Whitewash (48 page)

Pensacola Beach, Florida

Eric talked Sabrina into a truce. They were both hungry. He didn’t blame her for being pissed with him. Truth was, he’d been surprised she’d even come looking for him. He told her he wanted to help her. She could decide after this was all over whether or not to forgive him. What he didn’t say, what made him nervous as hell, was that if their dad had slipped and told Sabrina where she could find him, he might tell someone else. Someone like the guy trying to kill her.

Now Eric slid his chair so that he sat at the edge of the circle around the small bistro table. He wanted to watch the others while Sabrina told her story. He still wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing. And yet, ironically, he knew that if he couldn’t trust this group he couldn’t trust anyone.

According to Max, they were all lost souls who had found each other. Of course, that was usually after a few glasses of sangria. Eric couldn’t really pinpoint when they had all become friends. It was a gradual thing. But it started maybe five months ago, maybe six. They’d end up being the last ones to close down Bobbye’s, migrating to one table even if it required pulling up chairs from another table and creating a jagged circle. Eric was notorious for bringing people together. Making friends had always come easy, relationships not so easy.

He knew this group had little in common except for how much they didn’t fit in with any other groups that frequented the beach. None of them were tourists or college students, though Russ could certainly pass for either. All of them were from someplace else. None had lived on the beach for very long. The Mayor was the only exception. He had lived in Pensacola most of his life.

Eric always positioned his chair so his back was to the water and he could see anyone coming up the boardwalk or around the building. Tonight he looked for Bosco, hoping she’d show up with the lab results, but he knew that was pushing it. He watched Sabrina, studying her and running through strategies in his head. He hated feeling that his hands were tied, that he couldn’t help her all on his own. And he hated that he had to ask for help. At least Sabrina was more relaxed. It was probably the Baileys Irish Cream on ice. He knew she didn’t drink, but he was pretty sure she wouldn’t mind the sweet, creamy liquor. He had to admit it surprised him when she asked for a second.

The shorter hairstyle made her look younger and it reminded him of when they were kids. She wore it short in the summers so their mother couldn’t take up Sabrina’s precious summer vacation braiding or curling or perming it. This style looked good on her, but she kept raking her fingers through the bangs, trying to keep them off her forehead.

Max had dressed her in lime green and royal blue. Miss Sadie was right—her eyes were a brilliant blue and they reminded him so much of their dad’s. She had been a terrific sport about the makeover, especially during the ear-piercing and the spray-on-tan session. A great sport or perhaps she had been more terrified than he knew.

Over the course of the evening she glanced his way and he tried to read every one of her glances. The first one was definitely “You’ve got to be kidding.” Then slowly the glances were only for reassurance. She had command of the group, not out of shock over her story—Eric didn’t think anything could shock them—but rather out of respect. Even Russ, who could be dismissive at times, was listening intently. And hopefully his computer-obsessed mind was grinding out some strategies.

“They have plenty of reason to want to sweep this under the rug pretty quickly,” said the Mayor, and he sat back like he had just stated the obvious.

The rest of them waited and watched as the Mayor took a sip of his pink lemonade, always managing to make it look smooth despite the spear of fruit—chunks of pineapple and mango separated by maraschino cherries. Eric and Howard took turns making drinks and were probably the only ones who knew that the concoction—what the Mayor called an exotic pink lady—didn’t have an ounce of liquor.

It took the Mayor several sips before he realized they were all waiting for an explanation.

“That $140-million contract they’re up for.” He waved a hand out like he was literally tossing the information onto the table.

Everyone stared at him, but Eric saw Sabrina sit forward.

“The military contract,” she said and the Mayor smiled and nodded.

“It’s been in the news,” he told the others in a familiar scold. “Don’t any of you pay attention to the news?”

It was an old argument, a regular pet peeve of the Mayor’s, one that everyone ignored. Fact was, they all knew the old man loved being the one to fill them in on the state of the nation and current events. Eric liked to call him their personal news commentator. Years ago he had been the mayor of Pensacola, but also a U.S. congressman for one of the Panhandle’s districts. Eric couldn’t remember how many terms the Mayor had served—one or two—but it was enough to have ruffled some D.C. feathers and make some lifelong connections. And though it was years ago, the man talked about the players and the current affairs as though he had left only last year.

“I saw ole Johnny Q last Friday on CNN, right before his tour of the place,” the Mayor told them. “Seemed obvious to me he was trying to drum up some last-minute support, which means it might not get approval.”

