The Sign Painter

by Davis Bunn

  Bob kept nodding. “Does your daughter like dolls?”

  “More than anything except maybe peanut butter.”

  Amy thought she’d held it together pretty well, considering. But when her car came into view, she almost lost it. She had not really seen it when they had arrived at the station. She had been too full of the adrenaline’s aftereffects. But as she rounded the corner, a wrecker from Denton Chevrolet was pulling it onto the rear flatbed, drawing the damage up to eye level. “Oh, no.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Bob said.

  Jagged streaks were carved down the passenger side, and both windows were cracked. “I haven’t even signed the insurance papers.”

  “I’ll take care of it. Granville, will your car make it to the dealership?”

  “No problem.”

  “I’ll arrange for a loaner while we straighten the front end. Amy, we’ll work something out when this is done. Until then, I doubt you’ll be driving yourself.”

  Amy started to protest, but Bob was already moving for the taxi rank. She let Granville steer her over to his battered vehicle and watched as the wrecker trundled away. “That car was the first nice new thing I’ve had in a long while.”

  “Bob is writing off your car as a company expense,” Granville replied.

  “He’s doing what?”

  “You drove him out to see his son. Your fast thinking probably saved both your lives.” Granville pulled into traffic. “What’d you think he’d do, let you swing in the wind?”

  Amy phoned Lucy and briefly recapped what had happened. Lucy was quiet for a time, then asked, “How are you, girl?”

  “Okay. Shook up. Kinda beat.”

  “You sound exhausted. You should rest.”

  “Later. Right now I need to check in at work. Which means I’ll be late picking up my little girl.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Is Paul watching your back?”

  “Granville.”

  “Good. Stay safe, girl.”

  Amy spent a hard two hours rushing through the backlog of deals and forms generated by a medium-busy day. She returned a dozen or so calls on Bob’s behalf, claiming a personal issue. She said the same thing to the sales manager, who clearly knew enough to respond with a nod. It was only when Amy was packing up to depart when the saleswoman stopped by and asked, “Bob Jr., right?”

  “He prefers BeeJay now.”

  “I really don’t care.” Rachel eyed Amy over her mug. “Pretty awful, isn’t he?”

  “I never thought a smile could be that ugly,” Amy replied.

  “My former best friend from here went out with him. Once. She left for Tulsa soon after.”

  “He wouldn’t even look at his father,” Amy said. “Much less talk to him.”

  “A lot of us appreciate what you did, going with Bob today.” Rachel tried to make it a casual question. “What’s the connection between you two?”

  “Church,” Amy replied. “Do you go?”

  “A long time ago.”

  “I don’t know how I could have kept it together otherwise. You should come with me.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Rachel avoided meeting Amy’s eye by sweeping the dealership with her gaze. “I’ve been here eight years. I’ve stayed because of Bob. He’s honest, he’s straight, and he trusts his people to be the same.” Her gaze dropped to where Drew leaned against his disorderly desk and talked on the phone. “Maybe he trusts them too much.”

  Amy fed her daughter an early dinner, spoiled her with a couple of extra Nutter Butter cookies, then sat her down on the sofa and let her play with the new badge. Kimmie traced a finger around the city’s emblem and said, “Mommy is a policeman.”

  “No, honey. I’ve been deputized. Like Mr. Bob.”

  “So we’re gonna stay with him. At the car place?”

  “No, sweetie.” Amy had already walked her through this. But Kimmie liked to feel her way around new ideas. Try it from different angles. Taking her time. Amy had learned that impatience was the worst possible response to these repetitive discussions. “We’re going to go stay at Mr. Bob’s home.”

  “For how long?”

  “I won’t know for a while yet. I hope only a few days.”

  “So you can work for the police.”

  “That’s right. I’m helping Mr. Bob with a problem, and together we’re helping the police.”

  “The police don’t scare you anymore?”

