Framed and Burning (Dreamslippers Book 2) (32 page)

“Yes.”

“Jesus.” Sommers reached into his briefcase and took out his audio recorder. “Let’s start from the beginning. Tell me what you know.”

Mick explained about the party and how he’d had the dream while sleeping overnight at Kristoff’s place on Star Island.

“But you didn’t see anything there? You didn’t wander into his study, find something in his desk drawer, or a book on a shelf? Anything?”

“Not that I remember,” said Mick.

“It was a party,” Cat offered. “Everyone was drinking.”

“How drunk were you?”

“The booze was free, and the bar was well stocked.”

“I see. So you might have seen something and not realized it, in your state.”

“I suppose that’s possible. But I don’t remember anything except the dream.”

“Right. And quite a dream it was, as you’ve already explained.”

Cat interrupted. “The police need to investigate everyone who was at that party.”

“Sure,” said Sommers. “Look, you do what you want. You can go talk to them about this party, and they might follow up on it, but there’s not much evidence here to link either your uncle or Langholm to any child-abuse material. At the very least, however, it’s a cooperative gesture. As long as fingering Langholm doesn’t come back to bite any of you.”

As Sommers wrapped up their session, Alvarez appeared in the doorway.
 

“You’re free to go, Mick. We haven’t found a thing. I mean, nothing beyond what the average citizen has bookmarked, if you know what I mean.”

Cat did not want to know what Alvarez meant by that, but she noted that Mick’s face reddened a bit.

“My client has more information for you,” said Sommers.

 
Alvarez came into the room and shut the door, and Mick told her everything—or at least, everything they’d agreed to tell her.

Alvarez still didn’t buy that Mick hadn’t seen something concrete at Kristoff’s, and the fact that he’d withheld the information about the party initially made her more suspicious that he was covering for someone.

But this worked to their advantage in a way, thought Cat. It made both Serena Jones and Kristoff Langholm strong suspects, as they were both patrons of Mick’s, and Alvarez would think Mick would be reluctant to finger either of them.
 

“Let’s work together on this,” Cat said to Alvarez. “We’ll bring you our research on the suspects so far, and we can map out a strategy.”

Alvarez’s demeanor was still wary, but she had softened toward them.
 

“All right,” she said. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Sommers was dismissed, and the four of them got down to work.

>>>

On their way back home that evening, Cat checked her text messages while Granny Grace drove. There was one from Jacob:
There’s a story breaking on Twitter that your uncle got hauled in for questioning for possession of child porn!!! Are you okay?! What’s going on? Is it true?

Cat flipped to her phone’s browser and searched for the reference, and there it was. A Miami crime blogger had written up a short piece based on Mick’s questioning, which had been recorded in the police blotter. And it looked as if the blogger had tried to increase his traffic by sharing it widely with anyone connected to the art world. There were already tweets shaming Mick as a “pervert.” Cat noted with disgust that most of those tweeters spelled the word “prevert.” A group of tweeters had already set up the hashtag #boycottmicktravers.

“Oh, my God,” uttered Cat aloud. And then she wished she hadn’t, with both Granny Grace and Mick in the car, and her grandmother driving.

“What, Cat?” Granny Grace asked.

“Ah, it’s nothing. I’ll tell you when we get home.”

“Might as well tell us now, girlie,” said Mick from the back seat. “Otherwise, we’ll sit here imagining the worst. And after this, it can’t get much worse.”

“Yes, it can,” said Cat. She reluctantly handed him her phone.

“Fuck me.” Mick flipped through the phone till he’d seen enough, and then he tossed it to the floor of the car. Cat left it there, not particularly wanting to see it, either.

“Well, would one of you tell me what’s going on?”

“I’ve become the almighty Internet’s latest whipping boy,” Mick said.

Cat explained to a bewildered Granny Grace, who was uncharacteristically clutching the steering wheel.
 

“I’m just famous enough to be damaged by this,” Mick said.

They were silent the rest of the way home, and when they arrived, they retreated to their own private spaces for some solitude. Cat stuffed her earphones in her head, closed the partition around her bed, and lay down to try to forget the past couple days. She wondered where her God voice was now. Tuning in, she heard only silence, beyond the ringing in her ears.

She was almost asleep when she realized she’d forgotten to reply to Jacob.
Not OK
, she tapped out on her phone.
Not true.

He replied immediately.
Can I see you?

Not in the mood.

Not that. I mean, I want to help.

Risky.

Doesn’t have to be. Let me help.
 

Cat sat staring at her phone, trying not to think about how much she wanted Jacob’s arms around her right then. But she was too tired to drive back down to South Beach. It was almost as if Jacob heard her thoughts, as what came next was this:
I’ll drive up there.

My grandmother.
Jacob knew that Cat shared the studio with Granny Grace.

It’s okay. We’ll be sleeping. That’s how you’ll know it’s just that. Let me hold you tonight. OK?

OK.

Chapter Twenty-Four

For the first time in his life, Mick wished he owned a gun.

Maybe he’d use it on himself.
 

If not that, then he’d have it in hand for the moment when he could look his arsonist/killer/child porn sicko/frame artist in the face and pull the trigger.

Because that’s what he would most definitely do. The bastard who’d torched his life and hurt the redheaded girl like that deserved to die. But a gun wouldn’t do it justice. No, the creep needed to die in a slow, torturous manner.

Mick sat down on the couch in his studio. He couldn’t look up his public stoning on the Internet because his equipment was still at the Miami PD, not that he needed to see it anyway. He didn’t have much for them to search through in the first place, and Alvarez wanted her people to comb through everything a second time to make sure they didn’t miss anything.

