by Elaine Viets
“What’s going to happen to Hank?” Helen asked. “Will they arrest him?”
“No, the Coast Guard are federal law enforcement,” Phil said. “They’ll turn Hank over to the local police department. He was speeding in state waters, so I suspect the Florida Marine Patrol will also get involved. Hank will have a long list of charges, starting with gross negligence and ending with Mindy’s murder.”
“And what about Laredo? Mindy killed her, but Hank didn’t stop her. He helped hide the body. He knows where Savannah’s sister is buried.”
Phil sighed. “I don’t know if we have anything to connect him to Laredo.”
Helen gave Phil the disk. “Will this help?”
“You saved it?” he said. “Helen, this is important. I can get you a reward. That list you gave me was a good start. But this could wrap up the case.”
“No!” Helen was desperate to make him understand. “I can’t be in any computers.”
“Are you in trouble with the law? I’ve got connections. I can help you.”
“I’m on the run from my ex-husband. He’ll do anything to find me. If I’m in a computer, he can track me down.” That was true—mostly. “I don’t want the money. If you nail Hank Asporth and find Laredo, that’s reward enough.”
“I’ll do my damnedest.” Phil’s eyes were such a sincere blue, she had to believe him.
“Are you going to give that disk to the Feds?” Helen said.
“Yes. But I don’t want to tip off Hank that I have it. I need a few hours. Once he calls his lawyer, the shredders will start working in the boiler room. We’ll try to get a search warrant and raid the place first thing in the morning. You might as well stay home and read the want ads.”
“Oh, no,” Helen said. “I’ll be there. I wouldn’t miss it. What’s going to happen to us now?”
“The Coast Guard will escort the water taxi to the closest marina. You can see it—that patch of lights over there. Then they’ll take statements from everyone.”
“They think I’m Billy,” Helen said.
“Good. Let them keep thinking that,” Phil said. “I need to get away now. I’ll say I have to go to the hospital, and they’ll airlift me out. Then I’ll set the computer experts to work on your disk.”
“I guess those broken ribs will come in handy.”
“They’re not broken,” he said. “I know what broken ribs feel like. Besides, that’s not the excuse I’m using.”
“What are you going to say?”
“I have a slipped disk.”
Phil grinned. Then he kissed her once more and was gone.
Chapter 30
Helen came home in a sheriff’s car at five in the morning. She sat in the screened-off back seat like a felon. She’d had no sleep. Her chest and neck throbbed from Mindy’s whip slash. Her scorched back pulsed like a superheated sunburn.
She’d never felt better.
All the lights were out at the Coronado. She crunched her way across the parking lot. Something hissed at her in the dark.
A cat? A snake?
It was Margery. She was on her doorstep, her purple chenille robe tied crookedly, her red curlers askew. Her toenail polish looked like ten drops of blood.
“Where the hell have you been? Your cat was howling all night. I finally fed it to shut it up. Now the cops bring you home. What’s going on?”
“I’m in love.” Helen knew she had a big, sappy grin on her face. She didn’t care.
“Love? You look like you’ve been mauled by bears. Who is this goon?”
“Phil the invisible pothead.”
“Oh, my God. Let me put on some coffee. Go change out of those wet clothes. I’ll wake up Peggy.”
Helen floated back to her apartment, feet barely touching the concrete sidewalk. When she unlocked the front door, she was met by a ticked-off Thumbs. His big paws were planted firmly on the floor. His yellow eyes were angry. He punished her with the cat cold shoulder for about thirty seconds. Then he demanded an ear scratch. Helen scratched him contritely until he flopped on the floor and allowed her to rub his belly, the sign of feline forgiveness.
Helen showered, dried her hair and dressed for work. Thirty minutes later, she was back at Margery’s.
Her landlady’s kitchen smelled of hot coffee and warm chocolate. Margery was heating chocolate croissants in her microwave. A sleepy Peggy, wearing jeans and an inside out T-shirt, was huddled over a fat mug of coffee.
“Where’s Pete?” Peggy always looked incomplete without her parrot.
“At home asleep,” Peggy said with a yawn.
