Riptide (16 page)

Maggie sat in the car, her head back on the headrest, eyes closed. Coco sat in the passenger seat, her nose pointed at the small gap in her window, sniffing at the unfamiliar surroundings and the metallic scent of forthcoming rain. Gentle thunder rumbled in the distance, and Maggie could hear the dry rustle of palm fronds along the driveway.
 

She heard Coco whine just a little, and Maggie reached over and put a hand on one of her paws. Then a gentle tap on her window made her jump.

Wyatt was standing at her door. She pressed the button to roll her window all the way down and looked at him, her eyes hollow and circled with shadows. Wyatt reached in and opened her door, held out his hand. She took it and let him pull her out of the Jeep, and Coco jumped out behind her.

Wyatt led them to the open front door as the first few fat drops of rain hit the walkway, giving off the telltale, uniquely Floridian scent of newly dampened hot concrete. Maggie walked inside, but Coco half sat on the doormat, her butt inches from the floor, her nose inches from the threshold. Wyatt patted his thigh and she trotted in.

Maggie was sitting on the rattan couch with the blue striped cushions, and Coco went and sat next to the coffee table. Wyatt walked over and sat down beside Maggie and, when she looked at him, her eyes were full of defeat. He lifted an arm and she leaned in, put her head on his shoulder.
 

They sat there for a moment, and then the tears began to fall. As soon as she felt them on her face, Maggie lost her grip on the reins holding her grief. Sounds came up from her gut that were not unlike the sounds she’d made giving birth to her children, and it frightened and embarrassed her. Coco laid her face on Maggie’s knee and cried quietly with her.

Maggie put her hands over her face, but Wyatt gently reached up and took her hands away, then pulled her to his chest. She buried her face there and felt twenty-two years of careful control come up out of her soul.

A few hours later, Maggie was sound asleep. Wyatt was stretched out on the couch, Maggie still cradled on his chest. Coco slept on top of Wyatt’s feet, her head on Maggie’s hip.
 

The rain had stayed for the night, and drummed on the roof, almost drowning out the gentle chime on Maggie’s phone, where it rested on the coffee table next to her .45. Wyatt reached over and flipped it open, saw that the text was from Sky.
 

We’re here. Are you okay?

Wyatt balanced the phone behind Maggie’s back and carefully thumbed a reply.
It’s Wyatt. Your Mom’s asleep on my couch.

After a moment, he thought maybe she wouldn’t answer. But then the phone chimed again.

Good.

A
melia opened the front door to find Patrick Boudreaux on the steps.

Patrick was in his early forties, and good looking in a way that men trying very hard can be. His suits were custom tailored, his dark hair perfectly barbered and shiny with gel, and he got weekly manicures from the Vietnamese ladies at a shop in Panama City. He was the type of man who is impressive to those who are easily impressed.
 

“Yes?’” Amelia asked, obviously not among the easily impressed.

“He asked to see me,” Patrick said, looking irritated.

Amelia opened the door wider and Patrick stepped in. “He’s havin’ his coffee out back,” she said, and closed the door behind him.

Patrick headed through the living room off of the front hall. “Would you bring me some coffee, please?” he asked over his shoulder.

Amelia was already headed back to the kitchen. “Naw, she said. “Don’t work for no
couillion
.”

Boudreaux was sitting at the white wrought iron table on the back porch, looking crisp and fresh, despite the already searing sun, and the thick, damp air. He was on his third cup of chicory coffee when Patrick stepped out through the French doors from the living room.

He sat down at the table across from Boudreaux, jerking his arms to straighten his sleeves.

“You summoned?” Patrick asked as though he were only half-interested in an answer.

Boudreaux blinked slowly as he stared at Patrick, and Patrick finally broke his gaze by looking down at his hand. “You would do well to distance yourself from Rupert Fain,” Boudreaux said.

Patrick looked back up at him, spread his hands. “What’s this about?”

“You told me, with Myron gone to his great reward, that you were going to start dealing with Fain directly. I suggest that you don’t.”

Patrick swallowed, and a hard look came into his eyes. “What’s going on?”

“The police are looking at him.”

“The police are always looking at him.”

“They’re looking at him for David Seward’s murder.”

Patrick looked at Boudreaux for a long moment, his eyes flat, as Boudreaux took a sip of his coffee. “Why would they be doing that?” he asked, his voice cold and hard.

“Because Myron Graham got turned into a pile of S’mores in his car.”

“Why would they even connect the two? How do they—Seward told his little wife about Myron.”

“No, I did.”

Patrick stared at him, his eyes wide. Boudreaux seemed unconcerned, took another drink of his coffee.

“What the hell possessed you to do that?”

“Watch your tone, Patrick,” he said calmly.

“What is this
thing
with you and that woman?”

“I’m working on something.”

Patrick started to sputter, then just grinned. “Working on what? Having another friend in the SO? Because you’ve got the wrong cop for that, old man.”

“If it was any of your business, I would have already told you.”

“It is my business. What is it with her?” he asked, his voice rising. Boudreaux just stared at him. “Are you—do you have the
hots
for Maggie Redmond?”

