Twisted Justice

by Patricia Gussin

  “Carrie? Come on in,” Celeste greeted her before registering the clear anxiety etched on Carrie’s face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I … I’m so sorry to bother you, Celeste,” she blurted, “but I really need your help.”

  “My help,” Celeste echoed. “Did Greg send you here?”

  “No. And please don’t tell him I came. You see, I’m just so scared,” she stammered, “and only you can help me.”

  “Me? How? Let’s have coffee. I just put on a pot. Gosh, I’m sorry I look so awful.”

  Carrie ignored the comment, still standing, beginning to wring her hands. “I don’t have time. I just pray that you can help me.”

  “But what is it you think I can do? Here, sit down and tell me.” She led her over to the brocade sofa.

  In a rush, Carrie told Celeste about Molly Palmer. How she had encouraged the child to talk to the police, to identify the man she’d seen go into Steve Nelson’s apartment at the time of Kim Connor’s shooting.

  “But wasn’t that the right thing to do?” Celeste asked. Her kind, inquisitive eyes searched Carrie’s suddenly blotchy face.

  “I thought so, yes. But now I’m just scared for Elizabeth.”

  “Who’s Elizabeth?”

  “My daughter.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not following.” Celeste reached for Carrie’s hand, unable to fathom what she could do to alleviate this woman’s distress. “You were telling me about a Palmer child? And your daughter?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not making much sense I guess.” Carrie paused to take a breath. “When Greg and Chuck decided to take the Palmers to a safe place — it was my idea actually — I never thought the Palmers would ask to take my daughter too. You see, they’re both deaf, Molly and Elizabeth, and the Palmers wanted to bring Elizabeth as a companion for Molly. My husband and I didn’t want to let them take our daughter, but since I’d gotten Molly involved in all this we thought it only right. And Chuck promised tight security.”

  “Chuck? Chuck Dimer?”

  “Yes, he’s the P.I. working on the Nelson case with us.”

  “I know Chuck, and I’m sure the girls are perfectly safe. Chuck is very good at what he does.”

  “I know. But this morning I got a call from a strange man.” Carrie withdrew her hand from Celeste’s and reached into her purse for a wad of Kleenex. “I got scared. I … I just want to go get my daughter. I think I made a horrible mistake.”

  “Oh, Carrie, I can understand. I just don’t know why you’re telling me all this?”

  “Because, well, I thought you knew.” Carrie gulped and blew her nose. “The Palmers and my daughter are at your condo on Amelia Island.”

  Celeste gasped. “What?”

  “They needed a safe place, and Greg said you wouldn’t mind. The firm will reimburse you, of course,” she added quickly.

  “Uh, that’s fine. But your child’s there and you don’t have the address?”

  “No, for security reasons, they said. But Celeste,” Carrie looked at her wide eyed. “I need to find my daughter. The man on the phone sounded so threatening.”

  “Carrie, I’m sorry. I’m not a mother, so I can only imagine how you feel. All I can really do is tell you how to get to the condo,” Celeste decided. “But you must promise me that once you do, you’ll let Greg and Chuck know immediately. This is obviously quite serious.”

  “I will,” promised Carrie. “I’m just so glad you understand. They never would. Besides, they’re so tied up with the Nelson case. I can’t imagine what more could happen to that poor woman. What she’s been through. It’s unbelievable.”

  Celeste nodded as she wrote out directions and then led Carrie to the door. “It’s ten thirty now so you’ll be there by five at the latest. Drive carefully,” she said perfunctorily, as her mind was already on Greg.

  Would she ever care so much about another? Or have a daughter of her own? These were questions she’d considered all weekend.

  Life had taken an unexpected turn for Celeste Marin on Friday night. South Florida was being hit with the aftermath of a tropical storm and her flight from Atlanta to Miami had been a living nightmare. Under the best of circumstances, she hated flying, but the horrendous turbulence that threw the 727 around like a giant roller coaster in a sky ablaze with lightning had completely petrified her. Trapped in that terrible reality with her fellow passengers, she’d stopped breathing, felt everything go black until the plane again lurched and its bottom seemed to drop out in a violent downward spiral. Surprising herself, she began to pray, a prayer so deeply enveloping that she was not even aware of the plane landing until the woman next to her, drenched in vomit, tapped her lightly on the shoulder. Theirs was the last plane to land before all planes were grounded, to her relief, so she’d stayed at one of those airport hotels overnight.

