Annalie cupped the charm in her palm. Her eyes swept the beach without her head turning toward the water. ‘The cute one or the nasty one?’
‘The cute one.’
‘Who is he?’
‘His name is Frank Macy,’ Peach said.
She explained what she’d found at the safe house and shared a folder on Macy for Annalie to study. While Annalie reviewed the research, Steffi brought a bottle of Corona, with a lime wedge stuffed in the neck, and a basket of spicy chicken wings. Annalie squeezed the lime inside and upended the bottle with her thumb over the top. She finished reading the snippet of the article about Macy shown in the photograph, and like Deacon, she didn’t look happy.
‘I know guys like him,’ Annalie said. ‘They float from suburban cocaine parties to downtown immigrant trafficking. A sweet face doesn’t mean a thing. I’ve known sweet faces to pour boiling water down the throats of their competitors. Don’t mess with him.’
‘I’m not messing. Just spying.’
‘What’s he saying?’ she asked, drinking from her bottle of Corona, slim fingers around its neck.
Peach listened.
‘Now that is a hot, hot woman,’ Macy told the table. He meant Annalie.
‘She’s old,’ one of the girls protested. ‘She must be thirty.’
‘Are you kidding? You can tell by the shape of her mouth. She’s born to give blow jobs.’
‘He likes your smile,’ Peach said.
‘Nice. Exactly what are you hoping for? Do you think he’s going to confess to Justin’s murder between bites of fried pickles?’
‘Maybe.’
Annalie bit into a chicken wing and licked around her lips with her tongue. ‘I checked the reports on Justin’s death. He was found at a dump of a motel next to the dog track, right? Three bullets in the head, execution-style. The police searched the room and found a brick of cocaine and ten thousand dollars squirreled away inside the guts of the microwave.’
‘I know.’
‘And now you’re watching a known drug dealer.’
‘A drug dealer with ties to Ramona Cortes. And Diane and her son.’
‘Drugs are still the common denominator,’ Annalie said. ‘Are you sure Justin didn’t have his fingers in the wrong pie?’
Peach opened her mouth to snap at Annalie, but she controlled herself. ‘Well, that’s why I’m here. I need to know what Justin wanted with Macy. I don’t care where it leads. I just want the truth.’
‘Even if the truth is what everyone says?’ Annalie asked softly.
‘Yeah, even that,’ Peach replied. She couldn’t resist adding: ‘But it’s not.’
An hour passed slowly at the bar. Peach drank her O’Doul’s. Annalie drank her Corona. When they were done, they ordered two more, and when they finished the wings, they ordered quesadillas. She kept listening and recording Macy’s conversation, but he stuck to rap singers, nightclubs, and sexual positions. He had nothing to say about politics, or Justin, or Diane Fairmont, and his hints at drugs were aimed at the girls. Annalie was right; he was too smart to say anything incriminating in public.
The beer was nonalcoholic, so maybe it was the wind and heat that made Peach feel buzzed. She and Annalie laughed and told jokes. She realized that she liked this woman, as different as they were. She felt comfortable around her, enough to start thinking about her as a friend. She didn’t feel that way about many people. Hardly anyone, in fact.
Not knowing why she said it, she asked: ‘Do you think I’m weird?’
Annalie scrunched her forehead, but nothing she did made her less pretty. ‘Why would I think that?’
‘I wear disguises. I’m a voyeur. I’m always listening to other people’s business.’
‘It’s your job.’
‘Well, yeah, but I’d probably do it anyway,’ Peach admitted.
‘Still not really weird,’ Annalie said.
‘I have mannequins at home. I collect them.’
‘Male or female?’
‘Uh, female. I name them, too.’
‘Do you talk to them?’ Annalie asked, grinning.
‘No. Well, not in a long time.’
‘That’s a little weird, but still pretty low on the scale. Do they talk to you?’
‘No.’
‘Then you’re good.’
‘There’s more. I’m weird about sex, too.’
Annalie smirked. ‘Do tell.’
‘I decided a long time ago that I wanted to be celibate.’
‘Okay. Not what I was expecting, but okay.’
