Deeper Than The Dead (31 page)

It was 5:09, Mendez noted. Sharon Farman was genuinely distressed, not just ready to give them the bum’s rush out the door.

“Has Frank seemed different in any way this past week?” Hicks asked. “Stressed?”

“Of course he’s been stressed,” she snapped. “Look at what’s gone on: a murder, a kidnapping, our son finding that body. We’re
all
stressed, Detective.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you remember if your husband was home all evening, or if he might have gone out after dinner that night?” Mendez asked.

“I don’t know,” she said impatiently. “It was a week ago. And I have meetings on Thursday nights. I’m sure he was here when I left and when I came home. He always is.”

She looked at her watch again and got up from her chair. “I have to start dinner. Is there anything else?”

“No, ma’am,” Mendez said, rising. “Thank you for your time. We’ll show ourselves out.”

Without a word Sharon Farman turned and disappeared into the next room, leaving her cigarette smoldering in the ashtray.

“Well, that was weird,” Hicks said as they walked out to the car. “What do you suppose happens if she doesn’t serve dinner at six thirty on the dot?”

“I don’t know,” Mendez said. “Court-martial? But I bet I know where she goes on Thursday nights.”

“Where?”

“AA meets at the Presbyterian church on Piedra Boulevard Thursday nights. That’s my jogging route. They’re usually all out smoking on the lawn when I run by.”

“She had definitely had a few before we got here.”

“Yeah. Nap my ass. Sleeping it off is more like.”

Hicks shrugged as they reached the car. “If I was married to Frank, I’d drink too.”

Farman was in Dixon’s office when they got back. He did not look happy to be there.

Join the club
, Mendez thought as he and Hicks walked into the room.

“It’s just a formality, Frank,” Dixon said.

“It’s an insult,” Farman snapped. “How many years do we go back, Cal?”

“A lot.”

“A dozen. A dozen years, and you’re doing this to me? This is bullshit.”

“I’m not doing anything to you, Frank. We’re following procedure to the letter. If I had written that girl up myself, I’d have the detectives do the same thing. If Mendez had written the girl up, I’d be doing the same—and you’d be saying it was the right thing to do.”

Farman had nothing to say to that because it was true. He would have been the first one in line demanding to treat Mendez like any other person of interest. But he was embarrassed and his pride was hurt, and Mendez could understand that too. A guy like Frank lived for the job. His reputation was everything to him.

“It’s nothing personal, Frank,” he said. “We’re dotting
i
‘s and crossing
t
‘s, that’s all.”

Farman wouldn’t look at him. Mendez sighed.

“You wrote up the Vickers girl at fifteen thirty-eight that day,” Hicks said, getting on with it. “We’ll just need to see your logbook for the rest of the shift.”

Farman crossed his arms over his chest. Dixon motioned to the logbook sitting on his desk. Hicks picked it up and paged through.

“You’d never met the girl before, right?” Mendez asked.

“Do you remember every citation you ever wrote?” Farman demanded.

“No,” Mendez said calmly.

“I didn’t remember the girl ten minutes later. It was just another ticket.”

Mendez had a hard time believing that, but he let it slide. “You’d never met her before that.”

“No.”

“I don’t want to go through the
DMV
records and find out you wrote her up before.”

Farman looked at him then. “You’re a prick.”

“Frank,” Dixon cautioned.

“I’m just saying, Frank,” Mendez said. “Better if you tell me now than have it be a surprise.”

“Fuck yourself.”

Mendez held his temper, remembering what Vince had told him about getting what he needed out of people—even the Frank Farmans of the world. From the corner of his eye he saw Hicks frown as he read the log entries.

“Frank, it says here you took dinner from five to six that day.”

“So?”

“Your wife told us you’re home for dinner at six thirty every night.”

Farman got to his feet, his face turning dark red. “You spoke to my wife? You went to my home and spoke to my wife without telling me?”

“Standard op, Frank,” Mendez said.

“Have you ever heard of common courtesy, you arrogant little shit?”

Dixon stood up. “Frank, that’s enough.”