  Amy hesitated. She tried to be as honest as she could with her daughter. “Yes. I still get frightened sometimes. But not as much.”

  “They scare me.”

  “I know.”

  “They won’t take me away?”

  Amy swallowed hard. She had not been certain until this very moment that Kimmie had even understood the threat. “No, darling. I won’t let them.”

  The drive to Wildwood took long enough for Kimmie to whine about being sleepy and trapped in the car seat. A nice thing about the camper, one of very few, was how she could tuck her daughter in her bed whenever the little girl was tired. As Kimmie grew increasingly cranky, Amy asked Granville to stop. She shifted to the backseat, unstrapped her child, and let Kimmie snuggle into her lap. By the time they pulled through the Wildwood security gates, Kimmie was asleep.

  Bob Denton’s home was a long one-story stucco that stretched the width of his broad lawn. Granville carried their cases and Amy’s purse while she scooped up the child and brought her inside. Amy felt infected by Kimmie’s weariness. Bob had the door open before they arrived. He smiled a strained welcome and led them through the foyer and across the living room. The house held the grace of a woman’s touch, with cream drapes framing the rear deck and pool. The living room had two illuminated display cabinets jammed with the sort of expensive gewgaws that a man would never buy.

  The broad plank floor gave way to thick cream carpet by a set of double doors. Bob said softly, “We made this the guest wing. These doors lock.”

  Granville set the cases inside the hallway and said he’d make sure the police were in place before turning in. When Amy carried her child inside the guest foyer, Bob drew the doors shut behind her. The wing was intensely quiet, as if built to swallow sound. The stubby hall had a door opening on either side and a huge bath at its end. Amy checked the first room and saw a massive bed, the sheets already turned down, so inviting that she felt her exhaustion rise like hunger. She carried Kimmie across the hall to the smaller bedroom and groaned at the sight of a dozen dolls, all of them still in boxes.

  Kimmie shifted in her arms and whined, “Sleepy, Mommy.”

  Amy settled her daughter into the bed, slipped off Kimmie’s shoes, and tucked the blanket up to her chin. She stroked her daughter’s hair and inspected the dolls. There were four Barbies, a Ken, two Bratz, and a soft Annie. Then she noticed two teddies still bearing tags. She debated whether she should hide them all in the closet, then decided it would do no good. Kimmie would sniff out a new doll like a bloodhound on the scent. Amy dreaded explaining to Bob that it wasn’t right. No matter how sweet the invitation was. Because it wasn’t about dolls.

  Amy kissed her daughter’s forehead and whispered, “This has trouble written all over it.”

  CHAPTER 26

  That evening, Paul was especially strict with the incoming teams. He knew there could have been resistance, especially with Granville not around. But Dan Eldridge settled into a chair next to Paul and kept everyone in line. Dan maintained a frowning vigil that showed the world a single-minded focus on the job at hand. His expression and his silence said that Dan Eldridge did not need to ask questions because he trusted the man in charge. Any potential friction was erased by Dan’s steadfast approval.

  Paul did not speak to the man until the teams were out on their rounds. “You got your badge?”

  “In my back pocket, right next to my
gun.”

  “I want to play shadow again today around the neighborhood. Think maybe you could stay here and supervise the close-in teams, make sure they stay on full alert?”

  “Roger that.”

  “Granville felt it was best not to tell the teams about today’s Escalade attack.”

  “Don’t want word to leak out, give the church’s nervous Nellies another reason to fret,” Dan agreed.

  Paul hesitated, then added, “My gut tells me it’s only a matter of time before they try something else.”

  Dan wore a ferocious scowl. “We’ll be ready.”