‘I thought about it with Justin, but we never did.’
‘Well, it doesn’t sound weird to me,’ Annalie said. ‘It sounds sweet. Someday you may feel differently, but until then, do what you want. Or don’t do what you want.’
‘You have sex, right?’ When Annalie hesitated, Peach added: ‘Sorry, I’m being too personal. I’m not good with boundaries.’
‘Don’t worry about it. I’m not celibate, but I’m pretty conservative. I don’t go jumping into bed. I have to be awfully close to a guy, and that hasn’t happened a lot.’
‘Is it worth it? It seems like sex causes nothing but problems.’
‘You’re right about that,’ Annalie said.
Their conversation was interrupted. Near the beach, the two teenagers at Frank Macy’s table got up, grabbing purses, headed for the bathroom. When Macy was alone with his Asian companion, he leaned closer, whispering, and Peach tried to adjust the microphone. At the same moment, the wind gusted, blasting static into her ear. She scowled, because the conversation became mostly inaudible.
She thought she heard the word ‘gun.’
And two words that sounded like ‘Picnic Island.’
The waitress Steffi appeared next to Macy with the check, and she murmured in his ear. He copped a discreet feel on her ass and gave her what looked like a hundred-dollar bill. Peach expected him to insert it in her cleavage. Macy and the Asian sauntered through the bar, passing so close to their table that she could smell his coconut body wash, and he gave Annalie an alluring, pretty-boy wink. He didn’t seem to notice Peach.
‘Did you get any of that?’ Annalie asked when they were gone.
Peach rewound the recording. The words weren’t any clearer the second, third, or fourth times. She told Annalie what she thought she’d heard, but she wasn’t sure she was right, and she didn’t know what any of it meant.
Annalie listened, too. ‘I can’t make out a thing.’
‘No,’ Peach said unhappily.
They waited five minutes, then paid their own bill and exited the bar into the narrow parking lot. The dead end street beside them led to a walkway across the grassy dunes down to the beach. Peach wasn’t parked in the restaurant lot, but in a more deserted lot on the other side of the street.
Annalie got into her Corolla. ‘See you tomorrow.’
‘Yeah, see you,’ Peach said. ‘And thanks.’
She watched Annalie head toward Gulf Boulevard. She crossed the street, which was furrowed with cracked asphalt. The wind felt as if it would lift her off her feet. She walked with her head down, feeling oddly depressed. Her Thunderbird was near a dumpster at the back of the lot. She came around the driver’s side and swung the door open.
Like fireworks, the base of her skull erupted in pain and light.
She felt herself flying – thrown across the interior of the car – her face colliding with the passenger window, like a brick against her forehead. Her head ricocheted with a blinding jolt of pain, and then something heavy landed on her back, squeezing air out of her lungs. A fist grabbed her shoulder like a vise and spun her over. She gasped for breath.
Frank Macy was on top of her, in her face. She tasted blood in her mouth. When she blinked, she had double-vision, seeing two of him. He looked as casually sexy as a lifeguard as he choked her with one hand and pressed the blade of a knife against her windpipe with the other.
‘So who are you, little girl?’ he demand
ed. ‘And why are you watching me?’
Her mouth moved, but no words came out. His hand came away from her throat, and she could suck in air. His fingers dug in her pockets, front and back. He opened the glove compartment. He grabbed her purse and spotted the voice recorder, phone, and microphone inside.
‘You’re not police,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’
He pricked her with the knife, breaking skin, drawing blood. Any deeper, and he would slice her throat open. She felt saliva and acid welling in her mouth.
‘I need answers, little girl. You’ve got two seconds, or I slit that pretty neck.’
He eased the pressure of the blade a tiny fraction, and she gagged and coughed. Sweat made her whole body wet. Tears leached from her eyes. She was going to tell him anything he wanted. Everything. She knew she would die anyway; he would suck out the truth, and then he would thrust in the knife. She felt dizzy with pain and terror; she saw flashes of bright color, like the after-image of the sun. Her brain throbbed in and out with her heartbeat.
‘I work for Diane Fairmont,’ she gasped.