Mendez took a step toward Farman, feeling the need to draw a line.

“I’ve taken enough abuse off you, Frank,” he said, keeping his tone calm and even. “I’m bending over backward to do this right. You want to make it hard? That’s your choice.

“I can take the gloves off and make this hard for you. I can call in every person you know, all your neighbors, the people you go to church with, and ask them all about you. Does he drink? Does he fuck around on his wife? Does he beat his kids?

“Is that what you want?” Mendez asked. “Or we can turn this over to another agency and really do it right. You can have some arrogant little shit you don’t know and who has no loyalty to this office digging through your life. Would you rather we do that?”

Farman looked like he might blow an aneurysm. So much for getting what he needed.

“Frank, sit down,” Dixon ordered. “Let’s get this over with.”

Farman sat and stared at the front of the desk.

“I worked late that night,” he said. “I had paperwork. My wife is mistaken.”

“You were here?” Hicks said. “Okay.”

But as he said it, he cut Mendez a look.

Farman caught it from the corner of his eye. He turned on Hicks. “What?”

Hicks looked uncomfortable. “You were off the clock at four thirty. You’re salaried. You don’t get overtime. Why put it in your logbook that you went to dinner?”

“Habit,” Farman said.

Hicks looked to Dixon. “Can I keep this for a couple of hours?” he asked, lifting the logbook.

“Un-fucking-believable,” Farman muttered, shaking his head. He stood up. “I’m done here. I’m going home.”

Mendez checked his watch. 6:26. He hoped for Sharon Farman’s sake dinner was ready.

“You received a traffic fine in the mail.”

Anne looked at her father as she dropped her book bag and purse inside the front door. “What?”

“It says something about reckless driving and destruction of property. I taught you how to drive better than that.”

“I learned to drive from Mom,” Anne said, taking the citation from him. Frank Farman had written the ticket because she had turned around on his lawn after he parked behind her and blocked her in. Jerk. “You must be thinking about some other daughter you had with some other woman.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it means. It means you don’t get to reinvent my history.”

“You don’t have to worry about it, anyway,” he said, waving at the ticket. “I give to the sheriff’s charity every year. They know me. They’ll look the other way.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works, Dad.”

Fine: $150!

“Of course that’s how it works. What were you doing behind the wheel? Drinking and driving?”

“No, but I’m thinking about taking that up.”

He didn’t react because he never listened to her. The other person’s role in a conversation with Dick Navarre was to kill time while he was deciding what to say next.

In all their years of marriage he had probably heard about 3 percent of what her mother ever had to say. Her opinion had meant nothing to him, nor had Anne’s. She remembered when she was nine years old her mother telling her to go into the living room and talk to her father before dinner. Even then Anne had seen the futility of that exercise.

“Really, honey,” her mother had said. “Daddy wants to hear about your day at school.”

Anne had looked up at her mother, perfectly coiffed, perfectly made up, all for her husband who treated her like a servant, and said, “Mom, he doesn’t even know what grade I’m in.”

She regretted saying it instantly only because her honesty had hurt her mother. Her father probably couldn’t say what grade she taught now because what she did was of no interest to him, even though he had been a teacher himself. The ultimate narcissist, it only mattered to him that she took care of the things he needed taken care of.

“You’re late,” he said. “Again. What’s your excuse tonight?”

“I’ve been recruited by the
FBI
to work undercover in this murder investigation.”

He looked annoyed. “The
FBI
doesn’t hire women.”

“Yes, they do. It’s 1985, Dad. We have the right to vote and everything.”

“Ha. Very funny,” he grumbled, walking away. “The right to vote.”

Anne dropped the citation on the dining room table and headed for the kitchen, calling, “Did you take your meds?”

“Of course I did. I’m not senile. I don’t need you to tell me what to do.”

“Good. In that case, I’ll be moving out next week.”

She looked into the plastic case that held his pills for the day. He hadn’t taken half of them. If she asked him why not, he would undoubtedly tell her it was because he once read an article in
The New England Journal of Medicine
while waiting for his dermatologist to remove a mole, and therefore knew more about the subject of pharmaceuticals than any one of the three medical specialists he saw.