“I’ll ignore that question,” Boudreaux answered.

“Look what the hell you’re doing! Look at what you’ve done!” Patrick pinched at the bridge of his nose. “You’re going to ruin this family!”

Boudreaux leaned forward, and Patrick instinctively sat back.

“Killing David Seward was wrong,” Boudreaux said evenly. “I don’t think he stole anything. He was too damn proud of having saved up for that boat. Myron Graham made his bed and he burned up in it, but I don’t think Seward helped him steal Fain’s product.”

“No, he didn’t, Pop.” Patrick was laughing softly, but without humor. “I did.”

Boudreaux stared at Patrick for a long moment. “What the hell did you do?” he asked quietly.

“Myron’s been whining about not paying me my stipend anymore, the other guys have dropped off in volume, and I’m going damn broke,” Patrick snapped.

“
What
did you do?”

“I took the damn pot, what do you think I did?” Patrick jerked upright and leaned over the table. “He’d told me he was taking a delivery that Saturday, and that I could come get my last cut. He said he wasn’t worried about some pissant little drug charge anymore, because I had more to lose.”

Boudreaux took a long slow breath and let it out. “So you let Seward and this guy Myron take the fall for it.”

“No, I let Seward take the fall for all of it, including Myron.”

Boudreaux telegraphed nothing. One moment he was sitting calmly with his hand on his coffee, and the next moment the reddening imprint of his palm was on Patrick’s meticulously shaven cheek.

“You are a raging imbecile,” Boudreaux said quietly. “If you were my flesh and blood, I’d be ashamed.”

“Why? Because you’ve never killed anyone, Pop? I learned at your feet! And it really wasn’t that hard.”

Boudreaux’s blue eyes were cold and hard. “I don’t destroy families for money.”

“You’re gonna destroy this one for a roll in the hay, though, right?”

Boudreaux stood up slowly. Patrick was quicker about it.

 
“You made a bad decision, Patrick,” Boudreaux said quietly.
 
“Live with the consequences. Or don’t.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I promise you, if they nail Fain and he talks about me, I’m talking about you.”

“Understand this more clearly than you have ever understood anything. You wouldn’t live long enough to keep that promise.”

Boudreaux walked away from the table, opened the door to the kitchen, and shut it quietly behind him.

Patrick turned around to leave and stopped short when he saw his mother standing at the French door to the living room. He grabbed his sunglasses from the table and went inside.

“What’s going on, Patrick?” Lily Boudreaux asked. Her artificially arched brows were at attention.

“Nothing.”

“Who is this person that might say things about you?”

“Nobody, Mother. Stay out of it, please.”

“Why is he so angry?”

“Look, why don’t you ask him? While you’re at it, why don’t you ask him about Maggie Redmond?”

“What about her?”
 

“I think the old man’s actually in love with her.”

Lily let out a sharp laugh. “Patrick. He’s in love with no one. If he’s interested in that trawler trash, it’s either entirely sexual or he wants something more valuable from her. Let him have her.”

“She’s trouble.”

“Everybody’s trouble, son.”

M
aggie woke up to Coco licking and nuzzling her hand. It took her a minute to realize she wasn’t at home, and when she opened her eyes, she found she was still on Wyatt’s couch.

She slowly sat up, feeling achy, abused, and hung over. Wyatt was nowhere in sight, and the house was quiet. But Maggie smelled coffee. She got up and walked barefooted to the breakfast bar in the kitchen, where a full pot of coffee sat, a mug and spoon beside it. Under the mug was a note. Wyatt had gone to Gainesville. Coco had peed and eaten leftover stew. The security code was 4098.

Maggie poured the coffee and opened the fridge to get some milk. A Tetris game of take-out containers filled most of the fridge. Beer, wine, Mountain Dew and steak filled out the remainder of Wyatt’s food supply. Maggie made a mental note to feed him.

She drank her coffee as she walked around the house, Coco trailing behind her, soundless on the cream-colored carpet. Down the hall from the living room was a small bedroom that Wyatt apparently used as an office. There was a computer on a small desk, and one wall was covered in bookshelves. Maggie took a brief look at the books. Some Hemingway, some John Sandford. What looked like every single James Lee Burke. At the end of one shelf was a picture of a quietly pretty blond woman, smiling into the sun. Lily Hamilton. The sight of her made Maggie feel guilty for being there, and she turned to go.
 

When she did, she saw another framed photo on a side table. Wyatt, Dwight, James from Narcotics, and Dwight’s brother Rob, the day two years prior, when a bunch of them went out to lunch to celebrate Wyatt’s forty-sixth birthday. Maggie was saying something to Wyatt, and Wyatt was leaning in and laughing. She wondered what it was she had said.
 

Maggie wandered back out to the hallway, found and used the masculine but clean bathroom, poked her head into a guest room, then stood in Wyatt’s bedroom doorway. Two of the pillows were missing from one side of the made bed. Maggie assumed they were the ones she’d woken up on. The room reminded her of a vacation rental, only less impersonal. A framed vintage poster for the Cocoa Beach Pier hung above the bed, and a rattan lounge sat under one window, a paperback book open and upside down on the small table beside it.