The Clouds Roll Away (20 page)

RPM's deep voice was coming from down the hall. As he walked into the room, he was speaking to Sid. He laid his hand gently on Wally's shoulder.

“You'll be hearing from the photo editor shortly,” he said.

Wally reached up, grabbing his head as if it might explode. “Are you serious?”

RPM's eyes twinkled. “I'm always serious.”

Wally looked at me.

“That's great,” I said, smiling.

But something passed over his face, an expression that said he doubted I shared his joy. Turning back to RPM, he thanked him again. And again. RPM chuckled.

“May I have a moment alone with Miss Harmon?” he asked.

Wally raced down the hall.

Sid stayed.

“
Newsweek
,” I said.

RPM nodded. “They're writing a story about the hate crimes. I told them I had no comment but I sent them some of Wall-Ace's photos of Africa. He's quite good.”

“Yes, he is.” I glanced at Sid. “Would you excuse us?”

Sid looked at RPM. He was not smiling.

“Five minutes,” RPM told him.

When Sid left, I said, “I'm not sure how much you've been told.”

“Enough.” He shook his head, then walked over to the wall. He pointed to a photo of a man from late-night television, known for his lantern jaw. “I bought that Bentley from him. When he heard the news, he called my New York office nearly in tears.”

“I'm sure that kid's parents are even more upset.”

“Oh, of course,” he said, turning to me. “I didn't mean to make light of that tragedy. Do you have any leads?”

“Not that I'd want shared with the media.”

“You have my word.”

Still, I kept it vague, telling him the plastic pipe was fairly ordinary, along with the duct tape holding it together. “Our focus is the explosive compounds.”

“Why?”

“They're connected to the cross burning as well.”

“Ah, mustard gas. Was that it?”

I nodded. I decided not to say anything about lewisite, in case it slipped during his interviews.

“But you don't know where it's coming from?” he asked.

“Not yet. We'll be stepping up the search this week.”

He lifted his wrist, checking his watch. It was encrusted with diamonds. “I'll trust you to keep me informed,” he said. “But right now I've got to get ready for my party.”

“Given what's happened, I don't think a party's a good idea.”

“I'm pleased to hear your thinking,” he said. “But that's what they want me to do. Live in fear. Hide. Leave for good. I refuse.”

“The fear's legitimate.”

“Yes.” He nodded. “You're correct. That's why I've hired private security.”

“Local?”

“Oh, absolutely not. I've brought them down from New York. They came highly recommended.”

“By whom?”

He smiled. “I appreciate the good grammar, particularly after what I listen to most of the day. Some friends in the entertainment world recommended this security detail.”

I imagined Phaup's reaction if something happened. “I'll be here too.”

Sid came to the doorway. “FBI—at a party?” He wasn't smiling. “I don't think so.”

“I'll be unobtrusive,” I said. “Please.”

RPM nodded. “I would appreciate it. Some of these people are dear friends.”

“When's the party?” I asked.

“Tonight,” he said.

“Tonight?”

“Is that a problem, Miss Harmon?”

chapter twenty-five

T
he sheriff was leading a woman to the parking lot outside his New Kent office. She was black, late fifties, and kept a handkerchief pressed against her mouth. He opened the door to a red Pontiac, helping the woman into the passenger side. Another woman drove, also black, and the sheriff spoke to her for several moments and then the car backed out.

Both women waved to him.

“Her son's the boy who died in that car,” the sheriff said when I walked over. “He offered her fifty grand. Compensation.”

“Who?”

“That rapper. He's being so generous she won't talk to anybody unless he tells her it's okay. She talked to
Newsweek
about her tragedy. But she won't tell me diddly about what her boy did over there.” His blue eyes flickered. “Maybe she'll warm up to the FBI.”

My official smile appeared. “There's a party tonight at Rapland. Are you aware of that?”

“Aware and unprepared. Half my men are on vacation. The other half are sick as dogs.” He turned to me, the wind whipping between us. “You want to level with me, or do we keep playing games? I got guys who still can't breathe right.”

Judgment calls. It was all judgment calls. One side was Phaup's leap in logic, all her stereotypes about the South. The other side was the man DeMott described, the man I saw walking that lady to her car.

“Some of it's mustard gas,” I said, watching his face for reaction.

He looked startled. “Where's the Klan getting that?”

“If it's even the Klan.”

He wiggled a finger in his ear, as if he couldn't hear. “You know, I do have a confession to make. I'm half-hoping somebody makes a move on that place tonight, just so y'all can stop suspecting me and my men.”

“I didn't—”

“You don't have to say it.”

“We're dealing with chemical warfare, Sheriff. That's a big step up for the Klan.”

“You going out there tonight?”

“Yes, sir. Are you?”

He sighed, looking out the window. It faced the parking lot and Courthouse Road. “He doesn't want me or my men on his property. We can come beforehand and check for bombs. So that's what we'll do.”

A sheen of ice crystal covered the elephants that night, as if the granite had sprouted more quartz. When I rolled down my window, trying to ignore the embarrassing sound of cold rubber stuttering against the glass, a county deputy, a state trooper, and a sleek German shepherd were standing on the side of the road, just off the driveway. I showed my credentials to the deputy. Leading the dog on the leash, the trooper walked through the condensation clouds of my exhaust.

“She's FBI,” the deputy called out. He handed back my credentials. “Bomb dog. We checked the house and the tent. We're checking cars as they come in.”

I glanced over at the trooper. He touched the brim of his blue hat, a gentlemanly gesture.

