Drag Strip (4 page)

“Son of a bitch,” I muttered, thinking of the cashier at the snack shack. “They're all alike.”

Someone giggled. It sounded like it came from the other side of the Dumpster.

“Why, I don't know what to say,” a woman's voice said. It was Ruby. I started to say something, but hung back instead. If she wanted to ruin her evening by fooling around with Roy Dell, who was I to interrupt her? She'd learn soon enough that they're all alike. Or maybe she knew something I didn't. I doubted that.

I had turned to leave when I heard her again.

“I couldn't, really,” she said, and I heard a different tone come into her voice, an edge. If that brain-damaged redneck thought he could mess with Ruby, he would be in for a surprise.

I whirled around and started back, only to hear her giggle again. I froze, uncertain about interrupting. A man's voice rumbled and I couldn't make out what he said. The loudspeaker had blurted out something, drowning out their conversation. I started to walk away again.

“Look here,” the man said.

Another giggle from Ruby and then the horrible, unmistakable sound of bone snapping. I sprang forward, lurching to cover the distance to the other side of the Dumpster. As I rounded the corner there was a brief painful flash as I collided with something or someone. The last thing I remember as I slid into darkness was the word “No!” echoing soundlessly inside my head.

Four

I heard quick little movements, a scraping of foot against gravel, the shifting of weight from one leg to the other, and the small gasps of exertion that come with effort. I felt myself stir, involuntarily, before my brain could remember that I was in danger and must move with caution. Adrenaline poured into my body, making my heart race. All at once I was aware that I was not alone. A man turned to face me from where he'd been kneeling, looking at something. Even in the darkness I recognized him.

John pushed off his knees and stood, quickly closing the distance between us.

“Don't move. Just lie still a minute. Let me check you out.”

I opened my eyes wide in the darkness and started to sit up. Something stung the corner of my left eye and I brought up a hand to wipe it away.

“Damn it, I said lie still!” John hissed. “You've cut the side of your face on the Dumpster. Let me see about it.”

I brushed his hand away impatiently and sat up. Jumbled images and sounds came to me in a rush. John kissing the brunette. The sounds of Ruby's laughter. Then suddenly, the remembered snap of bone against bone. I gave him a hard shove, rocking him back onto his heels, and rose up. A crumpled heap lay just beyond us, half hidden by John's purposeful obstruction.

“Ruby!” I cried, scrambling to get to her, knowing even as I moved that she was dead. John grabbed at my arm.

“Sierra, don't. Stop and listen to me.”

I lashed out at him, panicked. He reached over and grabbed both my arms, forcing me to look him in the eyes.

“How did this happen, Sierra?” he asked. I stared back at him, remembered running toward the Dumpster, colliding with someone, and then seeing John bending over the body. Ruby had been with a man. Could it have been John? I mean, I'd thought I knew him, but that was before I'd seen him kiss that woman. Who was this man anyway?

That's when I started screaming. It was loud. Loud enough, I hoped, to bring whoever was nearby to help. John's expression changed from one of concern to outright alarm and, if I wasn't mistaken, exasperation.

“Shit, I wish you hadn't done that,” he said. “The whole park'll be here in a second.” What the hell did he think should happen? Ruby was dead and I wasn't sure he hadn't done it. I felt short-circuited and out of viable responses. He was standing and looking down at me.

“I'm sorry, Sierra,” he said softly. “There's nothing I can do for you now.” As I watched in amazement, John Nailor turned and ran off into the darkness, leaving me there with Ruby's lifeless body. I could hear footsteps approaching, a few people were running in our direction.

“I heard a woman's voice screaming,” a man was saying, “over this way.”

“Help!” I screamed. “Police!”

Five

The Panama City Police Department is housed on the same road as the Sanitary Department. I guess that's appropriate since they both deal with the city's garbage. The police department is the first building you come to, and you'd miss it if you weren't looking. It's a squat, one-story building the same color as the sand in the road that runs alongside it.

