The Miracle Strip (26 page)

I jumped up on the table and looked out at the rest of the room. It was hot and crowded with sweaty, smelly bodies, all as close to the table as they could be and still see me. A few people hung around a coffee table, snorting clean white lines of coke that littered a mirror. Slowly the music began and I began to sway with it, trying to let my body go through the motions while my mind worked overtime.

It didn't seem to matter that I wore black shoe polish on my face, or that I was scraped and bruised. My audience was watching me move, watching my hands move over my body, waiting for the opportunity to tear me apart. Right down in front stood Rambo, a sickening leer on his face.

I had to get out of here. If Denise didn't reach the cops in time, if they didn't believe her, then I'd die. I let my eyes roam around the room. It was littered with motorcycle parts, cans of various shapes and sizes, tools and old furniture. At one end of the table stood a floor lamp, the kind with a halogen bulb. I moved rhythmically, my plan suddenly in place.

I reached out and grabbed the lamp, pulled it up onto the table, and began using it like a pole. The men started yelling, a few of them grabbing their crotches and making obscene movements. I threw the lamp over on its side, letting it drop down into a pile of rags, and grabbed my bra straps, yanking my bra down around my waist. Every eye in the house was on me. Even the women stopped and watched. I inched my hand down inside the waistband of my jeans and slowly licked my lips. The music had increased in intensity, building toward a climax.

When the rags caught fire and the first can exploded, no one saw it coming, except for me. I jumped down off the far edge of the table, letting my weight flip the table on its side. In the confusion and pandemonium, I hitched up my bra, ran toward the open window, and vaulted out into the cool night air.

I felt myself falling and braced myself to land and start running. Instead I felt a pair of strong large hands grab my waist and guide me to the ground. I turned, wild-eyed in the darkness, ready to lash out, and saw Frankie's face with Denise just behind him.

“Come on,” Frankie hissed, “this way.” He turned and vanished into the trees.

“Run!” I yelled as bikers swarmed into the dirt yard like fire ants. We tore off, through the pines that surrounded the yard and out onto the street, running faster than I thought possible. Ahead of us, Frankie hopped onto his Harley and jumped to start the engine. I could hear sounds behind us, the rush of footsteps, the roar of bikes suddenly pushed into action. Denise and I never looked back. She jumped into the car while I started the ignition. We were off and on the open road before they could catch us, but it would only be a matter of moments before they did.

I tore out onto Fifteenth Street, the Camaro's tires smoking as we left long black marks through the intersection. I was running wide open, through intersections, topping seventy-five miles an hour, and praying that a cop would see me.

“They're behind us!” Denise screamed into the wind. “They're going to get Frankie. Sierra, oh God!” Denise was frantic, turning around backward in her seat watching the road behind us. I looked in the rearview mirror for a second and saw Frankie purposefully weaving across the road, trying to keep the others from passing him.

“I only need one more minute!” I yelled. “When I tell you to, jump out and run inside.” We raced past the forestry station, past the Blue Marlin, and finally cut a sharp left into the police station parking lot. I pulled right up to the front door of the squat tan building and jumped out, racing through the front door, then flattening myself against the rest-room door, away from the glass entrance. Denise followed me, pushing the rest-room door open and running inside.

In the lobby I could hear the insistent voice of the officer on duty yelling, “Can I help you?”

“Yes,” I called from the rest-room doorway, “get some help out here fast.” In the parking lot I could hear the sound of bikes roaring up, then loud backfiring or shots ringing out. Then the bikes seemed to turn around and speed off. We'd made it, but there was no sign of Frankie.

The watch commander and several officers burst through the office doors, filling the lobby with their uniformed presence.

“You guys get that man in here,” the watch commander barked.

Frankie Paramus half walked, half crawled through the front doors, collapsing on the floor in the center of the police department lobby. As he fell, his lighter tumbled out of his pocket and clattered onto the tile floor by my feet. I stared at it, then back at Frankie. The final piece fell into place.