“Maybe you can get a girlfriend,” Anne called out, dumping the pills into her hand. “It’ll be just like the old days.”

“I don’t know why you go on like that,” he groused. “I was a very good husband.”

“Really?” she said, coming back into the dining room. “To whom?”

“You always took your mother’s side.”

“Yes. Damn but that I didn’t inherit that amoral gene of yours. My life would be so much easier.”

“Are you finished?” he asked coolly. “I’m going next door to watch
Jeopardy!
The Ivers are such a lovely family.”

Anne rolled her eyes. “You hate Judith Iver. Tuesday night you called her a stupid cow.”

“Not to her face.”

“Well, that makes all the difference. Here,” she said, handing him a fistful of pills and a glass of water. “I’m not letting you out the door until you take those.”

“I don’t know why you bother,” he complained. “You’d be happier if I was dead.”

“Yes, but I’m such an obvious suspect.”

“I’m sure your new friends at the
FBI
would take care of you.”

“It would make a better story if I called in all your markers for donating twenty dollars a year to the sheriff’s annual circus day fund.”

Her father sniffed and struck a pose like a Shakespearean actor on stage. Sir Richard of Bullshit. “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child!”

“Oh, please,” Anne said, quickly thumbing through the rest of the mail. “I’m completely thankful to my parent. That just doesn’t happen to be you, that’s all.”

“I’m leaving,” he announced, offended. It would give him something to talk about when he sat down with Judith Iver and her nephew. He could lament his daughter’s low treatment of him and elicit half an hour’s worth of sympathy while flogging them at
Jeopardy!

Anne hurried to her room to shower and change clothes. The Thomas Center was holding a candlelight vigil for Karly Vickers and in memory of Lisa Warwick, and she felt a need to be there. She refused to recognize the fact that she expected to see Vince there, just as she refused to think too hard about the fact that he had kissed her. She had allowed him to kiss her.

It was only because she had felt weak and vulnerable, and he had felt so strong and safe by comparison. And she wanted to trust him. The deepest, most private part of who she was had existed in emotional isolation for most of her life. But in that one moment of weakness she had wanted to drop those shields just to feel the comfort of another soul next to hers for a little while.

The sound of his low, rough voice was warm in her head as she stood in front of her bathroom mirror.

It’s all right. . . . This shoulder has been cried on before
.

She ached all the way through at the memory of how much she had needed to hear someone say that.

Now she pushed the feeling away as something impractical and a waste of time. She had things to do and needing was not high on the list of priorities.

The Thomas Center was a collection of white stucco buildings that had been a private Catholic girls’ school from the early twenties into the sixties. Modeled on the style of the old Spanish missions, the buildings formed a courtyard between them with a fountain at its center and stunning, simple gardens rambling along the stone walkways.

It was a beautiful place by daylight. By candlelight it was magical. Hundreds of tiny flames seemed to dance on the dark night air. The courtyard was nearly full. Franny had scoped out the scene before Anne got there and had chosen a spot with the optimum potential for eavesdropping.

“This is my entertainment for the evening,” he said as she joined him. “I’m giving up
Miami Vice
to be here.”

“Well, I hope for your sake a car chase ensues at some point,” Anne said.

“I’d settle for a Don Johnson sighting. Or a sighting of your Mr. Leone,” he suggested, raising up on the tiptoes of his Top-Siders to survey the crowd. “What were you doing out there in the woods all that time, Anne Marie? A little horizontal hokeypokey?”

“Oh, yeah. In a shallow grave,” Anne whispered. “Have some respect, please. We’re at a vigil.”

“We should hold a vigil for your vagina if you take a pass on the Italian Stallion.”

A couple of heads swiveled in their direction. Anne grabbed his arm and pinched him hard. “Behave yourself!”

“I liked the way he put his hand on your back,” he said. “Very proprietary.
BIG
hand, I might add.”

Anne shushed him and told herself the flush of heat that washed through her was embarrassment and had nothing to do with the memory of Vince Leone touching her.