  She called Greg, but there was no answer. In the morning she rented a car and drove across Alligator Alley to U.S. 41 North to Tampa. She’d called Greg again, first at her townhouse, where they were to meet, then at his beach house. She’d assumed that he was upset with her for ruining their weekend plans and had probably just gone home and turned off his phone the way he did when he was working too hard, trying to meet a deadline. He’d sounded so sweet last Thursday night — it would be just them and the stars and the moon. Twice Saturday morning, she’d tried his office, but no one answered.

  She arrived in Carrollwood at one Saturday afternoon, arranged for the return of her rental car, and looked around the apartment for a note from Greg, assuming he’d been there waiting for her the evening before. Nothing. He must have really been angry. She tried his office again. No answer, and no answer at his place. Impulsively, she left her townhouse and headed for the Courtney Campbell Causeway connecting Tampa to Clearwater.

  Celeste had her own key to Greg’s spacious house situated on the expansive sandy beaches of Palm Harbor. This was his sanctuary, far enough away from the city and a beautiful commute across Old Tampa Bay. She’d offered to help him with interior design several times, but he’d politely refused, preferring to keep the dated furnishings of the former owners. Though the house was large and comfortable with a pool and cabana off to one side, the furniture and interior design details, although expensive, were outdated and not up to par with Celeste’s discerning taste. Certainly nothing of the decorative splendor she’d lavished on her own condo. They often joked that when they got married, they’d have to get rid of both places and build their “compromise” house. But would they? She knew that he loved her and she him. She knew the demands of a law practice and she knew she loved her job. And, she knew that if neither compromised in a lifestyle change, they would never get to the point of a “compromise” house. Nor to what they both wanted, but were maybe afraid of — a family of their own.

  Again Celeste searched for a note, some sign from Greg to let her know he was nearby, but there was none. Where was he? This was all her fault. She decided to sit tight and wait for him to come home. She changed into a bathing suit and stretched out on the deck. The Gulf was still pounding from the tropical storm that had delayed her last night. Getting up only to fix herself a Swiss cheese and lettuce sandwich and pour herself a glass of chardonnay, she stayed there well past a glorious sunset off the west Florida coast — all brilliant reds, oranges, pinks and purples.

  Finally she got up, showered and changed into one of the sheer nightgowns she kept there along with a scattering of casual clothes and beachwear. It was warm, and she walked outside, strolling along the perimeter decks. Had Greg stayed in Michigan for reasons unknown? The soft breeze off the Gulf of Mexico seemed to speak to her, to urge her to explore something inside herself in this uncommon solitude. When she finally left the moonlit skies and went inside to lie down on Greg’s king-size bed, she fell immediately into a deep sleep with only blackness, without dreams.

  In the morning, Celeste awoke early with an awesome sensation she could only describe as peace. A sensation so unusual it
was alien, really. She could only marvel that something inside her had subdued the usual blinding ambition that had driven her every day from the moment she awoke. Over the next two days, she simply walked in the warm granular sand along the Gulf, and at night she read from the poetry collections Greg kept in the bedroom’s bookcase. She did not turn on the television, call her office in Tampa, or the client’s office in Atlanta. She felt paralyzed to do so. She did not even call Greg’s office again.

  She hadn’t spoken to him in four days, since Thursday evening. She knew she could reach him through Betty at his office, but she held back. Because she wanted to be totally sure. And now she was.

  Hopefully, it wasn’t too late.

