The Sign Painter Page 12

  Paul dressed and emerged from his apartment to find the special agent in charge of the DEA’s Orlando office parked outside his front door. Ken Grant was talking on his phone, but as soon as he spotted Paul, he cut the connection and rose from the car. “How’s the shoulder?”

  “Twenty-two stitches, three shots, six pills, and the doctors kicked me out the door.”

  “You need to go in for physical therapy. Make sure the muscles heal so they flex fully.”

  “Yeah, they sang me that same song.” Paul watched as the SAIC leaned back into the car and came out with a pair of coffees. Though he had no desire for another cup, Paul accepted one, knowing it was Grant’s peace offering. “Thanks.”

  Grant had seen Paul hesitate. “I’ve got sugar and creamer in the car.”

  “Black is fine.”

  They took a reflective sip, nodded a joint greeting to two women departing for work, then Ken Grant said, “Your first injury was worse, right?”

  “Twelve days in the hospital, four months of rehab. That first time was awful.”

  “You get hit by the sweats last night?”

  “No, surprisingly enough.” Paul spotted Granville rounding the apartment’s front corner. The burly man saw them and hesitated. Paul waved him over. He went on, “Must have been the pills.”

  “Every close call I’ve had, I flash back to the time I caught one.” Ken lifted his coffee in greeting to Granville. “That’s what finally made me decide to ride a desk.”

  “They talked to me about that while I was recovering,” Paul remembered. “I said no. Much as I wanted to hang on, I knew I’d suffocate.”

  “The atmosphere does grow stifling at times,” Ken agreed. “Not to mention the dread of sending men out where I won’t go.” He stared into the sunlight. “Or can’t.”

  “It wasn’t that. Not for me.” Paul was surprised at how easy it was to speak about this, since it had been so hard even to admit to himself. “I spent four years at headquarters before the shooting and always had the feeling of working in somebody else’s idea of a good job. I did my best to lie to myself, claiming it was worth it, that I’d grow through this and become a better agent. But all I really did was clamp down on emotions that bubbled up in my private life. When they talked to me about coming back, I knew I couldn’t go there. Not even when refusing meant leaving the force. Not even when this was the only job I’d ever been good at.”

  The more he spoke, the more involved he became with the pavement by his feet. When he finished, Granville said, “You’re where you should be, friend.”

  Paul nodded but did not speak. The word resonated through the hollow space at his core. Friend.

  Ken Grant cleared his throat. “I’m here in a totally unofficial capacity. But we need to talk.”

  Paul forced his mind back to the moment. Granville caught his eye and might have winked, a swift flicker, little more than a twitch. “Why don’t we step on over here?”

  Paul realized what the burly ex-cop had in mind. “Good idea.”

  Ken sidled down the walk because the two men were headed in that direction. Ten paces on, Granville stopped. Each of the kitchens had a small window, not more than eighteen inches square. The window where Granville leaned was slid open, but the screen and curtain formed a veil over the people inside. From inside the apartment came the sound of a child singing. Paul saw a blond head flit into view, hesitate, then retreat.

  Ken Grant demanded, “Why are we standing here?”

  “The light,” Paul said.

  Granville leaned against the wall by the narrow window. “So what’s on your mind?”

  Ken looked from one to the other, then shrugged and said, “Here’s what we know. Up until recently, Florida was home to two major crime syndicates. Miami handled the south and up the east coast. Tampa handled everything else. About ten months ago, we started getting word of a new organization operating out of Orlando. Then it wasn’t Orlando, it was nearby, it was here, it was there. Finally, we tracked down a lead. The first hard evidence we had come up with.”

  “The house,” Granville said.

  “We have photos of known crime bosses from Denver and Cincinnati making stops there. We have tracked drugs arriving at a small fishing port east of here, passing through, and being sent all over the nation.”

  Paul could see the rest of the story unfold with tragic finality. “Washington is all over this. And Agent Beeks is desperate to see his name flash in headquarters’ high beams.”

  Ken might have nodded. “Ten days ago, the house went quiet. They’re still dealing, but that’s it.”

  “Small-time locals, with the traffic run by kids,” Granville said. “Punks and streetwalkers. Exactly what you’d expect from a low-level gang business.”

  Paul saw where this was headed. “They know you’re watching. And Agent Beeks blames us. The church. For blowing his cover.”

  Ken Grant’s features had gone grim. “Always a pleasure, dealing with pros.”

  “So why are we talking?”

  “Because of the photographs,” Paul offered. “The ones we shared with Washington. Isn’t that right?”

  “Those pictures raised alarms at headquarters like an un­ignited bomb,” Ken confirmed. “I need to know where you got them. And who took them.”

  Paul and Granville exchanged a long look. Inside the window, a blond head drifted back into view. And remained there. Silent.

  Paul replied, “We have a confidential source. She works in a local business. One we trust completely. The source and now the business are helping us in our investigation.”

  “I need to know who this is,” Ken said. “The source and the business.”

  Paul countered with, “Who was in the photographs?”

