“Don’t try anything. He’ll get his bike back.”
I tore out of the parking lot. Diego isn’t dumb enough to go after her, I told myself.
I sped down the highway and made the twenty-minute drive in an agonizing twelve.
There were two patrol cars in my driveway, their lights still flashing. Anna and I lived in a brick rambler with a quarter-acre yard. The Christmas tree lit up the living room. Candlelight in every window. I ran up to the officer standing in the yard. “I’m Agent Reddick. This is my house. Did you find her?”
“Agent Reddick, you’re gonna want to go inside.”
“What happened?”
“Please, sir. The kitchen.”
No.
Anna Tate was my first kiss. I spent many childhood summers living with my grandparents in Charleston, SC, in the house where my father grew up. Anna and her family lived next door. The summer after fourth grade, the girl I’d been digging in the sand with all those years had suddenly become beautiful. I’d never really noticed her until then. We kissed that summer and every summer after. I saw her my senior year at my father’s funeral, then we both went to college and lost touch. The next time I saw her was November, just over a year ago. I’d heard she was writing a travel column for the Miami Herald, and when I accepted the post at the Miami field office, I looked her up.
Anna had developed into a stunning woman. She’d cut her long blonde hair and wore it just above the shoulders, and her skinny frame had filled out wonderfully. She’d spent most of her college years in Europe and had seen more of the world than me, and she talked my ear off about global politics and culture. I couldn’t get enough of it. And I’ll be damned if she didn’t love me. Loved me from the moment we reconnected, like she’d been waiting on me all those years. After that first date, we were never apart.
I bolted up the four stairs, weaving past the ceramic elves, and into the open door. No one. I went into the kitchen. Looked on the floor, praying not to see her body.
Nothing. No sign of a disturbance.
No savory smells of Christmas cooking, either. I looked on the counter where she would have put the casserole.
Her engagement ring.
The one I’d given to her in September lay on the counter, holding down the fold of a note. My lip caved in and tears mounted. I pulled the note out from under the diamond and opened it up.
T.A.,
I’m so sorry to leave you on Christmas Eve. I couldn’t start out a new year with us, knowing it was wrong. I cannot do it anymore. Please don’t come after me. I’m going to find a job in L.A. and start a new life. It’s over. I’ll always love you. You know that.
Anna
No more of an explanation than that. We’d gotten in a couple bad fights recently, but I thought things had gotten back to normal. Guess not.
And downward I went.
Seven Months Later
1
Charleston, SC
Last night, a dream. The same one I’d had two nights before.
I’m sipping a cold beer docked at an unfamiliar lowcountry marina, watching the afternoon go by from the console of my Catalina. High above the warm blue water and the marsh grass, a dragonfly lands on the tip of another boat’s RF antenna. The flutter of its wings turns to a slow-motion wave as it works to stay put in the salty breeze. The site enthralls me. Such natural beauty. At that moment, a barefoot woman comes strolling down the dock.
Yet again, I had woken up before I could get a good look at her face. Maybe it was Anna, making her way back to me. Maybe it wasn’t. What are dreams anyway but teasing and punishment?
That dream was on my mind as Gerry Mulligan twisted metal on the car radio. I took an exit off I-26, about twenty minutes east of the downtown peninsula that everyone knows as Charleston. North Charleston, where the DEA’s office was located, was home to the shopping centers, outlet malls, airport, and industrial buildings. In short, cheaper land. It also reported a higher crime rate. One of the highest murder rates in the country. Yeah, North Charleston was a long way away from the carriage rides, frozen lemonade stands, and pralines that most people associate with the Holy City.
I pulled my Jeep into the parking lot of a bland four-story building and cut the engine. Took my piece from the glove compartment, tucked it away, and headed into work. My second week with the Charleston DEA, and I was trying to make the best of it.