Macy’s face twisted in surprise. ‘Fairmont? Is that really true?’
She nodded, and he laughed. He actually laughed. His teeth were perfect. ‘All these years, and she’s still scared of me.’
Peach said nothing.
‘You know what?’ Macy went on. He nuzzled her ear. ‘She should be.’
His hand pawed her the way a lover’s would. He massaged her breasts as if he expected to arouse her. She squeezed her eyes shut. He pulled at her clothes, separating the seams, exposing her. He found her belt buckle and popped it. Her zipper snickered down.
Instinctively, she pressed her legs together. He was lean, but he was too strong for her. She tried to send her mind far away, but her mind had nowhere to go. His breath was sweet; he’d taken mints before assaulting her.
Someone screamed. It wasn’t her own voice.
‘Let her go! Get off her!’
Someone wrenched open the passenger door. Peach’s torso spilled backward, and a hand caught her before she fell. She was conscious of Frank Macy rearing back, head banging on the hood as he ducked out of the other side of the car. Someone dragged her into the hot dusk, and in the swirling of pain and wind and color, she realized it was Annalie.
Annalie, holding her, propping her up.
Annalie, holding a gun that was trained on Frank Macy’s face.
She heard the squeal of car tires. A black Lexus roared, appearing behind Macy. The driver’s window was open, and Peach saw the Asian man from the bar, beckoning to Macy, a gun in his own hand. The two teenagers were in the back seat, looking terrified. It was a stand-off. Annalie didn’t fire. The Asian man didn’t fire. Macy took a tentative step backward, grinned, then opened the rear door of the Lexus and dove inside.
The car tore off toward the strip of road that fronted the Gulf.
The screech of tires faded. They were alone, the two of them, Annalie murmuring at her – are you okay, are you okay, are you okay. She still held the gun. Somewhere behind them, the surf sounded angry and loud.
Peach’s entire body turned to rubber. She felt herself melting, drowning in an ocean of relief. She let out a huge sob and collapsed into Annalie’s arms.
21
Gladiola Croft lived in the poor section of Lake Wales, in the shadow of the water tower. The houses looked like army barracks, all of them the same square one-story design and the same buff-and-brown color, like watery puke. She didn’t invite him inside. There were two lawn chairs by the front door, and he sat in one of them, hoping the fraying vinyl straps would hold him. A cracked flower pot sat on the window ledge.
‘You want some sweet tea?’ she asked.
‘I do.’
She disappeared into the small house, letting out the electronic noise of a video game being played inside. Teenagers on the steps of the next row house eyed him, his suit, and his Corvette. Telephone wires crisscrossed over his head, and dark clouds ran across the evening sky.
Gladiola returned, two ice-filled plastic glasses in her hand. He took the wet glass and drank a swallow. ‘Excellent,’ he said.
She squinted as the wind blew dust in her face. ‘They say Chayla’s gonna be bad.’
‘Yes.’
‘Wouldn’t be too sorry to see this place blow away, but it’s all we got.’
‘I understand.’
She gave him a look, which told him she really didn’t think he understood at all. It was the look that someone with no money gave someone who had plenty. He was familiar with it, and he didn’t feel guilty anymore. Life was a lottery. There were losing tickets and winning tickets.
‘How do you know Rufus Twill?’ Cab asked.
‘He’s my uncle.’
Cab was surprised, but he could see the family resemblance when he looked at her face. ‘Did Rufus grow up around here?’
‘Yeah, but he got out, went to college. Mama always said Uncle Rufus was smart. Sly smart, somebody who knew the score. He did well for himself, writin’ stories that got politicians into trouble. ‘Least until he let those boys get the drop on him. They messed him up.’
‘He says he plays the piano now. Have you heard him?’
Gladiola smiled. ‘Yeah, he ain’t bad. Not as good as he thinks he is, but he ain’t bad.’
Cab wondered if people said the same thing about him. ‘Rufus told me he had a source who overheard Diane’s son Drew threatening Birch Fairmont. Was that you?’
‘Yeah, that was me.’
‘He said you took it back later.’
‘I did that, you’re right. I didn’t want to get anybody into trouble.’
