The Miracle Strip (17 page)

I thought about apologizing, but it wouldn't do any good. I'd tried explaining and that fell on deaf ears. He didn't buy that I'd been walking along the bay, thinking. It was almost a relief when Nailor's unmarked car rolled down the trailer park road and turned into my drive.

I sat on the stoop by my back entrance and watched the fireworks. They were quiet but unmistakable. John Nailor was unhappy. Donlevy listened while Nailor spoke, looked his boss in the eye, and, when the sermon ended, nodded. Nailor then appeared to say something funny. Donlevy looked in my direction and laughed. Nailor put his hand on Donlevy's shoulder and the tension was broken. I had no illusions that our chat would go so easy.

“Coffee, Detective?” I asked when he reached the foot of my steps.

We stood for a moment, me at the top of the steps looking down and him looking up, taking stock of each other. I broke free first, turning to unlock the trailer door and motion him in.

“Coffee'd be nice,” he said.

No one spoke as I went about the business of making coffee and he wandered through my living room restlessly fingering my knickknacks. Fluffy, who had joyfully trotted out of the bedroom when I unlocked the kitchen door, stood warily at the edge of the hallway into the living room, making her own assessment.

“You take cream?” I called.

“No, black.” He moved back into the kitchen and perched on a barstool, watching me pull the coffee and the milk out of the refrigerator.

Although it was once again almost five
A.M.,
Nailor didn't seem at all tired. His eyes were clear and he was dressed in a freshly pressed white shirt and tie. As I walked toward the table, I caught the whiff of cologne or aftershave, and I noticed that his cheeks were smooth and unlined.

“You're mighty dressed up for this early in the morning,” I said. “You out late or up early?”

He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders.

“I've got to go out of town on business. My flight's at six-thirty.”

I climbed up onto the barstool across from him and took a sip of coffee. It was time to stop playing cat and mouse and see if I could get him to listen to me.

“You know,” I said, “I wasn't walking on the beach at St. Andrews by myself.” Nailor looked up, his eyebrows raised like question marks and his eyes wary. “I know, you're thinking I'm gonna hand you more bullshit, and maybe you'll take it like that, but I'm hoping maybe you'll just listen.”

Nailor took a sip of his coffee and waited for me to continue.

“When I pulled out of the parking lot, Frankie, Denise's boyfriend, was lying on the back floor of my car.”

“How in the world—” Nailor began, but I cut him off.

“It doesn't matter,” I said. “He could've gotten into my car any one of a thousand ways. What matters is he was there and I talked to him. Now,” I said, resting my elbows on the table, “I figure that what Frankie had to say might be worth something to you.”

Nailor frowned. “This isn't Philadelphia, Sierra. We don't pay informants.”

“And I'm not asking for money, Nailor, I'm asking for some consideration, a concept which, I might add, seems foreign to you.”

“Consideration?”

“Yeah, where I give you something you need and you do likewise.” Nailor was listening, but he didn't seem happy. His eyebrows melded together in a frozen frown and his whole body was rigid with caution.

“See, you know by now that my blood wasn't at the murder scene, or at least I hope you do.” Nailor's body language said nothing. “So I'm not a suspect, at least not as the murderer. You could still be thinking I'm an accomplice or whatever, but if I'm not the killer, and I'm cooperating with your investigation, do you really need to dog my tail with a cop every minute of the day and night?”

“You're not cooperating yet,” Nailor said.

“I tell you what Frankie said and you back off my ass.”

Nailor put his coffee cup down and laid his hands palms down on the table. “You tell me what Frankie said and I'll figure out what it's worth.”

We were at a standoff and I was desperate. The trailer was silent while I tried to make an evaluation. I looked over at Fluffy, but she didn't seem to have an opinion. I had to do something before the weekend and this seemed like the best shot. So I started talking.

When I finished, John Nailor pulled out his notepad and made a few notes. He looked up at me when he finished, as if by looking he could judge whether I was telling the truth or not.

“How were you supposed to reach Frankie?” he asked.

“I don't know. We didn't get that far. I suppose he'll reach me.”