  On Monday night, she returned to her place in Tampa. Resolved. First, she would resign from her job. The excessive travel and demanding clients were sucking up every morsel of her energy. Instead, she’d start her own little business. A small design boutique, which she could manage out of her own home. There would be more time to be with Greg. Maybe it wasn’t too late to have a family. The thought of children brought the twinge of a smile. So she booked a flight to Atlanta for the next day, Tuesday. She’d call her boss and tell him she’d return to Atlanta to work out the transition with Larry Foster. Then, when it was all decided, she would tell Greg what she’d done.

  If he agreed, they’d set a date, and begin the next chapter of their lives.

  A slight smile crossed Celeste’s face as she picked up the morning paper and moved to close the door after Carrie climbed back into her car. Then, vaguely, at the edge of her vision, Celeste noticed a dark blue sedan pulling away from the curb behind Carrie’s. A flicker of alarm disturbed her reverie. Could that car be following the Diamond’s? She scolded herself for her silliness. Was Carrie’s paranoia getting to her too? But Carrie had spoken of that strange phone call this morning with such fear.

  When Chuck Dimer walked into the satellite law offices of Youngman, Polk, and Allen in Wayne, Michigan a few minutes before three, Greg was on the phone. He motioned for Chuck to sit down and mouthed, “Laura’s dad.”

  After he hung up the phone, Greg turned to Chuck, “Laura’s on her way. The sooner she gets here the better.”

  “I’m with you there, boss. I’ll get over there early to make sure I’ve got the lay of the land over at Detroit Metropolitan. Anything else I should know about?”

  “Carrie’s still unaccounted for. A couple of hours ago Tracy said one of your guys learned that some neighbors saw the Diamonds leave their place with their bags packed this morning.”

  Chuck shook his head. “Uh-huh. My thought is she’s back-pedaling on having her kid with the Palmers. It’s a good thing she doesn’t know where Celeste’s condo is.”

  “But she knows it’s on Amelia Island. All she’d have to do is call Celeste, but —”

  “But Celeste would never give it to her,” Chuck interrupted. “She knows we’re using it as a safe house.”

  Greg drew a deep breath. “But Celeste still doesn’t know they’re there.”

  “You still haven’t told her? Greg, what if she —”

  “The truth is, I don’t know where Celeste is. I haven’t talked to her since Thursday night, which is why I called your office earlier. I asked Tracy to arrange a discreet inquiry. I’m worried about her, Chuck. She didn’t show up in Atlanta yesterday for work, and she’s not at home. God knows she’s a workaholic, and she’s in the middle of a big project. Hell would freeze over before she missed a project deadline.”

  “Sure she’s not just in a snit? You been spending a lotta time with Laura Nelson,” said Chuck only half-jokingly.

  “Probably is all my fault. I must’ve really pissed her off staying in Philly all weekend. We had plans. She made it home, through a storm no less, and I didn’t.”

  “Sounds like a lover’s spat to me.”

  “I just can’t stop thinking there’s a connection between Carrie and Celeste. Their disappearance, I mean. I have a bad feeling.”

  “Tracy’ll get back to us as soon as she’s got something on Celeste’s whereabouts. My feeling is, all will be okay with your little lady if you apologize. Apologize profusely and shower her with all those tokens women like — roses, candy, you name it. But wait till tonight,” Chuck hastened to add, “after the airport scene we’re creating out here.”

  “Okay, buddy. See you later and thanks for the romance tips.”

  After the elevator descended with Chuck on it, Greg realized he’d forgotten to pass along Tracy’s message about the call from Carmen Williams. Though Tracy had said she’d sounded scared, with everything else on Greg’s mind, it had just slipped by.

  Drop it, Carmen kept telling herself. You tried once. The guy wasn’t there. Kim’s dead, so it’s not gonna help her. No way would she call the cops. She’d had enough of them to last a lifetime. They’d already questioned her three times about Kim. First the uniforms that stopped by her house the night it happened, tracking her down by that message she’d left on Kim’s machine about needing a job reference. They broke the terrible news and not in a nice way. Said she’d have to come down to the station in the morning. There Detective Lopez, the slick one, and Goodnuf, the ugly one, asked her all kinds of questions about Kim and Steve and Steve’s wife. They asked about Kim’s other friends, but she hadn’t told them anything about Frankie. About Nelson, she’d told the truth. That Kim did fuck him, but only once. That his wife had caught them and tossed Steve out. No, Kim wasn’t hot for Nelson, he was just a safe type of guy to have around. Yes, Kim was moving to Atlanta. Why? For a better job. Did Williams have an alibi that night? That was the worst, that they would ask her that, but the answer was yes. She told them about the club where she’d hung out, where lots of people had seen her.