  “I have been specifically ordered by Washington not to share any information,” Grant replied, “about how we received a photograph of a major criminal suspect from a totally different region. One who has never been known to operate in this state before we opened our investigation. And I have already said too much.”

  “In that case,” Granville said, “we’ve told you all we can.”

  “Guys, please, this is about to go nuclear.”

  “Nice doing business with you,” Paul said. “And thanks for the coffee.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Amy took her time leaving the apartment. Kimmie treated the extra attention as a stolen moment. Amy sat on the sofa, braiding Kimmie’s hair and reflecting on what she had heard outside her kitchen window. She knew Paul and Granville had held their conversation there so she could listen in safely. She had no idea what to do or how she felt about being secretly involved in their investigation.

  Amy found herself returning to the tight sliver of a dream that had awakened her at dawn. The memories were an unwanted tidal wave. The dream had been of her husband—not Darren as he once was, vibrant and full of life and possessing a smile that sparked joy in her heart. This was Darren on his final day, when Amy had looked at him, really looked, and seen beyond the love and the fear and the determination. She had learned to be strong for them both. For almost fifteen months, she had remained by his side, even when he wanted to give up, even when he was ready. Still she had fought. But that day, she had seen the truth. Darren had wasted down to skin and bones. His face had turned craven. Even the hue of his hair had leached away, leaving it the color of dirty glass. She had looked into his eyes and known he was nearly gone. The fight was over. Then he had said it, the words he had spoken any number of times, only she had refused to hear. “You’ve got to let me go.”

  This morning Amy sat on the sofa beside her daughter. Kimmie handed her the doll and asked her to braid its hair as well. She watched her hands go through the motions. Darren’s words echoed through her all over again. Kimmie took the doll back, and Amy sat staring at the truth there in her empty hands. She was moving on.
And part of her was very frightened by that.

  After buying gas and some groceries and paying the center for the apartment and power company deposits, she had four thousand eight hundred dollars in her new bank account and another two hundred and forty dollars nestled in her purse. She had not been this flush since hitting the road. Amy cradled her mug and thought of some of the things she had forced herself to ignore for so long. How the road had drummed through the camper’s tired suspension, a constant vibration that had left her back numb. How the bald tires had shrilled through the softest of turns. How the slightest nighttime sounds beyond the cracked window by her head always woke her up with a flash of fear. How little things like footsteps on gravel could frighten her. How Kimmie had squealed in terror at every passing truck.

  Now the prospect of a future loomed ahead of her. One with new boundaries. Of course she was scared.

  The three men outside her window had drifted down closer to the street when Amy emerged. She walked past, giving no sign that she saw the men, paying rapt attention to Kimmie describing a painting she wanted to do in day care. At the center, Lucy waved as they passed and was in the hall waiting when Amy returned from dropping Kimmie off. Lucy greeted her with a fierce hug and the words “What you said last night was pure gold.”

  “I wanted to help.”

  “You did more than that. You inspired me. I dreaded standing up there. Always have.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Sure. I saw that. But you conquered your fear, and it steadied me. Not to mention how a dozen people came up after to tell me how they’d been impacted by your words.” Lucy shared a from-the-heart smile. “After the vote, the pastor told me the church needs to go through a gut check every now and then. Hopefully, I’ll learn how to follow his lead and take days like that in my stride. Say, in about ten thousand years.”

  Amy took a deep breath. “Speaking of meeting fears, can I ask you about something else?”

  “Anything.”

  “This morning I got woken up by a dream. I was back in the hospital with my husband.” She related both the dream and the realization that followed. As she spoke, she saw Lucy’s tension gradually fade. When she finished, Amy asked, “Does it ever go away?”

  Lucy did not need to ask what she was talking about. “We are shaped by the events of our lives. The question you need to be asking is, can you heal to the point where you are in control of your response? Because there will always be events that threaten to strip away your control. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “I think so.” Amy was no longer surprised by the woman’s adept manner of reading people. “Why does that scare me?”

  “Because the real issue is not whether you lose your fear or your regret or your memories. The real challenge lies in taking control of your response. You still have my numbers?”

  “Somewhere.”

  Lucy pulled a card from her pocket and wrote down two numbers. “Home phone and cell. Day or night.”

  “I don’t want to bother you.”

  “You won’t.” Lucy patted her shoulder.

  Amy pushed back through the doors to the parking lot and wondered what it would be like, to have the ability to focus so totally on others. Giving without measure. Caring even when the whole world invited her to turn away.

  Amy left the church building and walked over to where Paul and Granville waited. Sweat patches stained Granville’s white shirt. If Paul was affected by the heat, he gave no sign; he said to her, “That was very brave, what you did last night.”

  “Your words moved me,” Granville agreed.

  Amy found it difficult to know how to respond. She made do with a small “Thank you.”

  Granville must have seen her discomfort, for he went on, “Changing the subject, did you hear what was said this morning?”

  “Yes, who was that with you in the parking lot?”