“Where we all would be, if you weren’t blundering around, falling in canals and falling in love. Spill. Now,” Margery commanded.
Helen did. She told them about the disk in the coffin, the fire in the mansion and Mindy’s death. She told them about the boat chase and how she saved Phil.
“Then he saved me. With a kiss,” Helen said. “Just like in the fairy tales.”
“He’s a real prince.” Margery’s sarcasm was like honeyed acid. Helen sat in silence, sipping coffee and waiting for their verdict.
“What do you think?” Margery asked Peggy, as if they were two doctors on a consultation.
They’re heart specialists, Helen thought, and nearly giggled. She was punch-drunk after the long night.
“This romance shows promise,” Peggy said. “But I should talk, considering my track record with men.”
“If Phil hurts her, I swear I’ll evict him.” Margery’s mouth went into a hard line and little cracks appeared around her lips.
“He won’t,” Helen said.
“How would you know?” Margery said.
“I don’t know. But I feel it,” Helen said.
Margery snorted like a Clydesdale. “What you ought to feel is tired. It’s time for you to go to bed.”
“It’s seven thirty,” Helen said. “It’s time for me to go to work.”
“You’re not going back to that boiler room,” Margery said.
“Try and stop me.” Helen took a final gulp of caffeine. “Look, I really appreciate this. But I have to be there.”
She put her coffee mug in Margery’s sink, then stepped outside into the new morning. It was clear and clean. Helen’s fatigue disappeared. She felt hopeful for the first time in ages.
The boiler-room shift started like every other. The two bikers, Bob and Panhead Pete, clocked in, looking hungover. Zelda was already at her desk, wrapped in her big sweater. Taniqua was spray-cleaning the nicotine stink off her phone. She looked like a modern version of those fifties commercials where housewives wore fancy dresses to clean floors. Taniqua wore purple satin heels, purple pants cut way south of the border and a purple top that barely covered the subject.
The night shift had left a gutted sub sandwich on Helen’s desk. Cheese and chopped lettuce were piled on her phone.
“Haven’t those slobs ever heard of a trash can?” Helen said.
“No room.” Taniqua handed Helen the spray cleaner and waved at the overflowing cans.
At seven fifty-eight, Marina teetered in on black high heels, carrying a drowsy Ramon. He was drooling on her black spandex top, and clutching one of her black bra straps. She spread a quilt underneath her desk. The little boy curled up at her feet and slept. His brown curls were heartbreaking.
No child should have to sleep on that filthy floor, Helen thought sadly. The overfilled trash cans were only a foot away.
The computers flipped on at eight oh-two and started dialing. With the calls came the rustle and crunch of sixty telemarketers staving off the nation’s abuse with junk food.
Helen checked her computer. It was dialing Maine. A staid state, she thought. Folks in Livermore Falls wouldn’t waste their breath cussing her out. They’d just hang up.
“Hi, Burt. This is Helen with Tank Titan Septic System Cleaner. We make a septic tank cleaner for your home system that is guaranteed to help reduce large chunks, odors and wet spots—”
“Get stuffed, bi
tch,” Burt said. So much for her theory about Maine.
At eight oh-six, federal agents burst into the boiler room. Someone barked out an agency name, but Helen didn’t catch it. She was being cussed out by an irate homeowner in Skowhegan.
When the agents roared through the door, both bikers dove under their desks. The telemarketers were ordered to stay where they were.
Two agents had Vito on the floor with a gun to his head. Vito seemed smaller, his egocentric energy gone, his round pink body deflated. Two more agents came out of the office with the elegant lizard, Mr. Cavarelli. His face twisted into a grimace when he was ordered to the floor.
“He don’t like putting that fancy suit on that raggedy-ass floor,” Taniqua said.
“Floor’s good enough for my little boy, it’s good enough for him,” Marina said. Ramon slept near the trash pile, oblivious.
“Shh,” Zelda said. “I’m trying to hear. The Feds are talking about money laundering. But I can’t tell if they said there were drugs or rugs here.”
“I see more police running up the stairs to Girdner Surveys,” Taniqua said. “They got the elevator and the exits covered. Penelope gonna shit when they break into her office.”