“We have our own K-9,” said the deputy, sounding agitated. “But he's a drug dog and he said we couldn't bring him. I know why. They're smoking weed in that house.”

I glanced at his thick jacket. Brown nylon, his name stitched on the left side. Erlanger.

“Deputy Erlanger, who said you can't bring the drug dog?”

He hesitated, suddenly uncertain of his indignation.

“I just need to know the boundaries for tonight.” I smiled.

“It wasn't the sheriff 's idea,” he said.

“Okay. Whose was it?”

He glanced over at the trooper, who looked away quickly, as if the elephants were doing something. Erlanger leaned down into my window.

“What I heard, it was the governor.”

I frowned.

“You don't believe me?” He raked his flashlight beam down the white rail fence following New Market Road. “This guy helped put the governor in office, throwing him the black vote. And now we're supposed to look the other way when Africans worship the god of grass.”

A northern Virginian and graduate of Yale, the governor spoke without a trace of Southern accent. His millions were made as a personal injury lawyer and he promised to unite the state.

“Were you told the same thing?” I asked the trooper, still inspecting the elephants.

“Ma'am, I was told to inspect for explosives,” he said.

I glanced at Erlanger.

“I'm just telling you what I heard,” he said. “Don't go quoting me.”

I drove down the long driveway. Three valets hovered around the lighted guardhouse. Young, almost too young for driver's licenses. When they got a good look at the K-Car, they stopped on the spot.

Finally, one walked over.

“Don't worry,” I said. “I'll park it.”

He pointed the flashlight east, to a field down by the river. Apparently, it was the automotive Siberia for hired help. I drove the K-Car over the terrain, listening to my shocks whimper, and parked facing the house. Checking my belt for cell phone, gun, cuffs, and flashlight, I locked the car and pulled on my long wool overcoat, walking back to the house. A column of translucent gray light circled the sky, bumping against clouds, and the white tent glowed from the lights inside. When I reached the house, I walked the red carpet from the drive to the tent. But a muscular man in a tuxedo held up his white-gloved hand, ordering me to stop. His frozen expectant smile was almost as good as my official smile.

“May I see your invitation?” The polite words clashed with his tone. And his voice, full of the Bronx.

“I'm with security,” I said.

“Great, but only our security's getting inside,” he said.

“I'm an FBI agent.”

“Good for you, lady. But you're not getting into the tent. We got it under control.”

I turned, walking back toward the house. The tuxedo called to my back, “Enjoy your evening, Miss FBI.”

Somebody had parked the catering truck on the grass behind the house, right where the cross was. The evidence was taken, but I still felt annoyed. The truck's side panel was rolled up like a window blind and a rotund chef in white jacket and toque stood on the spot. The table in front of him held white plates with gold chargers.

“Get a-vay!” he was yelling. “Get a-vay from my table!”

His plump hands shooed at the confused waiters. All Hispanic, they wore black slacks and white jackets. The chef screamed some more and suddenly there was a sound like a flock of birds taking off. The tent flaps whipped open. A slim and elegant female was followed by a single-file column of waiters. She was black and the waiters were white, wearing all-white uniforms, each man so good-looking he looked fake, like Chippendales who planned to rip off their tuxes and start gyrating.

“Get them a-vay!” cried the chef.

The slender woman quietly told the chef to calm down. Then she turned to one of the Hispanic men. Holding one hand over the cordless microphone attached behind her ear, she said, “You're not to serve any of the food. Do you understand?”

The Hispanic man nodded. He turned, speaking rapid Spanish to the men behind him. They backed away from the serving table.

“Only the white waiters can serve the food,” the black woman said. “You people are going to bus tables and clean up.”

His dark eyes lingered on her a moment.

“Go on, tell them.”

She turned to speak to the chef and slowly the man explained to his corps that a long-inflicted hierarchy wouldn't be changing tonight.

I continued around the side of the house, hoping to find the sheriff before the party started. He was on the other side of the garage. He wore his full uniform, including the brown cap with the county seal, and an expression of disappointment.

“How many men do you have out here tonight?” I asked.

“Two guys came in from Christmas vacation. That makes five. Four of us are going to walk the perimeter.” He pointed his flashlight toward the woods behind the garage. “Where are you going to be?”

“I'll stay close to the tent,” I said. “But I can't go inside.”

“Welcome to the club.”

I walked back to the tent. Four photographers now stood by the red carpet, setting up equipment, Wally among them. He wore a powder blue tuxedo, something left over from high school, and was testing his camera's light meter. When the canister light threw its beam, I saw his face. It looked fisted with fury.

The band cranked up inside the tent, and limousines began pulling into the keyhole drive, depositing partygoers on the red carpet. Two more security details were opening the limo doors, helping the women from the cars. Standing back, I watched from the side. I could tell who was a celebrity by how many pictures the photographers took—more famous, more pictures. The women wore short minks. The men wore long fur coats balanced on their shoulders like boxing robes. Moving down the red carpet, the couples formed a line. The Bronx bouncer took the invitations, wishing them a good night—and suddenly I froze.

Standing in line, waiting to get inside, Zennie was complaining to a man beside her. She turned her head, rolling her eyes in disgust, and caught sight of me. I jumped back, into the shadow of the tent. Moon was with her, wearing white tuxedo pants with a black stripe down the outer seam. Zennie's annoyed face had gone slack. Moon followed her gaze to the tent.

I stepped back again, feeling the vinyl tent against my back.

“What's the matter now?” Moon said.