  “Phone me if you catch even a hint of trouble.” Paul went back to his apartment, slipped into jogging gear, put his holstered pistol and badge and phone in a belt pouch, and went for a run. His shoulder pulsed with each heartbeat, but the ache did not bloom into full-fledged pain; Paul was thrilled to be healing well. He made four circuits of the church, identifying all the teams as he passed, keeping well away from them. He ran by the house twice, from two different directions. The place was utterly unremarkable, one of a thousand single-story homes thrown up in the housing boom of the late sixties. The wide lawn completely isolated the house, the weeds deep enough to almost hide a pair of rusting lawn chairs. On Paul’s second circuit, he passed a kid of maybe ten or eleven on a low-rider bike deal a packet of white powder through the side window of a new Lexus. The woman inside turned her face away. The kid pretended not to see him at all.

  The evening remained quiet. Paul’s only two calls came from Granville, who was spending the day guarding Amy. They had switched positions because the police were now involved in securing the pair and the dealership. They knew and trusted Granville, so his close proximity was vital. Neither Granville nor Paul wanted the cops patrolling the church perimeter. Everything on the surface needed to remain exactly as it had been. Tom Beeks, the DEA agent in charge of monitoring the house, was to be given no reason to erupt. Everything was cool.

  Paul went to his apartment and showered and grabbed a bite. He reached the cafeteria just as the last team straggled in. The men and women were aged by the miles they had walked in the Florida heat. They slumped into their seats, rubbed their faces with gym towels, lifted coffee mugs with hands that could not quite hide the tremors. The incoming shift noticed the difference, though a single frown from Dan Eldridge was enough to keep them silent.

  Paul returned to his apartment for a rest. It was going to be a long night. When he emerged, he took a casual stroll around the church. The night air was spiced with jacaranda and jasmine and blooming orange trees.

  Paul was heading to his car when the old woman who baby­sat for Amy motioned to him from the apartment parking lot, her stubby fingers curved and compressed by arthritis. As he approached, she called into the apartment, and a younger version of her pushed through the screen door. Juanita’s daughter carried a lovely sloe-eyed girl of perhaps three or four. The three waited until he stood before them, then Juanita spoke softly.

  Paul knew enough Spanish to understand every third or fourth word. The daughter translated anyway. “My mother, she asks how is the lady, Miss Amy?”

  “Safe. We moved her to a different location. For everyone’s sake.”

  “She will return?”

  “As soon as this is over.”

  “And you stay?”

  “I need to make sure everyone here is safe as well.”

  The old woman nestled one hand in the other by her middle. The motion carried a certain formality, as did the way she spoke; her daughter translated, “We are grateful for this gift.”

  “I’ll do all I can to keep you protected.”

  “My mother, she has something to say. She wants to say it here, you understand?”

  “So everyone in the apartments can see.”

  “It is important that our neighbors understand you are to be trusted.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “There is a boy. Son of a mother who works long hours. A good boy but a dangerous age. You understand?”

  Paul thought of the kid dealing off the bike and replied, “All too well.”

  The daughter’s soft voice carried a stony resilience as she said, “This boy, he was given much money.”

  Juanita reached into her apron pocket and extracted a tightly rolled sheaf of bills. The roll was held in place by a pair of rubber bands. The outermost bill was a twenty. Paul accepted the money and asked, “Can I talk with him?”

  “He is afraid of the police. The family, they have no papers.”

  “I understand.”

  “The boy, he wants to be good. He gives the money to his mother. She was in the church when Amy spoke. She wants to help. She says do what you must to keep her boy safe.”

  “Can the boy describe the one who gave him this money?”

  “Tall and very black. African black, you understand? With the marks of a knife on his cheeks.”

  “I have a photograph I’d like to show him.”

  “Give me the picture. I will show. It is better.”

  “All right. Sure. Where did the man meet him?”

  “He plays the football, the soccer, with other boys in the lot behind the apartments. A man drove up. Waited. Spoke with him.”

  “Can he identify the car?”

  Even her smile was stony. “He is a ten-year-old boy. Of course he knows the car. It was a Cadillac. The big one.”

  “An Escalade?”

  “That one. Silver-green. New.”

