Randy White - Dead Silence

“Our witness recognized you. You know it.”

“Maybe we share the same flaw,” I told Palmer. “I’m suspicious of anyone who claims to tell the truth in situations where I’d be tempted to lie. Familiar?”

“You were factual, not truthful.”

I said, “It’s an occupational hazard. First day of scientist school, they warn us.”

“I spent hours talking with that witness. I saw the way she reacted. You’re the man who interrupted the rape. Probably her murder, too.”

I said, “I’m not that noble.”

“I never thought you were. You use facts to avoid the truth. Whoever went aboard Heller’s boat that night didn’t go there to save anyone, but I’m glad he showed up. Heller had almost beaten her unconscious by then, and I like that woman. She’s incredibly smart, and also incredibly stupid to fall for that bit Heller used to trick her into opening the car door.”

I replied, “I don’t buy the premise that rape victims are somehow to blame for being raped. That includes all variations of bad timing, misplaced trust, sexy clothing and naivete.”

“Well, aren’t you the modern male,” Palmer chuckled, unimpressed. “A real-what did you call him?-forward-thinking guy, just like sweet ol’ Captain Durell.”

The way the dash lights framed Palmer’s eyes and dark hair brought back the image of the female victim, one side of her face showing an articulate beauty, the other a grotesque mask.

I said, “It was that bad, huh?”

Her silence communicated confusion, so I repeated myself.

She said, “What are you talking about now? I was telling you how Heller tricked the woman. He followed her out of a 7-Eleven waving a twenty-dollar bill, saying it fell out of her purse. Suddenly, you’re on a whole different subject. Whatever it is, I don’t care to hear-”

“The cop who dumped you,” I said, “that’s what I’m talking about. Or did his wife figure it out?”

The woman was a solid driver. Hands comfortably at ten and two, when there was traffic. No abrupt lane changes, nothing to surprise the civilians. Now, though, the car veered slightly, as her hands went white gripping the wheel. Lips barely moving, she snapped, “That bastard Durell, he said you two hadn’t spoken in years. How much did he tell you?”

I said, “Nothing.” Thought about it a few seconds, decided I’d stepped over the line, so explained why I said what I’d said.

Palmer sat fuming in silence as we took the Venice Beach exit and turned west, toward the Gulf. Minutes later, after maneuvering through a red light, she said, “You hit a raw spot. It’s been almost two years. But I’m over it now.”

“I can see that.”

“I am. The detective… the man I was involved with went back to his wife. He didn’t want to. I insisted. Then she got pregnant, trapped him, although he was too damn dumb to see it. This was in Pittsburgh, before I transferred. He still calls, wants me back. So I changed my number. I’ve gone on with my life.”

Before I could stop myself, I said, “Who are you trying to convince, me or you?,” but then held up my hands before she could respond. I said, “It’s your business, Detective Palmer. That was unfair, and I apologize. I should concentrate on what I’m doing. And you still have a report to write.”

I was surprised by her smile. It was one of those self-damning smiles that says To hell with it.

“Truce,” she said. “Okay? And don’t worry about my report. I have Sundays and Mondays off, so I can finish in the morning. Officially, I’ve been off duty since eleven-thirty, so I can take all night if I want.” When she realized how that sounded, she amended quickly, “Don’t take that the wrong way. It wasn’t an invitation.”

“For the record?” I asked.

Palmer said, “Isn’t everything?,” with a bitterness that told me no, she had few friends outside the profession.

People in the emergency services are good at what they do. They have to be. Lives depend on it. They’re far smarter than the caricatures fronted by popular media and seldom credited with the sacrifices they make or the emotional dues exacted. The job is thankless, dangerous and underpaid. They deal with the worst imaginable people under the worst imaginable circumstances. Yet it is the toll-the emotional toll-that in the end is the most dangerous occupational hazard of all.

There was nothing I could say to make Detective Shelly Palmer feel better or to bridge the chasm between us. So I returned to business. Business at least guaranteed the comfortable formality of strangers.

“Mind if I use your phone? Myles told me to call.” It was only 12:45. The lady’s driving skills had exceeded expectations.

On the third ring, someone picked up, then hung up without a word. I touched REDIAL and got the recorder.

I was thinking about a noise I’d heard when I was talking to Myles, a sound that resembled someone knocking on a door, as I asked Palmer, “Do you have another number?”

She didn’t. “The guy’s not answering?”

I said, “He’s got my cell phone,” meaning I’d try that next.

This time, Nelson Myles answered. I wouldn’t have recognized him if I hadn’t already heard the way his voice changed when he was afraid. It was a note higher. He spoke with a frantic, tonal precision.

He said, “What?”

“Nelson?”

“What do you want?”

I heard a click, and the background silence became cavernous. Someone had switched to speakerphone.

I tapped Palmer’s arm as I also switched to speaker, then said, “I called about our appointment. Are we still on?”

“No! You… should call back tomorrow.”

Spacing my words, I said, “Are you… all right?,” then added, “What time should I call?,” emphasizing the word, hoping he would use a number.

“I’m fine! Stop bothering me. I’m… I’m trying to sleep!”

In the background was a strange whirring noise, high-pitched, like a beehive… or a dentist’s drill. I looked at Palmer. She was puzzling over it, too.

Again, I said carefully, “Are you sure you’re okay? What time should I call, Nelson? The time’s important, if you’re okay. Seven? Or eight?”

It took a moment but he caught on. “Oh! Call at… seven. Definitely, seven. That’s when you should call. Seven.”

Skull and Bones code. Seven meant no. No, he wasn’t okay.

I said, “Will you be alone?,” hoping he understood I wasn’t talking about tomorrow.

“What does it matter who I’m with! Seven. Didn’t you hear me? Call at seven.”

No, he wasn’t alone.

Palmer was giving me an odd look now, confused but aware something wasn’t right. She mouthed the words What’s that sound? The whirring noise was getting louder.

I shook my head and said into the phone, “I was hoping to meet the other investors, the men from Spain. Did they stop by earlier?”

“Why are you asking so many questions? No! No one has been here. Call at eight, if you want. Eight’s fine, but leave me alone until then.”

Yes, the Cuban interrogators-the Malvados -were there.

“Look, buddy,” I said, sounding indignant, “I’ve invested a quarter million in this project, you need to show me some respect! Should I meet you at the boat or-”

I heard Myles grunt and start to say something but then heard click. Line dead.

Palmer said, “What the hell was that all about?”

I told her, “Let’s move! The kidnappers have him. Cubans-Spaniards-that’s what I was asking about. But I don’t know if he’s at home or aboard his boat.” I was about to add, “You didn’t hear his answers?,” but realized all she’d gotten from the conversation was that Myles wanted me to leave him alone.

We were a hundred yards from the palm-lined corridor that led to the Falcon Landing entrance. Rental cops would be there. I didn’t want them anywhere near me if the Cubans were waiting. Palmer was already slowing to turn, but I slapped the dash and said, “Straight ahead. Drive straight to the beach, I’ll climb over the wall. You can cut me loose.”