He pushed up his glasses and put his knobby elbows on the table, tenting his arthritic fingers in another familiar gesture that drew the group’s attention, because usually it meant “Here’s the real scoop.” But he surprised them when he looked at Sabrina across the table and instead of providing some juicy tidbit, he asked, “Is it true he upchucked his lunch on that tour?”

All the attention shifted back to Sabrina and for a moment Eric worried that he had thrown her into this when his sister, by her very nature, wasn’t a social being, let alone someone who fed into rumors or innuendo. Here they were supposed to be helping to protect and save her and the Mayor was more concerned with getting the scoop on apparently a former adversary.

“Right over the railing and into the tank of chicken guts,” Sabrina told the Mayor, but she was smiling at him.

He rubbed his hands together as if he was relishing the image. “I wish I had seen that.”

Eric glanced over at Maxine, who rolled her eyes. Howard and Russ laughed.

That’s when Bosco chose to join them. Everyone became silent when she tossed a plastic bag onto the table in front of Eric.

“Was this supposed to be some sort of joke?”

At first Eric wasn’t sure if she was being sarcastic. He had seen her do her comedy routine with the same straight face, sometimes feigning anger when she delivered some of her funniest lines.

“What is that?” Howard asked.

“It’s a fucking joke, right?” Bosco said again and this time Eric knew she was mad.

“Sabrina pulled this stuff out of a runoff pipe,” he said, answering Howard’s question. Before he could take the bag off the table, Sabrina picked it up and began fingering the contents as if seeing them for the first time.

“It was supposed to be clear-water runoff. Whatever this is—” and she glanced up at the pissed-off lab tech “—it may have been leaking into the river.”

“Oh, that’s just perfect,” Bosco said, her hands flying up in exasperation. “That’s just fucking perfect.”

“So what is it?” Eric wanted to know.

“Well, there’s your basic poultry DNA with bits of metal, steel mostly or what used to be steel, some plastic by-product and lots and lots of dioxin residue.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Sabrina said, and Eric watched her turn the bag over as if she could now see the individual pieces, examining it closely.

“Oh, it gets much better.” Bosco glanced at Eric. “I left the L.A. crime lab so I didn’t have to put up with crap like this anymore.”

“What are you talking about?” Eric was growing impatient with her melodrama.

Now Bosco looked from Eric to Sabrina and back at Eric. “Don’t tell me neither of you knew that most of that stuff is human tissue and human blood?”

Pensacola Beach, Florida

Eric talked Sabrina into a truce. They were both hungry. He didn’t blame her for being pissed with him. Truth was, he’d been surprised she’d even come looking for him. He told her he wanted to help her. She could decide after this was all over whether or not to forgive him. What he didn’t say, what made him nervous as hell, was that if their dad had slipped and told Sabrina where she could find him, he might tell someone else. Someone like the guy trying to kill her.

Now Eric slid his chair so that he sat at the edge of the circle around the small bistro table. He wanted to watch the others while Sabrina told her story. He still wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing. And yet, ironically, he knew that if he couldn’t trust this group he couldn’t trust anyone.

According to Max, they were all lost souls who had found each other. Of course, that was usually after a few glasses of sangria. Eric couldn’t really pinpoint when they had all become friends. It was a gradual thing. But it started maybe five months ago, maybe six. They’d end up being the last ones to close down Bobbye’s, migrating to one table even if it required pulling up chairs from another table and creating a jagged circle. Eric was notorious for bringing people together. Making friends had always come easy, relationships not so easy.

He knew this group had little in common except for how much they didn’t fit in with any other groups that frequented the beach. None of them were tourists or college students, though Russ could certainly pass for either. All of them were from someplace else. None had lived on the beach for very long. The Mayor was the only exception. He had lived in Pensacola most of his life.

Eric always positioned his chair so his back was to the water and he could see anyone coming up the boardwalk or around the building. Tonight he looked for Bosco, hoping she’d show up with the lab results, but he knew that was pushing it. He watched Sabrina, studying her and running through strategies in his head. He hated feeling that his hands were tied, that he couldn’t help her all on his own. And he hated that he had to ask for help. At least Sabrina was more relaxed. It was probably the Baileys Irish Cream on ice. He knew she didn’t drink, but he was pretty sure she wouldn’t mind the sweet, creamy liquor. He had to admit it surprised him when she asked for a second.

The shorter hairstyle made her look younger and it reminded him of when they were kids. She wore it short in the summers so their mother couldn’t take up Sabrina’s precious summer vacation braiding or curling or perming it. This style looked good on her, but she kept raking her fingers through the bangs, trying to keep them off her forehead.