  “Did he happen to record the license plate?”

  “I think not. But I will ask.”

  “What did the man want?”

  The shrug was almost imperceptible. “What they always want. To destroy.”

  CHAPTER 27

  The next morning started with a ray of sunshine that tickled Amy’s face and caused her to sneeze. She opened her eyes to the sound of cardinals and her daughter’s singing. The bed was huge and the sheets felt silken. The room was bathed in a glow of comfort and prosperity. The colors were all matched, the dimensions vast, the carpet so soft she never wanted to put on shoes. She slipped into clothes from her case, then walked across the hall to her daughter’s room. Her daughter’s room.

  Kimmie was seated in the middle of her own little playground, making tea for a teddy and her ratty old doll and a freshly unwrapped Barbie. All the other dolls and teddies were stacked against the far wall, still in the packaging. Amy leaned in the doorway and wondered at this. She would have expected Kimmie to assault those other boxes with a five-year-old’s fervor. Instead, they might as well not have existed.

  “Hungry, Mommy.”

  “Can you say ‘Good morning’?”

  “Morning, Mommy. Can I have Froot Loops?”

  “We’ll have to see what Mr. Bob keeps here. Can I have a kiss?”

  Kimmie rose and attached the teddy to her side and flounced over. Her expression was serious. As though she was working hard at something internal. Her kiss was perfunctory. Amy asked, “Is something the matter?”

  “Hungry.”

  “I am hungry,” Amy corrected.

  “Froot Loops.”

  She started to correct her daughter, but Kimmie did not seem to be focused on her at all. Which was very odd. Amy wondered if the child was out of sorts over everything that surrounded her. Or, she amended, everything Kimmie would soon have to give up again. So all she said was “Leave your teddy and let’s go find what’s for breakfast.”

  The living room was bathed with a sunrise glow turned molten gold by the diaphanous drapes. The entire rear of the house was a series of floor-to-ceiling doors that opened into an outdoor living area and the swimming pool beyond. Beyond the marble-clad fireplace was a formal dining room with windows on six of its seven sides. Amy had never seen a more beautiful home. But her comments were halted when th
ey entered the open-plan kitchen and she caught sight of what awaited them in the breakfast nook. Or rather, what was there for her daughter.

  Three chairs were pulled up to the octagonal table with its inlaid surface. The central chair was piled with a brilliant array of stuffed toys. A giraffe as tall as Kimmie lifted its head above the parrot and bearded elf and pink piglet and elephant and rhino.

  Bob was bustling around the kitchen when they entered. He offered a cheery good morning, but Amy caught the hint of nerves. Which meant he was sensitive enough to know he might have overdone things. And that meant the words she needed to say were not going to be totally unexpected. Amy returned his greeting, poured herself a cup of coffee, added milk from a gold-rimmed pitcher, and took a slow look around. She noted the fresh-cut flowers in the crystal vase on the granite countertop, and the array of cereal boxes, and the plate of Danish, and the man watching her with nervous eyes. Then her gaze returned to her daughter. “Come see what you want for breakfast, honey.”

  “In a minute, Mommy.”

  “I thought you said you were hungry.”

  “I am. But this is important.”

  Amy set down her cup and walked over to where Kimmie stood idly brushing the elf’s blue fringe. Her daughter’s brow was furrowed with concentration. Up close, Amy saw Kimmie’s lips were moving, and she realized the child was counting. “What is it, darling?”

  “There aren’t enough.”

  “Sweetheart, what on earth are you talking about?”

  “I want everybody to have one.”

  The realization of what Kimmie had in mind pushed Amy down to a seated position on the floor. “Sweetheart, do you want to give your new dolls to the other children in day care?”

  “They’re my friends.”

  Amy started to reach for her child, then pulled her hand back and trapped it in her lap. Nothing could interrupt this exchange, not an embrace, not a tear. She wanted to remember this moment forever. “That’s right, darling. They are.”