  “Ken Grant. He runs the local DEA office.”

  “Are you going to tell him about the dealership?”

  “Not unless he helps us. And not unless Bob agrees.”

  “I need to get to work.”

  Paul fell into step beside her. “Our contact with the local police force would appreciate it if you’d stop by.”

  “Not more photos,” she protested.

  “We’re way past mug shots,” Granville replied. “The chief wants to meet you.”

  Amy unlocked her car door. “Should I ask Bob to join us?”

  “Good idea.” Granville took in her new car and said, “Nice wheels.”

  Amy drove to the dealership, her thoughts going back repeatedly to the previous night, the morning, the cops, and Lucy most of all. She pulled into the employees’ parking area, feeling a very real satisfaction over not needing to hide her vehicle.

  The showroom’s atmosphere held a palpable edge. Amy noticed it as soon as she pushed through the glass doors. Salespeople glanced her way, then went back to their tight mutterings. This time of day, customers were rare. Mornings were given over to the review of special offers, a recap of the previous day, paperwork, and responses to Internet queries. Today, however, was different. Bob Denton’s office door was shut, and the glass partition was covered by the drapes. Amy dropped her purse on her desk, checked through the files in her in-box, and saw that none of the waiting documents were urgent. She followed the saleswoman she was friendliest with into the kitchenette and asked, “What’s up around here?”

  The woman’s name was Rachel, and she was one of the dealership’s top performers. Her son had Asperger’s, and the job’s flexible hours meant she could leave whenever something urgent came up. With Rachel’s son, there were a lot of emergencies.

  Rachel stirred a packet of Sweet’N Low into a cup of coffee and said, “Nobody’s talking. But my money’s on Bob Jr.”

  “He used to work here, right?”

  “‘Work’ is not the word I would use. Bob Jr. liked to come by, grab his paycheck, drift around.” Rachel’s eyes cut over to the afternoon crew’s empty desks. “Chat with his pals.”

  Amy felt the chill of sudden urgency. “Drew was his friend?”

  “Oh yeah.” Rachel took a cautious sip, her eyes agate-hard. “Old Drew and Bob Jr. were best buddies.”

  “Are they still?”

  The hard gaze shifted over. “What exactly are you asking me?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  The woman sipped again. “That’s probably wise.”

  Amy returned to her desk and rushed through the eleven sales files that had gathered since her departure the previous afternoon. The day’s business gradually accelerated. The sales manager took over in Bob’s absence. Amy waited until midmorning to pick up a pair of folders and knock on Bob’s door. There was no response. Amy gave it a moment, then opened the door. “Can I speak with you?”

  Bob sat in the gloom, his gaze pointed at nothing. “Now’s not a good time, Amy.”

  She entered anyway. Shut the door. Walked over. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  He stared at her for a long moment. “Why on earth would you want to get involved in my mess?”

  “That’s what friends do, Bob. Help each other through the hard times. Offer strength when it’s needed. Like you did for me last night.”

  He stared at her a long time. “It’s my son.”

  Amy took that as the only invitation she was going to receive and set her folders on the desk and seated herself.

  “Bob Jr. is back in rehab. I didn’t know anything about it. We haven’t spoken in three months. No, four. Last night his counselor phoned. My son has his first family intervention coming up.”

  “When?”

  Lifting his arm seemed to require a genuine effort. “Little over an hour.”

  “Would you like me to go with you?”

  That was appa
rently enough to bring Bob’s day into focus. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Bob, you forget where I’ve spent the past two years.”

  He wasn’t done. “These encounter sessions are awful. Anything under the sun gets dragged out.” He turned his gaze back to the shuttered window. “My son blames me for everything.”

  “That’s pretty standard for somebody in denial. But you’ve heard that before.”

  “Hundreds of times. From dozens of therapists.” His shoulders jerked in a humorless laugh. “They give me the apologies I’ve never heard from my son.”

  Amy rose and returned to her desk. She dropped off the files and slipped her purse onto her shoulder. Then she reentered Bob’s office and raised the blinds. She stood in the doorway and said, “Let’s go.”

  He pushed himself from the chair, reached for his jacket, and demanded, “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I’m not letting you go in there alone.” She motioned toward the outer door. “I’ll drive.”

  This time, when she crossed the dealership floor, everyone was watching.

  CHAPTER 23

  Amy phoned Paul to alert him that she was on the move. But Granville answered, saying that they had switched places. Paul needed to have his dressing changed at the hospital and then would bring the other wounded security guard home. Granville listened as she related what was happening. He said, “Bob Denton deserves better.”

  “I agree.”

  “Tell him I’ll be praying.”

  Amy cut the connection and relayed the message. Bob gave no sign that he heard. He neither moved nor spoke during the forty-minute journey, except to give three terse directions—merge onto the Greenway, take the next exit, turn left. Amy drove along a two-lane county road that ran through pastures untouched by Orlando’s ever-expanding sprawl. After fifteen miles, to the right rose a wire-mesh fence that would have suited a medium-security prison.