“I think Tank Titan is in the toilet,” Marina giggled. Helen had never seen her smile before. She realized the tired single mother was just a girl.
The computers were frantically dialing Connecticut and the Carolinas, but nobody was selling septic-tank cleaner.
“Hello? Hello!”
Helen jumped. The voice was coming from her abandoned phone receiver. Her response was automatic: “Hi, this is Helen with Tank Titan Septic System Cleaner.”
“You’re the septic-tank-cleaner people?” The woman was so old and frail, her voice sounded like tearing tissue paper. It had the sweet, trusting quality that made her a prime boiler-room victim.
“Yes, ma’am,” Helen said.
“I’m Mrs. Gertrude Carter. A nice young man from your company called here last week. My son hung up on him. Roger can be rude, I’m afraid. He doesn’t mean it—he’s just protecting me. Roger said your product was overpriced junk. But I’ve been thinking about what that young man said. Two hundred ninety-nine dollars seems a good price for a seven-year supply. I’d like to buy it.”
“Your son is right, Mrs. Carter,” Helen said. “Tank Titan is outrageously overpriced. Save your money.”
“Well! You’re an honest young woman.”
“I just started this week,” Helen said.
Loud cheers drowned out Mrs. Carter’s reply.
“Helen, you be missing it,” Taniqua said. “The police got that tight-ass Penelope in handcuffs. I’d give all my money to see that bitch in jail. Vito and the New York guy be with them.”
As the boiler-room bosses were led away, Taniqua stood up and applauded. She was joined by the other inmates. Even the bikers, Bob and Panhead Pete, crawled out from under their desks. All sixty telemarketers gave the Feds a standing ovation. They didn’t seem to care that their jobs were gone.
Then a half-full drink cup went flying through the air and splattered on Penelope’s beige-suited back. Suddenly, all the trash in the room was pelting the three bosses. Helen found herself throwing a handful of left-behind lettuce. It made a greasy splash on Mr. Cavarelli’s elegant suit.
If they’d cleaned the boiler room, this wouldn’t be happening, she thought, and hurled a stale cheese slice like a Frisbee. It stuck to Penelope’s back like a starfish.
The telemarketers threw with furious precision. No trash touched the agents. The agents were stone-faced, but Helen thought she caught an occasional lip flick that might have been a suppressed smile as they hustled the three forward. When the boiler-room doors closed on the bosses, the trash-pelting stopped.
A swarm of agents started carrying out boxes of files. There was an electric pop and the computer screens went blank.
“The phones stopped,” Taniqua said.
“Tank Titan just hung it up,” Helen said. “I’m out of work. And you know what? I’ve never been happier.”
Epilogue
It was over. But it wasn’t a happy ending.
Helen walked home from the busted boiler room feeling oddly empty. A wild vengeance had surged through her as she’d pelted her bosses with trash, but its hot satisfaction did not last.
She knew Hank Asporth was in jail, charged with everything from boating under the influence to money laundering—everything but Laredo’s death.
Laredo. She was the problem. Helen had never met the woman, but she’d heard her die. Now Laredo seemed more alive than ever, standing in front of Helen in her mock pinup pose. Helen could see her long blond hair, short-shorts and saucy red shoes. Laredo laughed at Helen, taunting her. And she haunted her.
Helen didn’t believe in ghosts. But she did believe in guilt.
Helen felt bad about Laredo. Yes, she was a blackmailer, and that was wrong. But Helen understood why Laredo did it. She’d worked those awful jobs, too. They killed your soul for six dollars an hour. Laredo was murdered trying to escape her hopeless past and dreary future. Helen knew she’d died in Asporth’s house. So why wouldn’t Laredo go away?
“I’m not going to live with you,” Helen said to her.
A woman loaded with shopping bags stared at Helen, then hurried past her. Helen realized she’d been talking out loud on Las Olas Boulevard—without a cell phone.
I’ll call Savannah, Helen thought. Maybe if I give her the news about Hank’s arrest, she’ll feel better. Maybe that will get Laredo out of my head.
