Randy White - Deceived

A few minutes later, in the parking lot, I told Joel, “Thank god you made me text the address!” which I had to yell out because Mica had resumed shredding tires.

The special prosecutor responded by asking me to lunch, then leading me to his Audi, which was a new A6, it turned out.

Best of all, the car was quiet inside.

That evening, just after sunset, I parked my SUV at the Lowe’s on Pine Island Road, and Birdy drove us inland toward Carnicero, a trip that took less than an hour but seemed longer because the woman enjoyed showing off her driving skills and the speed of her BMW convertible.

“We’ll keep the top down until we’re closer,” she told me, then pretended to respect traffic laws until we were on Route 17, a country road I didn’t remember as curvy, but it was curvy with Birdy Tupplemeyer at the wheel. As she drove, she questioned me about what had happened at the junkyard-especially Joel Ransler’s role-but often interrupted my answers to demonstrate driving advice, such as, “The trick is to maintain speed into a curve… then accelerate.” And, “You never want to surprise a drunk from behind, so I’ll flash my high beams before passing that asshole. Then downshift… always check your mirrors… then floor it!”

Finally, I had to ask, “Are we in a hurry? I thought the later we searched that field, the better.”

I was referring to our destination. It was a rectangular lot between the rehab clinic and a church the deputy had located on Google Earth. She had printed out copies for both of us. The photos suggested that cypress trees screened the field from the clinic, which made me more optimistic about trespassing on property owned by Dr. Alice Candor but no less nervous.

“I’d hardly call it a field,” Birdy said. “It’s less than a quarter acre. We hop out of the car, take a quick look, then we’re out of there. This far inland, even a few big conch shells will tell us we found the right place. After that, we’ll get serious.”

When I didn’t reply, she laughed, “You are so uptight! Next time Rance the Lance asks you out for dinner, you’d better say yes before you explode.”

Apparently, assigning nicknames to people she’d never met was something else the woman enjoyed. Even with the top down, the BMW was fairly quiet, but I still had to raise my voice to ask, “How’d you come up with that?”

“From the look on your face when you talk about him. He shows up out of nowhere, like a knight in shining armor, and saves your butt. Rance the Lance, see? Admit it. You’ve got the hots for the guy.”

“Oh,” I said, “ that kind of lance. No… all we did was stop at Denny’s for iced tea. We talked, it was fun, sure. I figured I owed him at least that.”

“At the very least,” she scolded. “You said he scared the hell out of those rednecks. So he must be a pretty big guy, a hardass but classy, you said. The guy knows how to dress, how to behave around women, but you turned him down anyway. How many times you think he’ll ask before saying to hell with you?”

I said, “He’s tall, but not big compared to Harris Spooner. You’d have to see Spooner to understand. That man’s got something missing in his brain, and he’s a bully, too-until Joel showed up. I haven’t figured that part out yet.”

“One of the rednecks, yeah,” Birdy said. “That’s my point. The guy’s intimidating when he needs to be. But also an attorney, a man who’s made something of himself.”

I was reviewing the scene in my head, trying to understand why Mica and his uncle had reacted so meekly. “Joel didn’t wave the gun around or threaten to have them arrested. He even cracked a joke about them taking showers together-you know, after he sends them back to prison. I grew up around hard cases like Harris Spooner and I’ve never met a one who would tolerate being called a homosexual.”

“They just stood there and took it, huh?”

“Hardly said a word until Joel made them apologize.”

“Apologize?” Birdy slapped the steering wheel, delighted. “I’ve got to meet this Rance the Lance.”

“You mind not calling him that?” I said. “It wasn’t until we were at Denny’s that I mentioned there might be a meth lab on the property. Oh, and that Spooner supposedly cut his wife into pieces.”

“What?”

I said it again, and added, “Or put her in a tire shredder-I didn’t want the details.”

“You don’t really believe that?” she said.

“Maybe. I hope Mica was just trying to scare me, but Harris’s wife disappeared, that much is true. Joel told me a little bit, and I checked the records, too. Seven, almost eight years ago, Spooner went to prison for attempted murder, but it was a totally unrelated case. Hopefully, I’ll find out more when I get back to the office.”

“Thank god you’ve got this guy Rance looking out for you.”

“He’s good at his job,” I conceded. “That’s why I think he asked me out to dinner-you know, so I could give him more details. He’s especially interested in what Mica said about older property owners not paying taxes. You know, on illegal income, money they earned hauling marijuana. But I’d already made plans with you for tonight. And Marion’s dog arrives tomorrow, so I’ll be busy.”

Birdy smiled and said, “Pot hauling,” amused by the term, which I had used earlier. Then got serious. “What’s wrong with you? Turn down a dinner date to babysit a dog?”

“I’m already in a relationship,” I said patiently. “Even if I weren’t, Joel’s not my type.”

Birdy kept pushing, but in a friendly way that was more like a game. We traded a few barbs before she said, “You think Tomlinson is my type? It didn’t stop us from having a fun night, though, did it? Haven’t you noticed how much more relaxed I am?”

“Not from your driving,” I replied.

“You know what I mean. Basic female physiology, particularly in women our age-it’s total puritanical bullshit to deny ourselves. You’re not even engaged, right? So why act like you’re married?”

“The subject of marriage hasn’t come up,” I answered. “It’s more of an understanding.” I felt no obligation to add that I’d had only two dates with Ford unless counting the times we’d gone jogging together, which I did- apparently because I was full of puritanical bullshit. Why else would my conscience demand it?

Birdy said, “It’s your understanding, not his, Smithie, that’s what I’m telling you! If you meet a good-looking guy who’s single and not some kind of psych job or an ego freak, there’s no harm in having fun. Psychologically, it’s healthy. Tomlinson happens to agree, by the way.”

“Bless his philandering heart,” I said. “The man’s finally coming out of his shell.”

My deputy friend thought that was funny and called me smartass but kept her eyes focused on the road. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she offered, then proceeded to share information about Tomlinson that was in poor taste and much too personal, but I listened to every word. While I was laughing, I tilted my head up to enjoy the odor of a citrus grove we were traveling through. Rows of trees, their canopies black, streamed by, while, above, a waxing moon floated on a bubble of pollen-scented air. We drove in silence for a few minutes before Birdy added, “God, the scariest thing is, my mother would love Tomlinson. Talk about not my type. But he’s so sweet and perceptive, I wouldn’t mind getting to know him better. It’s not just about the sex.”