by S. D. Thames
Kara had said all she had to say. When he saw that, he shook his head and turned for the nearest elevator.
I looked to Kara. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said, but the tears in her eyes told me she was anything but fine.
She wouldn’t talk until we got to her car in the parking garage across Twiggs. I loaded her case and box in her trunk and slammed the door shut.
“Now tell me about this new video,” I said.
“I haven’t seen it. Dyer called Mattie about it earlier today.”
“Maybe he’s trying to call his bluff.”
“I thought of that too, but he gave some good details.”
“What did he say?”
She looked around, seemed surprised by what she was about to say. “Apparently, someone emailed this clip from an anonymous email address. He clicked on it, and he swears it was a professional video of Scalzo going at it with a brunette in a room that sounded like it was the penthouse.”
“Where is the video now?”
She nodded. “Exactly. McSwain says he called in a tech guy to download it, and the clip was removed from whatever website it was posted on. It was gone.”
I thought this over for a minute. “You think it was Angie or Evie?”
“It sure fits her description.”
“So why would there be a video of her and Scalzo?”
She sighed. “I think that’s what the dinner with Brian was about. It all makes sense now. He had some kind of contacts in the porn industry. They were taking their game to the next level.”
“So how the hell did this lawsuit tie into it? What kind of deal did Scalzo have with McSwain? Was he supposed to pay him a cut of this?”
She shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“You have any idea how to reach this Brian guy?”
She shook her head.
“And I take it you still haven’t heard from Evie?”
Another shake of the head.
“Based on what you heard Sunday, do you think Angie knew what was really going on? What if Scalzo made this video without her knowing about it? Is she the type who’d seek revenge?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so, but I don’t know, Milo. I don’t know anything anymore.” She stepped closer and eased her way next to me, leaving me with no choice but to put my arms around her.
“I’m scared, Milo. I feel better when you’re around.” She looked up at me with sad eyes. “My daughter’s staying with my mom until this trial is over. I have to work late. I was wondering if you could come by later.”
“Kara, that can’t happen.”
“I don’t mean anything like that. Just come by the office tonight for a while. I don’t want to be there alone.”
“Why would you be alone? Isn’t Mattie working, too?”
“He’s taking the night off for some fundraiser.”
“Really? That doesn’t sound like Mattie.”
“For Dane Parker.”
“The guy running for attorney general?”
“I guess that’s what it takes to get Mattie’s money.” She squeezed me and then pulled away to get a better look in my eyes.
She had a good point, and I knew where I needed to go next.
“So what about tonight?” she asked.
“I can’t make any promises,” I said.
“What are you going to do?”
I sighed and looked out of the garage at a few office buildings towering in the skyline a few blocks away. “I think I’m going to pay Dane Parker a visit.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The View From the Top
They certainly were accommodating at the office of Hinkel and Knotts. Housed atop the esteemed Global Bank building downtown, the top floor of the office building resembled a steeple that peered into the heavens. The law firm occupied the steeple and the five floors below it, employing more lawyers than any other firm in Tampa. It offered a general commercial practice: corporate mergers and acquisitions, real estate, franchising, banking, alcohol regulation, and all the litigation the aforementioned industries might spawn or involve.
The firm’s main lobby was on the 38th floor, but I knew from his address and suite number that Parker’s office was on the 40th floor, along with those of most of the other litigators.
“Is Mr. Parker expecting you?” the receptionist asked me. She was frail but had a strong voice, and I figured I’d checked in with her right before her shift ended.
“He should be,” I said. “This pertains to the murder of Chad Scalzo.”
She stared at me blankly for a moment before she raised a finger. Then she turned and spoke into the phone. It was a private conversation. When it was over, she turned back around and told me to please have a seat. I did. The lobby was very comfortable. Medium-toned wood throughout. Not too stuffy, but just right. I had no idea what the wood was, but it made me think of oak.
I only waited about three minutes. The door to the lobby opened and Dane Parker stepped off. He rounded the corner, glanced at me, and then looked to the receptionist, as if to say, Am I missing something?
She nodded and pointed her eyes at me, as if to say, Nope, that’s him.
I stood. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Mr. Parker. I know you’re a busy man.”
He shook my hand. It seemed to take him a moment to place my face, but he seemed relieved once he did. “I’m sorry about the fire drill in court Monday morning. It’s a pleasure to meet you properly.” Then again, maybe he was relieved that I wasn’t with the police.
“The pleasure’s all mine,” I said as I took my hand back.
He looked around the lobby, uneasily. “Well, come with me. We have a few minutes before I have to leave.”
The ride in the elevator was awkward. Parker wore a nice, shiny business suit and held an attaché in his hand. “Did I catch you on your way out?” I asked.
“Actually, you did. I had just gotten in my car in the garage.” He sighed.
“I hear you have a big fundraiser tonight,” I mentioned.
“Yes,” he smiled, as if remembering he were a candidate for public office. “Are you interested in making a contribution?”