“I'm Sierra Lavotini,” I said, stepping cautiously out from the rest room, “and I would appreciate it if you would call Detective Nailor and ask him to come down here.”

Thirty-one

I could hear John Nailor arrive. From his office where we sat waiting, I could hear his voice as he rushed through the building, asking for details, and then suddenly stopping yards from his office.

“What in the hell is that odor?” he asked. “Aw, you didn't … Man, you put them in my office?” There was the muffled sound of laughter and then suddenly there he was, standing in the doorway.

“What in the world?” he said, staring into the small room. There we sat, reeking of dog shit, covered in black shoe polish, wearing black clothes, and me minus a shirt, wearing a black sports bra. Denise's hair was windblown and sticking straight up. My own hair must've been in a similar state.

“Ladies,” he said, composing himself, walking into the room and taking a seat behind his desk, “to what do I owe the honor? I understand that you arrived with an escort and that you parked your new Camaro on our front sidewalk, Sierra.”

Denise, remorseful in her past neglect, strove to make up for it now.

“Don't get on Sierra, Detective,” she said. “This was all my fault and I'm responsible.”

Nailor turned his attention to her. “Ms. Curtis, lovely to see you again. You've changed your appearance.” Denise froze momentarily, then with a big sigh, began to talk. She seemed to tell him every detail, all without pausing for a breath: Leon, the phony scam to get her safely away from the man she was certain would eventually kill her, Arlo's rescue. Denise was cleansing her soul.

I listened but I was getting impatient. I wanted to get things wrapped up and over with as soon as possible.

“I think I know who killed Leon Corvase and the other guy,” I said suddenly.

“Finally, she says something I want to hear.” Carla Terrance's voice floated over my shoulder as she stood in the doorway.

Nailor looked at her briefly, frowning. “What was that, Sierra?” he asked.

I looked over at Denise. “I'm sorry, honey,” I said softly, then turned back to face Nailor. “The man who was with us, Frankie Paramus. I think he killed Leon Corvase.”

Denise stared at me, her eyes filling with tears.

“What proof do you have of that?” Carla Terrance asked.

“He has Leon Corvase's cigarette lighter,” I said. “It's turquoise and silver, with a big filigree C on the back. I saw Leon with it in Fort Lauderdale.”

Nailor looked over my head to Carla. He nodded slightly, then turned back to us. Carla vanished from the doorway. Denise was slowly becoming hysterical. She looked at me and I could see she was about to go off.

“Denise,” Nailor said, apparently sensing what was happening, “look at Arlo.” Denise's eyes sharpened and she looked down in her lap. “We need to take care of Arlo, Denise, and we need to get the EMTs to take a look at you, too.” Denise looked at Nailor, then Arlo, then me. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Not Frankie,” she sobbed brokenly.

Nailor walked around his desk and gently knelt before Denise. “Come with me, Denise. I'm going to have one of my officers help you. We'll get Arlo some water and get him cleaned up. Come on.” Denise slowly rose and Nailor led her to the door. As they walked away, I could hear Nailor's voice calling to someone and Denise's quiet sobbing.

I sat, looking around the tiny office, and wishing I were home with Fluffy and the whole mess had never happened. The hallway outside Nailor's office had become a rush of police officers brought in to handle the evening crisis. I gradually became aware of two voices, growing closer as they neared the room where I waited.

“Look,” Carla was saying, “we need him. He's critical to our investigation. If he agrees to testify in return for a slot in the witness protection program, then I can close my case.”

“Not if he's a murderer,” Nailor answered firmly.

“We'll see about that,” Carla answered. “Your people are jeopardizing our investigation. They've got him so paranoid, he won't talk to anyone. Lyle's already been in to talk to him. Frankie says he wants a lawyer or he wants out.”

“I don't care if he talks or not,” Nailor said. “If the DNA matches, then it's a go and I don't need squat from him.”

“And if it doesn't, you'll have held up my investigation for nothing. The Outlaws'll run and six months of effort will go in the toilet. I don't have that kind of time.”

They reached the doorway and the conversation broke off. Nailor walked back into the room, his face a rigid mask. Carla glared after him for a minute, then turned and walked off.