I had the dubious privilege of entering through the back door tonight, the one reserved for officers and citizens brought in for one reason or another. The officers escorting me led me into the rabbit warren of hallways and cubicles that divide the overcrowded department into units and down the hall to an office no bigger than my tiny walk-in closet at home. I would've left by now, but it seemed that I was being held as an unwilling guest of the city.

They'd made it clear at the crime scene that I was considered hostile and uncooperative. I can't see how they'd think that. Whatever it was that I'd said or done to upset the officers at the racetrack had won me an all-expenses-paid trip downtown in the back of a police sedan complete with a plastic shield and no door handles.

It was closing on two
A.M.
, and I was tired. Tired and numb, but with an awareness that somewhere just beneath the surface sat a time bomb of emotion that would spill over soon. I just hoped I could make it home to the safety of my trailer before I lost it completely.

Sooner or later, Vincent Gambuzzo would send Ernie Schwartz, the company attorney, down to advocate for my release. A dancer getting arrested was viewed as an occupational hazard, and Ernie's services were just part of the benefit package Vincent extended to all of his employees. I'm sure it griped Vincent that he couldn't just pay somebody off, and maybe he could have if he'd only had connections. But as it was, he was forced to do it by the book. Poor Vincent, all he wanted in life was to be viewed as a legitimate threat, a real wise-guy, not the son of a fifth-rate bookie/used-car dealer.

The door swung open and a tall, thin, attractive man walked into the room.

“Miss Lavotini?” he asked in a deep Southern drawl. His voice was husky with interrupted sleep or a cold, I couldn't tell, and he had a thick mustache. “I'm Detective Wheeling.”

He had to be the detective in charge. He exuded the same manner they all did, self-assured but always on guard, watching the suspect's every word and movement, waiting for the fatal flaw in their otherwise seamless stories. I was suspected of something, what I didn't know, but he was watching me like a cat. I waited for him to start, but it seemed we had to go through a song and dance first. It was called “making the suspect uncomfortable.”

He sat down in the chair across from me and started paying attention to a clipboard that held several sheets of official-looking papers. He whipped out a pen, made a few marks on the sheets, and now and then scribbled a few words. The only sound in the tiny room was the rustling of paper and the ticking of the clock on the wall.

“Miss Lavotini,” he said at last, “it seems you are no stranger to this office.”

I shrugged and stared at him for a moment, waiting until he looked up and we made eye contact.

“If by that you are referring to the fact that last year I found a couple of dead bodies and happened, like the good citizen that I am, to call them in, then yes, you could say I'm familiar with this office.”

He didn't break eye contact right away, just stared at me with hazel-green eyes. At one time, probably when he was a little kid, his hair had been red, but now it was faded to auburn brown with a touch of gray.

“Tell me what happened tonight,” he said. He reached for a small tape recorder and started to switch it on. “You don't mind, do you?” he asked. “Makes it easier for me. I can listen and not worry about writing it all down.” He smiled and it was supposed to reassure me. “Then we'll just type it up and have you sign it.”

I shrugged. What did it matter? He took that for an assent and switched the recorder on.

“May first, 1997. Statement of Sierra Lavotini taken by Detective Jeff Wheeling. Go ahead, Miss Lavotini.”

So I started talking. I hadn't even reached the part where I found Ruby before a disheveled Ernie Schwartz came bursting into the room. It wasn't that he'd been summoned from his bed; I'd never seen Ernie when he didn't look disheveled. It seemed to be his state of being. He was short, pudgy, and wore Coke-bottle-thick glasses that hid a beautiful pair of bright blue eyes.

You couldn't tell by looking at Ernie that he was anything but a passive little bookworm, but I knew better. I had seen the inner Ernie Schwartz drunk and playing the ukulele like a professional while standing on my kitchen counter. It had been three
A.M.
on the Fourth of July; and I should mention that Ernie had been naked as a jaybird and singing at the top of his lungs.

Ernie also loved chihuahuas. He told me this when I asked him to draw up a will for me and name himself as my little Fluffy's guardian. He did it all for free, and I don't think it had a thing to do with me promising I would never tell anyone about him singing the Oscar Meyer wiener song in his birthday suit. But I digress. The Ernie Schwartz who arrived at Panama City's Police Department was all business.