“What kind of trouble did you think he meant when he said Denise was in trouble?”

“I don't know. Maybe it had something to do with Leon.”

Nailor looked at his watch, closed the notebook, and stood up.

“Thanks,” he said. “I don't know what it'll do for us, but everything helps.”

“So I'm off the hook?” I asked. I slid off the barstool and followed him across the kitchen.

“We'll see,” he said.

“We'll see?” I said. “What the hell is ‘We'll see'? I've got my boss breathing down my back to get the heat out of his club and all you can say is ‘We'll see'?”

Nailor looked at me, his eyes calm, his face set and determined.

“I'll make a decision when I get back in town,” he answered.

“When will that be?” I said, fuming.

“I don't know,” he said. “It depends on what I find when I get there. Relax, Sierra, I'll get back to you as soon as I can.”

I slammed the door shut behind him, feeling frustrated and trapped. “The policeman is your friend,” I parroted in a child's voice. What a load of crap. I went to the window and peaked through the curtains at the street in front of the trailer. Nailor was leaving and Donlevy was in his same spot, watching.

The sky was beginning to lighten, giving the street a dull gray cast. Soon the trailer park would come alive as the nine-to-fivers left for work and their children waited for the school bus. In my upside-down, late-night world, it was bedtime.

*   *   *

I wanted to believe I could sleep, but there are those times, before the head even touches the pillow, when you know it's not to be. This was one of those times. I lay in my room, listening as the sun slowly warmed the trailer, making it crack and creak as it expanded with the heat. I heard each car leave for work. I heard the children laughing and yelling as they waited for the school bus. Finally, I heard my answering machine log a phone call.

Usually I can block out the machine's click. I'd already turned off the volume and cut off the ringer on the phone, but my sleep-starved ears heard the tiny switch that signaled an incoming call. My curiosity overwhelmed me, forcing me to reach over and turn up the volume.

“Sierra,” a male voice echoed, “it's me, Lyle. You didn't stick around last night and I really wanted to talk to you.” There was a brief silence as Lyle decided what to do. “Maybe we can talk tonight. I'd really like that.” The machine cut him off. For a moment, I felt guilty, but then I figured, What do I owe a guy who leaves me in a jam? I'd talk to him when I was ready, on my terms.

A few minutes later the machine clicked again. This time the caller hung up. A few minutes later another hang-up, then another.

“Oh, what the hell, Fluff,” I moaned. “It's no use.” I picked up the alarm clock and looked. Nine forty-two and I was still awake. “Might as well get something accomplished, Fluff,” I said. “Let's clean out the rental car and go look for something reliable.”

This suited Fluffy fine. After all, she'd slept most of the night like a normal person. She had energy to burn. She followed me outside, her little short tail wagging, her tongue dripping in the mid-morning heat.

The sun was blinding and the heat well on its way into the eighties as I walked out into the driveway. I glanced down the street and noticed that a new officer had arrived to relieve Donlevy. I didn't recognize him. He had salt-and-pepper hair and seemed to be reading a book. I toyed with the idea of giving him the morning's itinerary but decided that would take all the fun out of the man's day. Nope, let him follow me down Fifteenth Street as I wandered from one used-car lot to the next. Hell, maybe he'd even give me a lift after I dropped off the rental.

“Okay, Fluff,” I said, “here's the deal.” Fluffy stood in the shade by the bottom step, watching me open the car door and bend over. “We get all my shit out of here, make sure I didn't drop one of my prize pasties or nothing under one of the seats, and then we're off to buy a real car.”

Fluffy sniffed, which I took for a chuckle. I pulled my makeup bag out of the backseat and the coffee mugs that had accumulated in the past few days. When I reached down to pull the last mug out from under the passenger-side seat, I found the package. A square lump of brown-paper-bag wrapping, the same kind of package I'd send home at Christmastime, only flatter.