  But she hadn’t told them about the gun. She knew she would get into big trouble for that, the unregistered gun she’d scarfed up for Kim after Frankie had hit her. They even asked her if she knew whether Kim had a gun, but she hadn’t told them. And she never would.

  Later that week someone else showed up. A big guy, but nice, and he had treated her with respect. He didn’t seem that old, but he had gray hair in a cute crew cut. Big muscles bulged out of his short-sleeve shirt and she remembered thinking that she’d feel safe if she had a guy like him, but mostly she remembered his kind gray eyes and boyish smile. He’d asked her pretty much the same questions as the cops, but he was a private investigator representing Steve Nelson’s wife, and she’d kept his business card. Charles Dimer. “Chuck,” he said, “call me Chuck.” He’d taken time to talk to her, to really listen as she told him what a good friend Kimmie had been. Like he really cared.

  Then, after a lawyer had called her about Kim’s will, Detective Lopez came to the house to ask her more questions. Mostly about why Kim had left her all her money, but also about Kim’s “other” boyfriend, Frank Santiago. Pointed questions about how he treated her. Did he hit her? Did he threaten her?

  “I don’t know,” she’d answered, not wanting anything to do with Frankie and his wrath. “He was sort of obsessed with her, I guess,” she’d told Lopez. “The funny thing was, he wanted kids.”

  The detective didn’t seem to care about that. “Did Santiago know about Nelson?” he asked.

  “No, I don’t think so,” she’d answered, thinking it was the truth. But now the whole world knew about that night.

  It was the very next day that Chuck Dimer had returned. He brought a box of Fannie Mae chocolates all tied up with a yellow ribbon. His questions were pretty much the same as the detective’s, but he was so nice about it. She felt bad lying to him, but she was scared. Frankie could easily suspect her if any personal information got out, and it would be real simple to have her killed.

  And now, after what she’d seen last night — and heard — at the Columbia, should she call that Chuck back? Nervously, Carmen twisted his card in her hands as she replayed the scene. Santiago dressed like a sloppy street person, meeting with a hit m
an. She’d strained to hear what they said when they came out of that room. Sounded like, “nail Nelson.” Something about Detroit and “when I’m done, I’m going away.” She’d been so scared standing in that doorway, that she’d almost wet her pants. But she was pretty sure that what she heard meant that Steve Nelson’s name was on a contract. Truthfully, she’d been wondering why Frankie hadn’t iced Steve already, what with the way he felt about Kim and Steve’s open admission that he’d had sex with her. For a guy that high up in the mob, having Steve killed would be well, expected.

  Kim always said that Steve was a nice enough guy, but all involved with his family. With five kids, no wonder. So she’d decided to call that Chuck Dimer. Let him warn Steve. Maybe she was too late. Maybe they did him last night. Finally she said aloud, “What would Kim want me to do?” As she continued twisting Chuck’s business card, she decided to try him again. One more time and that was it. That girl who’d answered the phone sounded nice and she’d said to call back.

  “Ms. Williams,” Tracy said politely once Carmen identified herself on the phone, “I’m glad you called back. Mr. Dimer is anxious to talk to you. He’s in Detroit, but I have a phone number. I can patch you in.”

  “Long distance?” Carmen balked. “Hey, I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “I’ll reverse the charges,” said Tracy quickly. “Can you hold?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  Tracy immediately placed the call to the law office in Wayne, Michigan.

  “Greg Klingman here.”

  “Glad I caught you,” said Tracy with a detectable sigh of relief.

  “Did you locate Celeste?”