“You could let me talk to him,” I said when Nailor sat down.

He didn't try to pretend he didn't know what I was talking about. He stared at me for a moment, then picked up his pen and started writing something on a pad of paper.

“That's out of the question,” he said finally.

“Don't be ridiculous,” I said. “I might actually save you some time. That would get you out of a bind with your buddy Carla.”

He scowled and looked back down at the paper in front of him. He was making up his mind.

“Guess it won't hurt anything,” he said at last. “But I go in with you.”

“Oh, he'll really be comfortable then,” I said.

“Take it or leave it,” he said, standing.

*   *   *

Frankie sat in an interview room staring straight ahead. His battered face was set in a tight scowl, his hands clenched tightly together in front of him, gently pounding on the scarred interview table.

Frankie,” Nailor said, “Ms. Lavotini wanted to talk to you.” Frankie didn't acknowledge our presence. He kept his eyes glued to the table, tightening his fist until the knuckles of his hand turned white.

I took a step toward the table and pulled out the chair across from Frankie and sat down. Nailor hovered behind my left shoulder.

“Yo, asshole,” I said harshly, “I don't give a shit if you go down for killing them two guys, really I don't, but you got no right to hurt Denise like this.”

Frankie looked at me, his eyes filled with unspent rage.

“You stonewall everyone and get sent to prison, probably for life, and Denise will always think you were just a creep like every other man she's ever known. She'll wonder if she was next on your list.”

Frankie was still staring at me, but he was listening hard.

“I don't know you well,” I said, “but I got a hard time believing you killed those two men over dope money.”

“I didn't kill nobody,” Frankie roared.

“Then why didn't you say so?” I asked.

“Why bother? These people don't believe me. First some guy named Lyle comes to my hospital room, identifies himself as DEA, and tells me he knows I'm in trouble over a dope deal. He says if I'd agree to testify against the club, he could set me up anywhere in the country with a whole new identity. I tell him to kiss off. I can take care of myself.

“Then all I do is try and help you and Denise out of a jam. I bust my bike and myself all to hell, and what happens?” Frankie looked at me and Nailor. “I wind up in here. I got cops and some bitch from the DEA all over me, saying I got Denise's ex-husband's cigarette lighter and I'm looking at murder one.” Frankie snorted derisively. “It's all a part of the setup. Won't matter what I say. If I don't testify against my brothers, then I'm down.”

“Frankie,” Nailor said, “that's not how it is at all.”

“Really?” Frankie spat. “And now, even if I was to walk, I'd be dead within an hour because I helped some woman who jacked my club and thinks I murdered her ex. My own friends are looking to take me out. Oh yeah, my trust level with you people is real high.”

“Frankie,” I said, “Denise doesn't want to believe you killed Leon. She's down the hall, hysterical, because she thinks you're innocent. See, she actually thought she needed your forgiveness on account of she messed you up with the club. She had the idea you two would run off together.” I laughed bitterly. “Well, I guess there's a sucker born every minute.” I sat still for a moment and let the words sink in, then I stood up and made like I was leaving.

“Wait, Sierra,” Frankie said quietly. “Rambo gave me the lighter. He brought it to the hospital and gave it to me along with a pack of cigarettes. Now let me talk to Denise and I'll answer any questions you want to ask.”

*   *   *

Several hours later, Nailor drove me home in my Camaro, followed by another detective in an unmarked car. Denise and Frankie were still at the police station, this time being grilled by the DEA. Frankie'd agreed to testify in their investigation, as long as he had witness protection that included Denise.

Rambo and most of his club members had been picked up for questioning. Rambo's blood was being matched with the blood taken at the Blue Marlin crime scene. The crime lab had lifted a partial print at the Tiffany the night I'd gotten hit. They were hoping to match it to Rambo or one of the others. I wasn't sure what all of this did to the DEA's investigation of Outlaw drug-dealing activity in the Florida Panhandle, but if Frankie testified, then the chapter would probably be run out of Panama City at least.