‘So which is it?’ Cab asked. ‘Which story was true?’
‘Drew, he said it. Yes, he did. Big as life. Mr Birch weren’t there, though. It was just Drew and his mama and Mr Muscles.’
Cab cocked his head. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘The massage guy. He was always there.’
‘Oh, Garth Oakes.’
‘Yeah, that’s him. Not so bad to look at, I guess. I mean, you’re a lot easier on the eyes than him, but the man did fill out a T-shirt.’
‘Garth was always there?’
‘Oh, yeah. Some people like to rub shoulders with rich folks. Makes ’em feel special, I guess.’
‘What about you, Gladiola? Why were you there?’
‘That’s my job. Was. I came three times a week to clean the house. Started when I was sixteen.’
Gladiola lit a cigarette. The wind took the smoke as soon as it escaped her lips. She was younger than Cab had first thought – maybe thirty – but she had a tired face. Her body was bony and small. As they sat in the lawn chairs, she kicked off her flat shoes and stretched her toes. She’d ditched her overalls inside, and she now wore plain cotton shorts below her red T-shirt.
Cab heard juvenile shouting inside the small house. ‘You have kids?’ he asked.
‘Ya think? I got three.’ Gladiola reached back and pounded on the door. ‘Hey, knock it off! Don’t make me come in there!’
‘What do they do when you’re at work?’
‘They go to school, and that’s where their asses gonna stay. My sister watches ’em after. She’s got three of her own.’
‘How long have you worked at the landscaping company?’
‘A few years. When Ms Fairmont moved to Tampa, I decided I was sick of scrubbing toilets and figured I’d do something else.’
Cab finished his tea and put the plastic glass on the sidewalk next to his chair. He heard a bark and saw a wire-haired fox terrier scramble around the corner of the house. The dog eyed him suspiciously but then curled up next to Gladiola’s legs. Its tongue lolled as it panted in the heat. The dog tentatively licked the side of Cab’s damp glass, then knocked it over and dug a nose inside for the ice.
‘So you spent a lot of time in the Fairmont house?’ Cab asked.
‘Sure did.’
‘What was it like?’
> She pursed her big lips. ‘Weren’t a real happy place.’
‘How so?’
‘Nobody got along. Not Mr Birch and his wife. Not Mr Birch and her son. It was a marriage for show. I always had two bedrooms to clean, know what I mean?’ She reached down and scratched the dog’s head. ‘Didn’t help that Mr Birch was a first-class pussy hound. Liked to rub up against anything with tits and an ass.’
‘Did that include you?’
She swallowed tea and wiped her mouth. ‘Yeah, he grabbed what he could when nobody was looking. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t want to get fired. I never let him poke me, if that’s what you’re saying.’
‘Did Diane know what he was like?’
‘Wives always know,’ Gladiola said.
Cab thought about himself and Diane. He wondered if husbands knew when the shoe was on the other foot. ‘Rufus said there was some kind of problem at the estate that summer.’
Gladiola nodded.
‘When was this?’ Cab asked.
‘Guess it was a couple weeks before Labor Day.’
‘And what happened?’
‘It’s not like I know the details,’ Gladiola said. ‘I wasn’t in the room.’
‘You know something.’
She played with her hair. Her eyes were tired. ‘It was a Saturday night. Ms Fairmont had some kind of brunch thing on Sunday, so I was cleaning. The house was quiet. Most nights that summer, it was like a train station, people everywhere, ’cause of the campaign. But there was some money thing over in Tampa, and most of the campaign folks were there.’
‘So who was in the house?’ Cab asked.
‘Guess it was me and Mr Birch and Ms Fairmont. And the muscle man.’
‘Garth was there?’
‘Oh, yeah. Like I said, he was always there.’
‘What about Drew?’
She shook her head. ‘He was off partying. Drinking. Drugs. Whatever he did in those days.’
‘So what happened?’ he asked again.
‘I was in the dining room, and I heard shouting. Real loud. Real angry. Mr Birch and his wife, they were upstairs, and they were going at it.’
Season of Fear Page 17
