by Andy Straka
Nicole stared straight ahead, didn't even glance at me.
“No,” I said.
The CA turned back to the prisoner. “Okay, Ms. Pavlicek, no more questions for now. But you should be aware that our office looks favorably on any defendant who cooperates with an investigation. Are you sure you can't tell us anything else about the cocaine that was found under the wheel well of your car, about who you were going to meet that day, why you tried to evade arrest, or about why you were arguing with Dewayne Turner on the day he was arrested?”
Nicole gave no answer.
“Then that will end this statement. The time is ten forty-three A.M., Monday, October first.” She switched off the tape recorder. “Sheriff, let's get someone to take her back to her cell. We'll arraign her tomorrow morning on the drug charge.”
“What about bail?” I asked.
“That'll be up to the judge, but I wouldn't get my hopes up. We may have probable cause for murder here too.”
“She's not a flight risk. You can release her into her mother's or my custody.”
“Tell it to the judge. Mr. Radley, I would like to meet with you and the sheriff in his office, if you don't mind. Mr. Pavlicek, I'm sorry, but you'll have to sit this one out.”
Cowan went and opened the door. A female deputy came in. Nicole stood, her head bowed, as the woman took her by the arm to lead her from the room. I tried to read my daughter's face as they left, but there was little to decipher. The eyes of a ragged doll appeared instead of hers, where an expression should have been. I thought of pink horses and playthings. In the chalk of the walls, or maybe the dullness of too many years, those images were all I had left of my little girl.
13
Atop a summit in a grove of hundred-year-old oaks, the Rhodes mansion presided over acres of open land. Quarterhorses grazed behind board fence. Brass signage, affixed to a stone wall at the entrance, proclaimed it SWEETWOOD FARM. Nicole's home for over ten years was federal brick with large doric columns, a circular drive, blue-green lawn that extended around back to a swimming pool, and a clay tennis court. Camille must have had the pool area redone since my last visit. A new guest house ran along a sculpted hillside with a little waterfall and large flat stones arranged in such a way that gave them the effect of tumbling into the water beneath.
I braked the truck to a halt in front. As I opened the door a whiff of honeysuckle drifted across my nostrils. The site commanded a view worth a whistle: a forested valley stretching toward a shimmering reservoir in the distance. From somewhere came the sound of a weed trimmer, probably the gardener. I climbed the steps to the massive front door and rang the bell. No response. I rang it again.
After a minute Camille herself, looking a little disoriented, opened the door.
She stifled a yawn. “Well, well, w-ell. If it isn't my old hubby.”
“Hello, Camille.”
“Lucita's off today. I'm not used to answering the front door.”
Hard work. She had come a long way since the night I had first seen her cheerleading on a Westchester high school football field. Back then she cared little for appearances; it was one of the things I had loved about her. But eventually, it seemed, she came to care for little else. All through the early years of our marriage, before Nicky came, while I was working my way up the detective ranks, she had toiled at the Manhattan headquarters of a large commercial bank, earning enough money to allow her to dress well and for us to dine out, often above our means.
Now, standing in the vestibule of her castle, she wore a peach princess dress beneath French-twisted hair, blonde when it used to be brunette. Her green eyes were red-rimmed, but the rest of her face appeared softly put together—just the right amount of blush and liner and fuchsia lip gloss. She seemed more pale than I remembered, and though she had always been slender, she was exceptionally so now. Some might even call it borderline anorexic.
“If I'd known you were dropping by, detective, I'd have sexied myself up. I've been meaning to ask you, do they still call you that—detective, I mean? Is it a permanent title, like royalty or something?”
“I'm here about Nicky, Camille.”
“I know.” She let the door swing wide. “Come on in.”
I stepped through the foyer and onto a tile floor. In front of us a stairway swept in a wide semicircle toward the second floor. Down the steps came a young brute, about six-two with sandy hair, wearing khaki shorts and a golf shirt with a V-neck cardigan to go with his sardonic smile.
“Frank, I don't believe you've met Kevin Weems. Kevin, this is Frank, Nicole's father.”
We shook hands firmly.
“I've heard a lot about you from your daughter.” His eyes took my measure. Charming now. Not the same Kevin I had spoken with earlier.
“I hope all to the good,” I said.
“Of course.”
Camille switched gears into charming too. “I don't think you've been in here since we redecorated, have you, Frank?” She was right. The walls were painted a new yellow and white. A crystal chandelier hung overhead. “It may seem a bit grandiose at first, but I'm pleased with it. Can we offer you something to drink? We have iced tea, or something stronger if you'd like.”
“Tea will be fine, thank you.”
“Kev, why don't you show Frank into the den while I fix the drinks.”
She disappeared toward the kitchen. I followed Kev down a long hall past the dining room and into the den. It was a richly appointed man's room—bookshelves, mahogany, a trophy elk, and several plaques—all George's, not the boyfriend's of course—lining the walls. The floor was carpeted in green pile.
We sat in leather club chairs in front of a well-stocked bar. Framed pictures of Nicole, Camille, and George filled a round corner table like an altar. Unlike on the stairwell, the new man of the house looked uncomfortable with the surroundings.