To make sure they didn’t miss anything
.
 

He couldn’t believe this was happening, that it wasn’t some surreal painting he’d stepped into and was living. But it was real. He pinched himself to make sure. He was sitting there, in his studio, with the world out there now thinking he was a repugnant waste of human flesh.

He’d never live it down. His career might be over. What now?

And Sergeant Alvarez, of all people. For her to think that he was that kind of sicko… He remembered her smirk as she said that all they found was what “the average citizen” would have bookmarked on their computer browser. She and her cop buddies must have kidded around good at his bookmarks for
Chicks with Nightsticks
and
Broads with Badges
.

He knew she was too young for him, but hey, it wasn’t a crime to let out a little steam that way. Then again, maybe it had reassured them he wasn’t the pedophile sicko type. If there was one thing made clear by his taste in porn, it was that Mick Travers favored strong women of clearly and firmly adult age.

But still.

Mick pushed himself to his feet, went into the kitchen, and grabbed a bottle of whiskey that hadn’t even been opened yet. He broke the paper seal and unscrewed the cap. Took a sip, right out of the bottle.

And began to cry. Heaving dry sobs while he stood there staring into the white porcelain sink he couldn’t even fix himself.

When he was done, he went into the living room and plotted how he could get that sick bastard Pennington. Mick knew now it was his dream he’d walked in that night.

He’d had to describe the dream twice, once to his own lawyer, and then again to Alvarez. And the second time, with Alvarez grilling him, a specific detail had floated up from his subconscious.
 

A watch, an antique gold watch with a brown snakeskin band. He remembered the watch in the dream, on the wrist of whoever’s dream he’d slipped into. It took him a minute or two while Alvarez told him why his story sucked and she knew he was lying before he realized where else he’d seen that watch. Pennington James, a middling artist who painted pictures of animals dressed as superheroes, never left home without it.
 

“This here’s my grand-pappy’s watch,” Pennington always said, affecting a Southern drawl. Mick knew in fact the man had grown up in Pittsburgh.

Mick hadn’t said anything to anybody else about the watch. He didn’t know why, exactly. It wasn’t that he thought he should protect Pennington. Mick knew him from a group of artists who liked to get together and drink, spending much of their time one-upping each other with insults, when they weren’t comparing the relative dick sizes of their respective art careers. He’d never liked Pennington’s art, truth be told. But they were friends. Not to the level that he and Donnie had been, but they were friends. How had Mick not seen it? Not once did he ever get a bad vibe about him. In a million years, Mick never would have thought Pennington to be the pedophile type. The man was a pretentious snob whose work wasn’t as good as his opinion of himself made it out to be. But a creep who bought pictures of naked kids? And who might have even killed Donnie?

He never would have thought Pennington capable of either crime. But now that it was clear he’d been the one to dream about the girl, Mick no longer considered the man a friend. Far from it.

No, he didn’t want to protect Pennington.

He wanted to kill the bastard.

Himself.

Maybe even with his bare hands.

>>>

Fortunately—or unfortunately—for Mick, the group of artists was meeting soon in honor of a holiday they unanimously liked to disparage: Christmas. So he went.

Mick braced himself for the evening with several shots of whiskey out of a new bottle to replace the one he’d downed the night of his questioning. He knew the evening was bound to be a roast with himself as the designated suckling pig, since a man questioned for possessing child porn made such a glee-inducing target. And that wouldn’t even be the hardest part of the evening.

The Orinda Lounge was a slice of ol’ cracker Miami, with its grimy red carpet, pizzeria lamps, and jukebox playing nothing but classic rock. “Hotel California” was blasting when he walked in the door, and the cadre of artists who’d already assembled at their usual back table bristled when he entered and sat down, clearly surprised to see him.

Barney Dent, a troglodyte of a sculptor whose pieces graced the lobbies of many a South Beach hotel, sounded the first note. “Mick, what gives? You more of a perv than any of us gave you credit for, or what?”

Mick was conscious of Pennington James, drinking a beer, his demeanor nonchalant. Mick wanted to lunge across the table, grab him, beat him senseless, announce, “There’s your perv,” and stalk out. But he knew better.

“Aw, it was a stupid misunderstanding,” Mick answered. He knew the police hadn’t released the details of his questioning, so he didn’t have to explain the painting of the girl or any of that. Besides, it was better if his responses were vaguely suspicious.
 
“They, ah, had me confused with some other guy. We got it cleared up yesterday. That’s why I’m out.”

“Well, that’s rather boring,” Dent replied. “But I guess I’m relieved to hear you’re not any screwier in the head than I thought.”

At that, the group pounced on Mick with the subtlety of kids going after candy thrown from a parade float.

“Say, Mick, if you’re looking for the Toys ‘R’ Us, it’s down the road. I think the chicks in there are more your type.”

“Aw, Mick. It’s so nice to see you. We weren’t sure you’d make it since we hear there’s big doings tonight down at the elementary school.”

“If your art career doesn’t recover from this, I hear they’re looking for new recruits for the priesthood.”

And so it went. He took it in with his face set to a mask of good-naturedness. They advised him to steer clear of nudes and to paint using models whose hair had gone gray. “I guess you ought never to apply for the Artists in the Schools program!” That one got a huge laugh.

Mick stuck around far longer than he could stomach, betting that Pennington would, too. And he did.

Soon it was only the two of them, and Mick acted drunker than he really was. He’d been alternating every gin and tonic with plain tonic water.
 

They laughed and kidded and told stories, getting back into each other’s confidence. Mick waited for the right moment. There was no one else in the back room now, and the jukebox was loud in the front of the lounge.