“Dummy up,” he said to me in a monotone. To Detective Wheeling he said, “My client is tired. I'm sure she's told you all she can tonight. She needs to go home and sleep. This has been a traumatic evening.”

Detective Wheeling stared up at Ernie, apparently sizing him up and trying to decide how much of a threat he posed to his interview.

“Just five more minutes, Mr. Schwartz, and we'll have this all taken care of.”

“No, Detective Wheeling, my client is tired. We'll talk in the morning.” Ernie placed his hand on my shoulder and squeezed, indicating that I should stand.

“Ernie, I'll do it,” I said sighing. “If it'll help find Ruby's killer, I can answer a few more questions.”

Detective Wheeling didn't wait for an invitation. He got right to the point.

“There are some disturbing elements in the statement you gave my officer at the speedway, Miss Lavotini, and I thought we'd clear those up before the investigation goes much further.”

“What could be more disturbing, Detective Wheeling, than me saying I'd just heard my friend get her neck broken?”

Detective Wheeling leaned back and ran his hand through his wavy hair. “It disturbs me that you put one of our officers at the murder scene.”

“Yeah, well, why isn't he here? Why don't you ask him what happened?”

“I did, Miss Lavotini. I went to his home, woke him up, and asked him where he'd been all evening. And do you know what he told me?” I didn't move. “He told me he'd been right there, watching the Marlins and drinking beer. It's his night off, you see.”

I wanted to say something, but I couldn't.

“He said he hadn't been to the racetrack, that he didn't like races, and that he couldn't imagine why you'd tell us such a preposterous story.” Detective Wheeling leaned forward, turned both hands palm up, and shrugged his shoulders. His wedding band made a small click as it hit the table. “Now, why did you tell us a thing like that?”

I could feel tears welling up in the back of my throat, closing it off and choking me. What in the hell was going on?

“Well, he was there,” I said.

Detective Wheeling sighed. “Miss Lavotini, as I understand it, you took quite a blow on the head when you ran into that Dumpster. Maybe you saw someone who looked like Detective Nailor. Maybe you were disoriented. It was dark. Your friend was dead, lying right in front of you. Maybe you confused the person you saw with a more friendly face. Maybe you just wished it was Detective Nailor.” He was talking like he would to a child. “Or maybe you were afraid of what the police would say if you once again turned up a dead body.”

“Detective Wheeling, I was not confused or afraid, and I know what I saw. Maybe you just wish I hadn't seen Detective Nailor, but I did, so deal with it. My friend is dead and Detective Nailor was there.” I stared right back at him, daring him to try to contradict me again, but before he could, a young female officer entered the room and handed him a piece of paper. Detective Wheeling stared at it, his face an unreadable police mask.

“Did you recognize the other man's voice?” he asked, never looking up from the paper. The officer shifted her stance by the door, leaning closer as if to hear my answer.

“No.”

“Would you recognize the voice if you heard it again?” This time he looked at me, waiting for my answer.

“I don't know,” I said. “Maybe.”

“Did it sound like anyone you know?” he asked.

“I don't know. It could have, but I don't think so. I'd have to hear it again to know.”

I pressed my hands to my temples, thinking. I was tired and confused. Images and voices ran together.

Ernie stepped behind my chair and pressed both of his beefy hands down firmly on my shoulders.

“On that note, folks,” he said, “I think we'll call it an evening. If you want to speak with us again, just phone my office and we'll be happy to schedule a time.”

Wheeling nodded curtly and stood up.

“We'll be in touch,” he said.

“I'll wait for your call,” Ernie answered.

Ernie wasn't wasting any time in getting me out of the police station. He kept a hand securely anchored to the small of my back, pushing me gently forward, through the maze of hallways that led to the outside and freedom.

We pushed through the glass double doors and out into the warm evening air. Ernie was still in his warrior mode, pumped up with attorney adrenaline. He didn't say a word until he had me ensconced in his pride and joy: a '67 Mustang, original paint job, seat covers, and radio, completely authentic and unrestored.