A jet contrail dissipated in the sky and the early morning sun cut through the dense air. I cracked a grin, the reasons behind it as complex and ineffable as the bottle of Chassagne-Montrachet I had overindulged in the night before. It was the blue sky and being back in Charleston and so many things. It was the salty remains of the ocean on my skin, left from an early morning longboarding session at Folly Beach. The waves were small but gave good, long rides. On occasion, one wave would lead into another and then another until my fin dragged in the sand, and I could step off the board into ankle-deep water. I ask nothing more of a wave.
Moments like those transported me far away from the pains of last Christmas. Of losing my love. Of killing a good friend—a man who saved my life—and destroying his family. Of becoming a cop killer. Of the downward spiral. Nearly everyone in Miami, including my supervisor, had abandoned me after I killed Robert Vasquez. They understood that I’d done the right thing, but no one wanted to fight for me. No one wanted to align himself with my quickly decaying career.
I headed toward the elevator. A short, bald man already waited, staring at the lights above the elevator as he tracked its progress. It was on the third floor and coming down. He couldn’t stand the silence. “Sure is balmy out there,” he said in a squeaky voice.
Sometimes you can tell immediately that someone is going to be annoying.
He rambled on. “I think it’s the hottest day of the year so far. And of course, I forgot to water my plants. I’ve got some hibiscus in pots in the backyard. My wife won’t water them. The kids aren’t going to… ” He shook his head. “You on the way to work?”
I nodded, noticing the Cross pen sticking out of his shirt pocket. I bet he’d had it since college.
He said, “Me, too. Days like this, I’d much rather be on the beach under an umbrella. Watch my boys build a sandcastle. Read a book.” He sighed. “Gotta take advantage of it before hurricane season. They say it’s gonna be a doozy this year.”
The elevator dinged and the door opened. I went through first. The short one waddled in after me. “I bet the beach is packed today,” he continued. “It’s probably not even worth going out there. Traffic will be backed up all the way to the bridge.”
I thought about pulling my Beretta out right there, pulling the slide back and putting one in the chamber, just to see his reaction. Let him hear the steel lock into place. That would shut him up. But wasn’t I in a good mood?
“Where you headed?” I asked.
“Six, please.” I pressed both the fourth and sixth floor buttons. He looked up at me with a smirk and leaned his body against the far wall. “I kind of figured you were a fourth-floor guy. I can always pick y’all out.”
“Is that right?”
“Oh, yeah. You got your Tony Lama boots and your blue jeans. Looks like you haven’t shaved in a few days. You see what I’m wearing. Cheap suit everyday.”
“I guess we need to work on our disguises.”
After 9/11, our office decided not to advertise its existence any longer and removed the plaque with the DEA acronym from the sign in the lobby. Nothing but a blank space followed 4th. Floor. It lent an air of mystery to what was going on up there. Why the Charleston field office shared a building with several civilian companies was not a mystery to me. After you’ve worked with the government long enough, those types of things don’t surprise you. It’s hard to cram “logical” and “bureaucracy” into one sentence.
I patted him on the shoulder and exited the elevator. “Tear it up today.”
“I always do,” he said, with the conviction of a bad liar.
&n
bsp; At the end of the hall, I slid a card through the reader and typed a five-digit code on the keypad. When it clicked, I pushed the door open. The reception area looked similar to a dentist’s waiting room, complete with bad upholstery and a haphazard assortment of magazines on a table.
“Mornin,’ ” said Sharon, the receptionist, from behind the glass window. Her red hair was held in a bun, and a pair of glasses rested on the tip of her nose. I went through the next door and around the corner. Sharon had a cup of coffee for me, knowing I would be running right into the meeting. “Did you hear the news? Chad Rourke’s dead.”
I shook my head. “What?”
“They just found his body.”
“You’re kidding me. He’s in Charleston, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, filming a movie. He fell off his balcony at the Mazyck Hotel last night. Lots of coke in the room. It’s really sad. I loved the poor guy.”