She found a pay phone and got Savannah on the first ring. “I can take a break,” Savannah said. “Meet you in ten by the café. But I don’t feel like eating. Let’s go for a walk.”
Savannah was easy to spot in the crowd. She was wearing one of her fussy frilled dresses. This one was a bright cerise that drained the color from her face. She had grown scrawnier since the last time Helen had seen her. Savannah was hungry for justice.
“So Hank’s in jail?” she said.
“Right,” Helen said.
“But not for my little sister’s death. He’s dropped her somewhere like a sack of trash. She’ll never be found unless he talks.”
“He won’t talk,” Helen said. “He’d incriminate himself.”
The situation was hopeless, and they both knew it. They walked wordlessly for awhile down Las Olas, but neither one liked the crowds. They turned off on a side street and found a canal. It was a peaceful scene: low-hanging trees, bright flowers and a mother duck paddling in the water with her babies. Helen knew the fluffy little creatures would grow up to be ungainly Muscovy ducks with black feathers and ugly red wattles.
“I wish I could find Laredo,” Savannah said. “What do you think Hank did with her? How could he hide a whole car?”
“I don’t know,” Helen said. They’d had this conversation a hundred times. They’d probably have it a hundred more.
They watched two boys, about ten years old, fishing from the canal bridge. Their musical accents marked them as natives of the Caribbean.
“I’ve caught a whale,” one kid said. Small and wiry, he was reeling frantically. His fishing pole was bent almost double. Whatever he caught, it had to be huge. Then Helen heard his friend laughing. The young fisherman pulled out a Michelin tire.
“Keep fishing, and maybe you’ll catch the whole car,” his friend jeered.
That’s when something clicked for Helen. “Laredo’s car is in the water,” she said. “That’s deep water behind Hank Asporth’s house. I bet anything he put the body inside the car and dumped it in the canal.”
“And how will you prove that?”
“Let’s go look at Hank’s house,” Helen said. “I think I can show you.”
They rode over in Savannah’s rattletrap Tank and parked in the empty driveway. Hank Asporth’s house had a neglected look. Newspapers were piled on the porch, the lawn needed mowing and plastic bags had blown into the ornamental pl
ants.
“Anybody watching us?” Helen said.
“Don’t think so. There are no cars at the next-door neighbor’s and the old man on the other side has his TV blaring.”
“Good,” Helen said. “Let’s go around to the backyard.”
There was no fence. They slipped around a bird-of-paradise bush. Helen had never seen the spiky orange blooms outside a florist’s bouquet. The backyard was expensive waterfront real estate. The lawn near the house was covered with pink paving blocks. When they ended, there was grass to the water’s edge.
“There’s your proof,” Helen said. “I should have seen this before. It was right there all the time. That grass is going to trip up Hank Asporth.”
“Why?” Savannah said.
“That’s new sod. Look.” Helen pointed to a broad swath of lighter grass running through the yard. “It’s covering the tire tracks through the yard to the water’s edge.”
“I see it,” Savannah said. “But how will we get the police to see it? They think you’re a nut and I’m a nuisance.”
“I know someone who’ll get their attention,” Helen said.
Helen waited the rest of the day for Phil to come back to the Coronado, but he remained invisible. She didn’t have a number to reach him or a phone to call him if she had. About five o’clock, she knocked on Margery’s door. Her landlady came out in heliotrope shorts, holding a tall screwdriver garnished with lime.
“Do you know how to get hold of Phil?” Helen said.
“Which part do you want to hold?” Margery had obviously been getting her liquid vitamin C.
Helen was irritated because she’d spent a lot of time speculating on exactly that subject. “This is serious. I need to reach him for business. Can you get a message to him?”
“Of course I can. Keep your pants on,” Margery said.
Helen wondered why everything sounded suggestive.
“Go on back home,” Margery said. “I’ll handle it.”
Margery worked her magic. She found Phil, and he found the authorities.
At seven the next morning, Savannah and Helen were standing at the dock in Hank’s backyard, like mourners at a grave. Savannah stared into the dark water. Helen looked for Phil, but he wasn’t there. It was an achingly beautiful day.