Max had dressed her in lime green and royal blue. Miss Sadie was right—her eyes were a brilliant blue and they reminded him so much of their dad’s. She had been a terrific sport about the makeover, especially during the ear-piercing and the spray-on-tan session. A great sport or perhaps she had been more terrified than he knew.

Over the course of the evening she glanced his way and he tried to read every one of her glances. The first one was definitely “You’ve got to be kidding.” Then slowly the glances were only for reassurance. She had command of the group, not out of shock over her story—Eric didn’t think anything could shock them—but rather out of respect. Even Russ, who could be dismissive at times, was listening intently. And hopefully his computer-obsessed mind was grinding out some strategies.

“They have plenty of reason to want to sweep this under the rug pretty quickly,” said the Mayor, and he sat back like he had just stated the obvious.

The rest of them waited and watched as the Mayor took a sip of his pink lemonade, always managing to make it look smooth despite the spear of fruit—chunks of pineapple and mango separated by maraschino cherries. Eric and Howard took turns making drinks and were probably the only ones who knew that the concoction—what the Mayor called an exotic pink lady—didn’t have an ounce of liquor.

It took the Mayor several sips before he realized they were all waiting for an explanation.

“That $140-million contract they’re up for.” He waved a hand out like he was literally tossing the information onto the table.

Everyone stared at him, but Eric saw Sabrina sit forward.

“The military contract,” she said and the Mayor smiled and nodded.

“It’s been in the news,” he told the others in a familiar scold. “Don’t any of you pay attention to the news?”

It was an old argument, a regular pet peeve of the Mayor’s, one that everyone ignored. Fact was, they all knew the old man loved being the one to fill them in on the state of the nation and current events. Eric liked to call him their personal news commentator. Years ago he had been the mayor of Pensacola, but also a U.S. congressman for one of the Panhandle’s districts. Eric couldn’t remember how many terms the Mayor had served—one or two—but it was enough to have ruffled some D.C. feathers and make some lifelong connections. And though it was years ago, the man talked about the players and the current affairs as though he had left only last year.

“I saw ole Johnny Q last Friday on CNN, right before his tour of the place,” the Mayor told them. “Seemed obvious to me he was trying to drum up some last-minute support, which means it might not get approval.”

He pushed up his glasses and put his knobby elbows on the table, tenting his arthritic fingers in another familiar gesture that drew the group’s attention, because usually it meant “Here’s the real scoop.” But he surprised them when he looked at Sabrina across the table and instead of providing some juicy tidbit, he asked, “Is it true he upchucked his lunch on that tour?”

All the attention shifted back to Sabrina and for a moment Eric worried that he had thrown her into this when his sister, by her very nature, wasn’t a social being, let alone someone who fed into rumors or innuendo. Here they were supposed to be helping to protect and save her and the Mayor was more concerned with getting the scoop on apparently a former adversary.

“Right over the railing and into the tank of chicken guts,” Sabrina told the Mayor, but she was smiling at him.

He rubbed his hands together as if he was relishing the image. “I wish I had seen that.”

Eric glanced over at Maxine, who rolled her eyes. Howard and Russ laughed.

That’s when Bosco chose to join them. Everyone became silent when she tossed a plastic bag onto the table in front of Eric.

“Was this supposed to be some sort of joke?”

At first Eric wasn’t sure if she was being sarcastic. He had seen her do her comedy routine with the same straight face, sometimes feigning anger when she delivered some of her funniest lines.

“What is that?” Howard asked.

“It’s a fucking joke, right?” Bosco said again and this time Eric knew she was mad.

“Sabrina pulled this stuff out of a runoff pipe,” he said, answering Howard’s question. Before he could take the bag off the table, Sabrina picked it up and began fingering the contents as if seeing them for the first time.

“It was supposed to be clear-water runoff. Whatever this is—” and she glanced up at the pissed-off lab tech “—it may have been leaking into the river.”

“Oh, that’s just perfect,” Bosco said, her hands flying up in exasperation. “That’s just fucking perfect.”

“So what is it?” Eric wanted to know.

“Well, there’s your basic poultry DNA with bits of metal, steel mostly or what used to be steel, some plastic by-product and lots and lots of dioxin residue.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Sabrina said, and Eric watched her turn the bag over as if she could now see the individual pieces, examining it closely.

“Oh, it gets much better.” Bosco glanced at Eric. “I left the L.A. crime lab so I didn’t have to put up with crap like this anymore.”

“What are you talking about?” Eric was growing impatient with her melodrama.

Now Bosco looked from Eric to Sabrina and back at Eric. “Don’t tell me neither of you knew that most of that stuff is human tissue and human blood?”