“That’s terrible.” Chad Rourke was an up-and-coming name in Hollywood. I’d read a week earlier that he was in Charleston filming a movie with Tela Davies (pronounced Tee-la), another A-list Hollywood celebrity.
“Anyway, I hope everybody’s treating you okay,” she added.
“Like I’m their king.”
“Right.”
I hustled to my office, which was not much more than four white walls with some photos of bad guys on the wall above the desk. Perhaps after a few months, I would bring in my decorator. I switched on the computer and entered the password. Scanned through my in-box and then headed off to the conference room for a 9 a.m. meeting.
A large map of Charleston County covered one wall of the conference room. A white board hung on another with various red and blue marker notes all over it. On another board were photos of the men and women we were after.
I took a seat next to my new supervisor, Steve Randall. He was barrel-chested and chiseled and had very powerful, commanding eyes. Loved to chew on toothpicks. There are two kinds of supervisors: those who go by the book and those who bend the rules a little. From what I’d heard, Steve was the latter, which I liked. He’d also taken a big chance on me, so he was okay by me.
Seven of us faced each other at the long table. Other than Steve nodding at me, no one acknowledged my presence. I had a feeling no one liked the idea of a new agent coming on board, especially since Steve introduced me on my first day as the “cocaine expert.” It was true: other than Steve, I had more experience with coke than anyone. But no one wanted to hear about some hotshot from Miami coming up to show them how to deal with their escalating white powder problem.
Especially one who’d come their way after putting a cop in the ground.
Steve pulled the toothpick out of his mouth. “As you’ve heard, Chad Rourke died last night. They found four grams of coke up in his room. It’s all over the news. Y’all know what that means. The Atlanta office, which signs all our paychecks, is going to be breathing down my neck. Dead celebrities are bad press.” He looked around the room. “So get ready for it. A shitstorm is coming.”
He went around the room, asking the respective agents questions about each of their ongoing investigations. MS-13 wannabes cooking and slinging meth. Some marijuana growers out in West Ashley. Ecstasy, acid, pharmaceuticals. Just about anything one needs to get away from reality could be found within a thirty-mile radius. Then he looked at Chester Benton and me. It was our turn.
I’d met Chester when I flew up to interview a couple months before, and Steve had chosen him to get me up to speed. I had the feeling he had put up a fight when the orders first came down, but whether he liked it or not, he’d be my partner for the next few months. He was a short, stout black man with light brown skin and freckles. I guessed mid-forties. Some might have called him good looking if it wasn’t for the horizontal scar reaching from his ear to his cheek. We weren’t friendly enough with each other for me to ask him what had happened.
“You’re not going to like this, boys,” Steve said, addressing us both, “but y’all are gonna catch the bulk of this media frenzy with Chad Rourke. I want you to get your CI to give up one of Tux Clinton’s crack houses. We’re gonna raid it. It ain’t a cocaine bust but it’s close enough to buy me some time.”
“You’re bullshitting,” Chester said. “You know he won’t be there.”
“His people will. I can’t wait for you to build a case against Tux right now. I need results yesterday.”
Chester crossed his arms. “I mapped out an insider for two months, Steve. Now, you’re telling me I wasted my time?”
“I’m not sayin’ that at all. I’m telling you I need to put people in jail, and it’s gonna be your guys. We’re gonna put some of his men behind bars, and go from there. We’ll still get to the source if he doesn’t back off. If he does, then we won anyway. We clear?”
“We’re clear. I don’t like it, but we’re clear.”
“I’ll give y’all a chance to make a source climb, but it’s not this one.”
I didn’t say a word. Wasn’t any different from Miami or anywhere else. Short term results to make the fat asses on the top floors happy. Not even Steve could get around appeasing the brass. You can’t become a supervisor without learning the tricks.
Another agent jumped in and pointed at me. “Why don’t you just put Wonderboy over there undercover? He’ll clean this city up in a week. We can all go sit on the beach.”
I looked him in the eyes. “Thanks for the welcome, asshole.”
“Anytime.”