“Been with Camille long?” I asked.
He drummed his fingers on the leather. “Eleven months.”
On the way in I had noticed a green Porsche in front of the barn, Georgia plates. “Where you from originally?”
“Atlanta.” His accent sounded more like Mississippi.
“Saw your car out back.”
He said nothing.
“How'd you and Camille meet?”
He was looking out the window now. “We met at a horse auction over in Lexington.”
“Ah-h-h.” I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't. “If you don't mind my asking, what'd you used to do for a living down in Atlanta?”
“Sales.”
“And now you work for Camille.”
He finally turned to look at me. “George's old company, actually. Vice president, Marketing.”
The marketing must have been going pretty well for him to be padding downstairs at eleven A.M. My own abbreviated career in sales had taught me that those who were truly successful worked most of the time. Others spent as much time playing golf or hitting the bars. And then there were the hangers-on, those who drifted from situation to situation, camouflaging their lethargy. Maybe Kev was one of those. Of course when you were sleeping with the owner, all bets were off.
“Kevin gave me the message that you called this morning,” Camille said, whirling into the room. She carried a tray with three tall glasses and set it down on a table next to us. She passed out the glasses, then nervously smoothed her dress as she took a seat on the couch and crossed her legs. “Anyway, I know you'll want to get right down to business. Have you been by to see Nicole?”
“Yes, and the new sheriff and the prosecutor and her lawyer as well.”
“Shelton? Oh, I do hope that man does a decent job for her. Are you working with the police?” Her eyes never left me as she sipped her iced tea.
“Not really. I'm here of my own accord. What I'm trying to understand is exactly how our daughter could have gotten herself into such a situation.”
“Our daughter now, is it? Well there's a switch.”
I let the dig pass.
“She says she didn't know anything about the cocaine. Anyone could have put that stuff under her car.”
“Anyone could have, but did they?” she said. The look told me she thought she already knew the answer. “I think I know her a little bit better than you, Frank. Nicole's always had this rebellious side to her.”
“I've never seen it when she's been with me.”
“Well I might as well tell you because I know you'll find out sooner or later anyway. A couple of years ago she was caught with a few friends out behind the school. They were smoking marijuana.”
More revelations. Just great. At this rate, pretty soon the little ragdoll girl would mutate into a teenaged hatchet murderer.
I looked at Kevin who was staring out the window again. “Why wasn't I told anything about it at the time?”
“It was when George was still alive. We went down to the sheriff's office and he dealt with it. They agreed to let her off with a warning. As punishment, we didn't allow her to drive her car for a week.”
Whoopee. Big hardship there.
“But getting caught with a bunch of kids smoking grass, Camille, is hardly the same as—”
“Maybe being in prison for a few days will cure her of it.”
I stared at my ex-wife. There was a new detachment to her voice I didn't like. “The county jail's not prison, Camille. Prison is a lot worse.”
She waved the point away as if it were meaningless.
“What does Radley have to say about the situation?” I asked.
“I spoke with him last evening down at the sheriff's office. He says they really don't have that much evidence just yet. He's looking into things.”
That was the approach then. Spend some money to hire an attorney. Try to go back to your life and forget about your daughter in jail. For Shelton Radley, “looking into things” meant he was probably planted in his office with a bottle close by, waiting for the sheriff to call. Had things between mother and daughter grown so bad it had come down to this?
“I'm sorry, but don't you think Nicky would be better off with a lawyer who has a little more criminal experience?” I said.
“Don't you think you're a little late to be offering advice?”
Camille. Always one up. We stared at one another. The tea needed sweetening. Kevin looked as if it were all he could do to sit there, let alone pay attention to the conversation.
“Okay,” I said. “Let's try to get along. We both want what's best for Nicole. You're her mother and she's grown up with you, so I'll bend to your judgment, for now. But I'm here to tell you I think she didn't know about the coke on the car, until I'm proven wrong.”
“You mean Daddy's little girl couldn't have been involved in such a thing?”
“I mean a beautiful young woman with our daughter's honesty and potential wouldn't. She may be caught up in an unfortunate situation right now. But don't underestimate her, Camille.”
“Oh I'd never do that. But don't, overestimate your daughter either.”
I wasn't sure what she meant by that so I waited. She fluffed the pillows on the couch next to her. I set my glass on a coaster in the middle of a reading table next to my chair.
“There's another reason why I drove down here this morning,” I said. “Has the sheriff or anyone spoken with either of you today?”
“No. I haven't talked to anyone since I was down there last night.” She looked at Weems. “Kev?”
He shook his head. “Un-uh.”
“You don't know about the body then?”
“Body? What body?”
I told them about finding Dewayne Turner. They both claimed they had never heard of him before. Maybe they were lying. Maybe when you're busy remodeling or playing tennis, you don't have time to read the papers or listen to news. At some point, Kevin's eyes glazed over, but Camille listened intently.
“So what does this have to do with Nicole?” she said.
