not thinking about it sooner. I went searching through her papers hoping she'd taken a policy that would, you know, give me a sort of starting block if something happened to her."
She squeezes my hands in hers and I squeeze back gently to encourage her.
"That's when I found out!" She spits out each word. "There was a contract all right, but the beneficiary was John F. Russel." She looks up from our hands to my eyes and the mixture of sadness and anger on her face is heartbreaking.
"See, my mother was a very organized person. You can't run a school with hundreds of kids if you're not meticulous and able to keep up with the paperwork. I knew right away that his name on the contract was no accident. She couldn't have postponed changing the name of the beneficiary for more than twenty years. No way."
"So you searched for your father." Who wouldn't? I would have gone looking as well. I try to imagine how I would have felt in her place. Hurt. Yeah, hurt and betrayed.
"I looked up the address on the contract in the white pages, found a phone number and called. Guess what? Not only do I still have a father, but I also have a grandmother. She lives in the Pink Flamingo community of Point Lookout. She's old and she's lost a few marbles, but when I called, she knew right away who I was and she promised she would let my father know I had called."
Kristal pulls her hand from mine and wraps her arms around herself as she tells me about the letter I found in her bag last night, how she quit her job, cashed her savings, and drove all the way to Florida to meet her grandmother and help her father.