Steve said to the guy, “If you’d done your job, Baroni, we wouldn’t be sitting here, would we? Keep your mouth shut. Reddick, you don’t take his bait. I’m not babysitting either one of you. Goddamn five-year-olds.” Steve looked back at Chester and stuck the toothpick back into his mouth. “Get everything into place. Notify the North Charleston PD. Let’s take ‘em down.”
“All right. Give us a couple days to pull everything together. I wanna make sure my CI is safe.” A CI is a confidential informant, usually someone we arrest who agrees to help us in exchange for our lenience.
“Do what you gotta do.”
We finished up the meeting in less than an hour, and I spent the rest of the morning working at my desk. At 11:30, I took off to grab a bite to eat. On the way, I stopped by the Bank of South Carolina a couple miles down the road to open up a new bank account. The July heat wasn’t messing around. Nothing I wasn’t used to, but I didn’t remember Charleston being so hot and humid. Not too different from South Florida. One minute in the midday sun and you needed a shower. I looked up at a few others entering the bank. At least I didn’t have to wear a tie.
That’s when I saw her. That short blonde hair. Petite frame. She was about forty feet ahead of me, walking toward the bank. Talk about a gut bomb. My heart stopped beating. A man held the door for her, and she walked in, thanking him. She had a baby in her arms, and that didn’t make sense. Seven months ago, she was with me.
As inevitable as it was, nothing could have prepared me for this: seeing Anna Tate for the first time since she’d left me.
2
Part of me wanted to turn around. Hell, most of me wanted me to run. Today didn’t have to be the day. I knew it would happen eventually, not just because she grew up here, but also because I had moved into my grandparents’ old home. Right next door to Anna’s parents, Beau and Cindy Tate. You can’t run forever, Reddick. Get in there and get it over with.
I made a lame attempt at primping and preparing myself, running a hand over my recently shaved head. Fixing the collar on my white shirt. Smoothing out my Levi’s. Planning what I might say. Then, somehow, I walked in there like I couldn’t even remember that she’d left me. Like I was king of the world.
I passed through the second set of doors and took a look around. To the right, civilians stood in line on the linoleum floor, waiting to make the first few deposits and withdrawals of the morning. Behind the tellers, an open vault tempted the greedy. I nonchalantly scanned the crowd and recognized the back o
f that blonde head of hair almost immediately. I couldn’t decide what to do. Should I approach her and say something? Should I let her bump into me “accidentally?” Or should I ignore her?
Then she turned.
It was not Anna. I would have sworn it was not two minutes earlier but it definitely wasn’t her. Same hair, same height, same figure. But I’d been mistaken. All that agony for nothing. I’d just proved that a few months hadn’t healed much of anything.
I must have looked pretty lost, because a woman in a light blue blouse came over. “What can we do for you?” she asked.
“Hi. I’d like to open up an account. Just moved here recently.”
“Sure. Please follow me upstairs.”
She led me up a flight of stairs and asked me to take a seat. I got about five pages into Coastal Living magazine when a man in khaki pants and a seersucker jacket asked me to follow him to his office. I took a seat in front of his desk and we began to work our way through the process, him typing my information on a keyboard and me sitting back in an uncomfortable chair with one leg over the other.
Some yelling from downstairs stopped us. We listened for a moment. Nothing else. “Somebody must have a case of the Mondays,” he said. “Anyway, give me your—”
A gun popped.
Out of reflex, I drew my Beretta and rushed out of his office. There were people on the floor of the hallway, screaming and crying. Near the top of the stairs, I peeked over the railing.
A black male with long dreads was running for the door, carrying the same child I had seen earlier, the one carried by the woman I’d mistaken for Anna. There was a gun in his free hand. I tore down the stairs, looking left. The mother lay on the floor, her head twisted toward me, a growing pool of blood surrounding her. Some terrified civilians were facedown on the ground in shock. Others stood and watched as the man escaped through the entrance. I took off after him.
Lowcountry Punch Page 2