“The police and the prosecutor may be trying to link her to Turner's disappearance and murder.”
“I need something stronger to drink. Kev, would you mind fixing me something, darling?”
Kevin came to attention, stood, and made for the bar.
“You, Frank?” he asked.
1 shook my head.
I waited to see if she would have him go fetch a little chewy toy or something too, but it didn't happen.
“God,” Camille said. “Now you've got me, Frank. I can't believe Nicole would do such a thing. How would she have even known this—this person?”
“She says from school.”
“Well maybe, but that doesn't … look, Frank, why don't I just hire you to prove that she had nothing to do with this boy's death? Wouldn't that just help solve everything?”
My ex as a client. No thank you. “I didn't come down here to be paid, Camille.”
“Oh don't get insulted. It's what you do for a living, isn't it? Investigate things?” Kevin came over and handed her a Bloody Mary, then retreated to his chair.
“All I want right now is some answers. Have you and Nicole not been getting along?”
“Did she tell you that? … I don't know how she could say such a thing. Why, she's not even here most of the time. She's either at school or out with her friends.” She took a long sip of her drink.
“But you support her financially, pay for her car and clothes and all that?”
“Of course.”
“Ever get the idea she feels trapped?”
She laughed. “You're really reaching. I shouldn't think a young woman with her opportunities would ever feel such a thing.”
I made a point of looking around the room. “How about George?”
Kevin finally chimed in, dropping the charm: “What's he got to do with anything?”
“How was his relationship with Nicole?”
“Fine,” Camille said. “It was just fine.”
“She talk about him much anymore? I mean … I'm sorry, now that he's gone?”
“Not much.”
“How about your relationship with George?”
“Listen, pal, you got no right to be asking these questions.” Kevin must have experienced a sudden testosterone rush. He fixed me with a threatening glare.
“It's okay, Kev. Frank's just doing what he does best.” She pursed her lips and turned partly away, wiping her cheek beneath one eye. “I loved George, of course. You, of all people, ought to know that. Do we need to get into this? His death was … his death was … almost impossibly hard.”
What did it take to be possibly hard? Maybe a few million dollars would do it.
“He leave everything to you?”
Kevin was close to the boiling point now. Camille took another sip of her drink. “I don't think that's any of your business, Frank, but since you're trying to help Nicole I'll tell you that he left the bulk of his estate to me. As you know, there's a sizable trust for our child.”
“He have any other children from previous marriages?”
“No.”
“Okay.” I fumbled for the chain in my pocket. “I have something to show both of you.” I held up the necklace with the wooden cross.
She stared blankly at it for a moment. Weems looked at it as well.
“Ever seen this before?”
“No,” Camille said. “Why? Is it Nicole's?”
“No. Just something I found … How about you?” I held it closer for Weems to examine. He shook his head.
“All right then, is there anything else either of you can tell me? Anything that might tie Dewayne Turner with Nicole and the cocaine?”
Neither spoke. Then, almost as an afterthought she said: “The only thing might be her friends. … One in particular … she's a year or two older.”
“Regan Quinn.”
“Yes,” she said. “How did you know?”
“Sheriff Cowan mentioned her,” I said. “Everybody seems to be reading from the same playbook.”
“Yes, I suppose she has a reputation. Did he tell you where
she works?”
“White Spade,” I said.
She nodded. Then she snickered. “George used to go down there once in awhile, you know. He knew I wasn't too happy about it.”
“I'm surprised you would put up with that,” I said.
“Oh, I never expected him to be a saint, Frank … like you. Just that he'd always come back to my bed … He always did.” She glanced at Weems and seemed to smile to herself before taking another drink. Could you taste a Faustian bargain?
“Okay,” I said. “One more thing. Has the sheriff's office been out here with a search warrant yet?”
“Yes they have. It was embarrassing. They came last night and searched Nicole's room.”
“Mind if I have a peek myself?”
“No … I suppose not. Was there something in particular you were looking for?”
“Just want to check things out,” I said.
“Well they already spent a couple hours pawing through everything, so I guess it's okay,” she said.
We all rose. Kevin, still seething, had apparently seen enough to satisfy whatever anxiety or curiosity he bore. “I've got to get down to the office, Camille.”
“Sure, darling.” She bent toward him, he encircled her in his arms, and they briefly kissed. “I'll be by later,” she said. “We'll do lunch.”
Weems disappeared. Camille, still carrying her drink, led me through a spacious kitchen and up a narrow rear staircase to the second floor. I heard the Porsche roar to life and peel away down the drive.
“Nicky moved into this back bedroom when she was in high school,” she said. “She likes the privacy.”
The room wasn't large—it had probably been meant to quarter servants—but there was a door with panes of glass leading to a private balcony, a canopy with pink ruffles over the double bed and oversized pillows scattered across an inviting window seat. An iMac computer sat in the middle of her desk connected to a printer. A phone with her own answering machine took up most of one bedside table—there were no new messages according to the display. Fashion magazines and a few popular novels were strewn about.
I took in all of this at once, a glimpse into Nicole's life to which I had never been privy before.