I didn't touch it for a moment. I leaned closer, as if by looking I could tell what it was. I thought about package bombs and the detective in the car down the street. It wasn't wrapped carefully, more like someone had folded a bag around a bundle and quickly taped it shut. I didn't suppose it was a bomb, more likely something left behind by another rental customer. But in case it wasn't, I straightened up, made like I was placing another mug on the car roof, and looked down the street. The detective in the unmarked sedan didn't appear to be paying careful attention.

Fluffy, sensing something was up, walked over and sniffed the bottoms of my feet as I knelt on the driver's seat and peered under the passenger seat again. Maybe with my ass in the air the detective wouldn't be so focused on what I was pulling out of my car. I tried to twitch attractively as I pulled the package from under the seat. I scrambled from the car, piled the mugs and makeup bag on top of the parcel, and walked casually back up the steps and into the trailer.

“Home free, Fluff,” I muttered. “Now let's see what we have here.”

I tugged at the tape that bound the package. Someone hadn't wanted it to come undone easily and I was finally reduced to using scissors. The bundle, while bulky, was light and fairly soft, and it took almost no time to cut a path through the bag.

“Oh Holy Mother of God, Fluffy, look!” I cried. Fluffy's ears perked up and she wandered closer to the table. With a quick shake I dumped the contents of the parcel onto the kitchen table. It was money, lots and lots of money, gathered into bundles an inch thick and secured with rubber bands.

“There must be thousands of dollars here, girl,” I said. “Hell, we don't have to buy a used car now, we can buy a Porsche.” I picked up the packets of money and riffled through the bills, all hundred-dollar bills, crisp and new. Any fatigue I'd been feeling slipped away, replaced by the euphoria and paranoia of newfound wealth.

Whose money was this? It seemed inconceivable that it had been left behind by some forgetful rental customer. Why would someone with this much money rent an economy Toyota, anyway? Frankie? I had to think about that one.

True, he'd been the last person in the car, the only person besides me in the car, but why would he leave money behind? This couldn't be clean money, I reasoned. Clean money resided in the bank, where it left only in small amounts and accompanied by a checkbook. This was dirty money. Of course it was Frankie's. He'd probably be looking to retrieve it anytime now. It burned me up the way he'd left me to face the cops alone and now dumped dirty money in my car, assuming nothing would happen to it. I should show him. I should go off and spend it. Right, I thought, and explain to Frankie and his club president that I thought it was a charitable contribution to my well-being.

And if it wasn't Frankie's? What then? Was there a lost and found for dirty money? An expiration date at which time the money would automatically become mine?

“Fluff, I say we count it quick, then hide it. If no one claims it in, say, a year, then we'll go house hunting. I'm thinking a little retirement condo on the waterfront. Maybe a small business.” Fluffy grinned and I started counting.

“One hundred thousand large,” I said finally. “Fluffy, that's a small business and a down payment on a condo. Hell, girl, now you can go to college if you want.” Fluffy frowned. “Well, it was a thought. A dog as smart as you?” I was giddy and apprehensive, stupid with fatigue.

“I know the perfect place to hide this, Fluff.” I got up and headed for my toolbox in the hall closet. “We stash the cash, and then we go car shopping, just like we planned. Just like normal.” Only nothing was normal anymore. I'd lost sight of that boundary the day Arlo disappeared.

Twenty-two

Every year, like ants streaming to a cake crumb at a church picnic, the tourists arrive in Panama City. They stream south from Alabama on Highway 231. They flood west on Highway 98, or they pour south on Highway 77. They come with their vans and families, their surfboards and roommates, and most of them race through town blindly scurrying toward the beach. They funnel into one narrow little line that inches slowly across Hathaway Bridge and clots to a complete standstill somewhere near Thomas Drive.

From April through September they come, spilling their money and beer onto the sugar-white sands of Panama City Beach. And when they finally return to their homes and offices, they tell everyone they spent their vacations in Panama City. No, they didn't.

They missed Panama City completely, and for most of us locals, that's fine. They raced across the surface of Panama City and entered Panama City Beach, another town entirely. They never turned down a side street and saw the Spanish Art Deco mishmash that forms the heart of Panama City. They didn't stop at Panama Java for an espresso, or browse through the art galleries and antique shops. They didn't drive by the civic center or the city marina.