Блейз Клемент - Duplicity Dogged Тhe Dachshund

“You used the security code?”

“It wasn’t activated, but I have the security code.”

“She had hired you to take care of the dog?”

“I’ve been here every day since Conrad was killed. Pets get forgotten when there’s a death in the family.”

Okay, so I was stretching it a little. I just didn’t want to open the issue of whether I’d had the right to go in. Guidry gave me a searching look and sighed. Evidently he didn’t want to open the issue either, especially since the only witness had been a deputy asleep on the job.

More cars began arriving, all the professionals who deal in violent death and its aftermath. Yellow crime-scene tape was stretched across the front door, a contamination sheet was posted for anybody entering or leaving the house to sign, and forensic technicians streamed past to measure and photograph and analyze. Media vans weren’t here yet, but it wouldn’t be long before they came.

I said, “Can I go home now?”

The muscle worked in Guidry’s jaw again. “Anybody there?”

“Michael and Paco were both there the last time I checked.”

“Check again and make sure.”

I pulled out my cell phone and called Paco. I wasn’t up to talking to Michael yet. My phone still needed charging. As soon as I got time, when I wasn’t running from murderers or snakes, I would plug it in.

When Paco answered, I said, “Is it okay if I come home?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Just making sure somebody’s there.”

“We’re both here.”

“Okay.”

I put the phone back in my pocket and surveyed the cars parked behind me.

Guidry said, “I’ll get them to move.”

I’d never see him so cooperative. In no time, all the cars blocking the driveway had been pulled into the street, where they idled while I backed out. I didn’t wave good-bye to anybody, just hauled ass out of there. I didn’t start crying until I was on Midnight Pass Road. By the time I got home, I was cried out.

Three panel trucks were parked next to the carport, all with logos having to do with security or crime-scene cleaning. Paco was leaning against the back wall in the carport with his arms crossed over his chest, obviously waiting for me. He didn’t say anything, just walked with me to the stairs leading to my apartment. Michael was up on the porch with two men who were doing something to my metal hurricane shutters.

I said, “What’s going on?”

“Michael’s having them install a remote so you can control the shutters from the outside. It’ll work like a garage door remote.”

“Cool.”

“They wanted to put bars on your kitchen window, but Michael doesn’t like the idea. He wants you to be able to get out quickly in case of a fire.”

My mind veered crazily away from a scene of a firebomb lobbed through my kitchen window.

Paco said, “What’s wrong?”

I tilted my head on his chest, and he patted my shoulder.

“Dixie?”

“Stevie Ferrelli has been murdered. I found her body.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah.”

“We’re going to get through this, you and me and Michael. It’ll be okay, Dixie.”

“I know. I’m just a little shaken up.”

Paco steered me to the deck and lowered me to a cushioned chaise in the shade of a giant oak. He said, “I think they’re about through upstairs. I’ll get rid of them, and then we can all talk.”

Suddenly overcome with great weariness, I closed my eyes. In seconds, I was asleep, the sound of men’s voices and seagulls’ squawks and birdsong and the sighing surf all forming a blessed current to sweep me away from everything that had happened.

When I woke up, I lay with my eyes closed for a while and took stock of myself. So far as I could tell, I was sane. I wasn’t running amok or anything, and I wasn’t in a fetal position with my thumb in my mouth. Considering that three years ago I’d been more or less in a fugue state, and considering that in the last three days I’d found two murdered people, been chased by a killer truck, and had poisonous snakes put in my apartment, I thought my present sanity was a huge step forward.

Except for squawking gulls and the swishing slap of the surf, everything was quiet. I opened my eyes partway and looked up at my porch. Nobody was there, and my storm shutters were firmly closed. With my eyes partially open like this, I could see heat waves rising from the baked ground between my apartment and the deck. I turned my head and opened my eyes all the way to look around the shaded deck. Michael was floating in the pool beyond the deck, laid out like a walrus on an inflated raft. His eyes were closed, but every now and then he flapped his hands in the water, so I knew he was awake.

I got up and jumped feet first into the pool, sinking like a rock into the cool water. I frog-kicked under Michael’s raft and popped my streaming head up next to his. We looked somberly at one another for a moment, assessing each other as only two people who’ve been together for a lifetime can.

I said, “Hey.”

“Hey yourself. You okay?”

“I think I am, actually.”

“Your apartment is clean as an operating room. The crime-scene cleanup guys went over every inch: drains, cracks, pipes, the works. Paco and I took everything out of your drawers and cupboards. We put in new shelf liners. We went through your closet and washed everything washable. You need new underwear.”

I said, “Thanks, hon.” But I knew him too well. There was something he wasn’t telling me.

He tried to sit up on the raft and turned the thing over, churning up a tidal wave getting himself erect.

Cautiously, as if he were afraid he might push me over the edge, he said, “About that floor safe—”

“I know what you’re going to say. I’ll get a safe-deposit box.”

“Did you have a newspaper clipping in the safe?”

The water seemed suddenly cold, and I shivered. “Just Gram’s ring and my will.”

“You remember the—ah, incident at the funeral? With that freak reporter? I don’t know if you ever saw it, but the picture of your reaction made some newspapers.”

“Oh, my God.”

Terror curled in my stomach as I realized what Michael was talking about. It had happened as I left Todd and Christy’s funeral. A mob had been outside, some to show sympathy, some to wave placards demanding the death penalty for the old man responsible for the accident, some to get a story. Still stunned by the enormity of loss, I’d let Michael and Paco push a path through the throng. A TV reporter had suddenly jumped in front of me and shoved a microphone in my face.

With a vapid red smile, she chirped, “What’s it like to lose your husband and child at the same time?”

That’s when I’d lost it. That’s when all the rage I’d been holding came out. Pure and simple, I’d wanted to kill the stupid bitch. I let out a howl of pure hatred and lunged for her throat. Every camera present caught the moment. The scene played on TV news shows all over the country. Every newspaper in Florida had it on their front page. It even made The New York Times . I hadn’t kept a copy, but the photograph was indelibly printed in my memory: my face contorted in primitive fury, my hands reaching for the frightened woman’s jugular, while Michael and Paco grabbed for my arms, their faces registering shock and pain and compassion.

Somebody had known enough about me to leave a photograph that would recall an excruciatingly painful moment in my life.

Michael was watching me closely, probably remembering the moment outside the funeral with as much pain as it caused me.

He said, “Paco called Guidry, and he came and got it.”

“Guidry was here?”

“Yeah. We didn’t want to wake you.”