“That depends,” I said.
He smiled, waiting for me to elaborate.
So I did. “On how cooperative you are.”
“Oh, now, Mr. Porter, you wouldn’t be bribing me, would you?”
He let out a hearty chuckle and patted me on the shoulder. I must not have responded well, because his eyes turned apologetic.
The door opened and he cleared his throat. “This is us.”
The office was nice enough: done in the same shade of wood they’d used in the lobby. I wondered whether that was mandated by the firm.
“What kind of wood is this?” I asked, brushing his desktop.
“I have no idea,” he said, the annoyance ringing louder in his voice. He checked his watch. “Mr. Porter, you’re not here to talk wood, are you?”
I glanced at the photos on the bookshelves and walls behind him. He knew a lot of people. I didn’t recognize most of them from this distance, but I could tell they were important people by their poses. He wore a suit and a handsome, stately pose in most of the pictures. But a few of them looked military. He had diplomas from Florida State and Emory.
“Gulf War?” I asked.
He nodded and said, “Shield and Storm.” His eyes looked bored.
He didn’t ask about my service, and I didn’t volunteer it. “When I was leaving from my meeting with the detectives Monday afternoon, I saw you talking to Fred Mitchell.”
Just then, he stood and set his attaché on the lowest shelf behind him. In doing so, he seemed to knock something over and cursed himself.
Then he turned and smiled. “I’m sorry. What were you saying about Fred Mitchell?”
“Just that I saw you two chatting in his office Monday when I was leaving.”
“And your point?”
“I don’t know, it just struck me as kind of odd to see you two talking it up like that when you’re both in the middle of a campaign and a murder investigation.”
He shrugged. “Nothing odd about it. I’ve known Fred a long time. And really our campaigns have nothing to do with each other. I’m running for Attorney General. That’s a statewide office. Fred hopes to become the next State Attorney for the county. About the only thing we have in common is we both have to win our party’s nominations.”
“Which you’re both expected to win in landslides.”
He flashed a warm but smug good-old-boy grin. “So you keep up with local politics, Mr. Porter?”
I nodded. “Hard not to in this town.”
He glanced at the clock on the wall. “I’m sorry, I really don’t have much time. You said you had questions about Chad Scalzo?”
“Of course.”
He cupped his hands in his lap. “I don’t mean to be rude, but there’s not much I can tell you. I’ve already talked to the police, and we do have the problem of attorney-client privilege.”
I nodded.
“So what can I tell you?”
My mouth suddenly felt dry, and my head ached. I wished I’d had more Gatorade at Rico’s. “When did you last talk to the deceased?”
“I don’t recall the specific time. I told the police it was sometime between nine and ten Sunday night.”
“I noticed you didn’t attach an affidavit to your motion.”
“That’s right. He was supposed to come by and sign one Monday morning. I was running late that morning and had to meet my associate at court. I didn’t know Mr. Scalzo was a no-show until I got to court.”
“So he was able to reach you directly by phone on a Sunday night? He must have your cell number or something?”
He lowered his head a few degrees and sharpened his eyes. “We’ve worked for Mr. Scalzo and his companies for quite a while.”
“Really? I always imagined a firm of this reputation having higher standards.”
“It’s actually a pretty simple and indiscriminating standard.” He grinned and flashed those beautiful ivory caps. “Namely, we like our clients to be able to pay our bills.”
“Were you at the funeral today?”
“I was not able to make it. The family wanted it to be a small affair.”
“You know the family well?” I asked.
“Like I said, we have worked for them for quite some time, yes.”
“So, you expecting the elder Scalzo to make an appearance tonight?”
“I suppose not.” He arched his brow, as if to ask whether I had anything else.
“You know a guy named Don Alexi?”
He squinted his eyes in concentration and took a contemplative breath before answering. “Name does ring a bell.”
“What about Tim McSwain?”
“Sure, I know Tim.”
“You know anything about his dealings with Scalzo?”
The politician’s grin returned. “If I did, that would be privileged, now wouldn’t it?” He stood to tell me time was up. “Anything else, Mr. Porter?”
I stood and surveyed the photos again. “Just one.”
He nodded with anticipation.
“Why should I vote for you?”
He tilted his head and smiled. “Why? Because my record speaks for itself, and I’ll make the better attorney general.”
I made quite a few mental notes.
One of which was to not vote for Dane Parker.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Love Like This
I went home with the shakes. I knew I should eat again, but my stomach was sour. I threw some Kale, coconut milk and whey in the blender. It was a recipe Val had given me, what was supposed to be a quick, healthy meal. I knew I was forgetting something., and as soon as I took a drink, I realized I’d forgotten fruit for sweetness. What I’d made tasted like a milky tropical vegetable. I thought about throwing the drink back in the blender and tossing in a few berries from my freezer, but instead I cut my losses and chugged the damn thing. Then I went to the fridge and pulled out a few random bottles of beer.
I made another mistake. I went to the website for The Times. I couldn’t get the headline I’d read earlier out of my mind. Maybe I’d read it wrong, even though I’d read it a dozen times and talked to McSwain about it.
They’d arrested the girl’s father. He claimed God told him to do it.
God told him to do it.
I closed the browser, feeling almost nowhere to go, nowhere to find refuge.
So I worked. I went back to the office, woke up the iMac, and started writing. I summarized my interviews that day, starting with McSwain, my lunch with C-Rod, a few notables from the hearing—including the fact that Fred Mitchell was present—and then everything I’d learned during my unannounced visit to Dane Parker.
The writing came easy. I had to go back to my notes a few times, but I found that just taking notes usually kept me from having to consult them later.
I closed the file on my computer.
Then I took a breath and hit Command+N.
A fresh blank document stared at me, the cursor flashing on an empty page.
I thought about the number of times Dr. J had told me that if I would just start writing, if I just got it going, then it would all start to rush out like the waters of a flood. Everything was in my mind, and I knew what I wanted to write. Maybe that was the problem. As she’d suggested, maybe I didn’t want it to come out. Not yet at least.
I sat in silence for a moment. My office was hot, and it was too dark for this time of the evening. I opened the window and felt a warm breeze outside. No question, another storm was brewing somewhere out there, not far from home.
I was sweating and exhausted. I abandoned my desk, went and turned on the shower. Let it run cold. My body numbed to the feeling of ice after a minute or two. By the time I turned it off and started drying, lightning was flashing in sync with delayed groans of thunder, all seemingly in my front yard.
I fell onto my bed, my head and back still wet.
I took deep breaths.
The thunder lulled me to sleep.
It even held my hand through my dreams. It told me I could dream away, dream about it again, but I was still hearing thunder in Tampa, Florida.
Asleep, yes, not that deep. But deep enough to question. To forget. I wasn’t hearing thunder.
It was artillery. Hitting us hard.
That grainy taste returned to my mouth. Sand mixed with Willie Pete. Dry and bitter. The smokescreen backfires. I have no idea where I’m running.
I’m leading a few marines, kids barely old enough to shave, through the smoke. Insurgent fire is coming from every direction.
All we know is that we aren’t where we’re supposed to be.
And I know it’s my fault.
I’m the first to see the grenade. I yell a warning.
But I don’t see where it stops. The smoke around us is suffocating. Still, I lunge where I think it landed.
But the kid from Texas screams too, and he jumps to the ground first, prostrate, not three feet from me.
His midriff explodes, a feat Hollywood could never truly capture right.
We pull him up by the arms. His pelvis, hips and legs seem connected to his body only by his spine.
The shells keep coming.
I feel the burning in my neck. Lose feeling in my legs. And I can’t breathe.
I want to die. I want my lungs and heart to get on the same page and go on strike. For good.
And there’s the thunder. Holding my hand. Reminding me that those things were real, but you’re here now, Milo, in sunny, happy Tampa Fucking Florida. You can wake up, friend. You can wake up anytime.
So I did. Just as my pulse was about to explode. My pillow smelt sour, drenched in sweat.
And just then, I thought I was ready to start; I was ready to start writing. I felt something telling me to write.
Or was it? Was it real
ly telling me to read?
Read what?
I returned to my office and stared down the old bookshelf filled with tattered paperbacks. Books I’d collected from undergrad; Stephen King I read in junior high. Maybe I just needed something to take my mind off things. But what was there worth reading?
I grabbed the nearest book to me, and without looking at it, left for the kitchen. I crossed through the living room.
I glanced over and saw Rico’s Bible, right there on my coffee table. I stopped and stared down at the book. The Book. What was it about this book, written by dozens of men over a dozen centuries, that had given it its prominent place in history? Why had it guided so many lives—or, depending on how you looked at it, ruined so many?
I thought about my visit with Tommy Nicholas, and how I’d randomly opened the book for him and read where my finger fell. I recalled something he’d said about Saint Augustine and picking up the book. I thought about reading the book, just picking it up and reading it. But I was afraid. I didn’t want to open it, because I was afraid what it would say to me.
I went back to my computer and Googled “Saint Augustine Open Bible at Random.” As suspected, it was Augustine. I read that one day he’d heard what he considered a divine voice telling him to pick it up and read. So he did. He randomly opened the Bible to a verse in the book of Romans that convicted him and, many argued, led to his conversion.
His conversion.
What the hell did that really mean?
I skimmed many posts on the web that dismissed what Augustine had done as Biblical Roulette. Even some so-called Christians thought it bad practice, and amounted to leaving to chance what should be matters of reason.
Biblical Roulette.
Maybe that was why I felt impelled to give it a try. Maybe I was telling myself that the chances were pretty good that I’d open the book to something ridiculous, and I could dismiss what I was feeling as a bad day.
But before I knew it, I was standing over the book again.
