Film Strip (25 page)

I turned down the sandy side road that ran alongside the police department and turned into the parking lot. The Panama City P.D. blended in with its surroundings. It was a low, tan building that sprawled across its lot on the main drag into town. Many people drove right past it, missing it because of the dog pound that sat just next door. The pound was shaped like a giant igloo dog kennel. Most people were so busy staring at the misshapen building that they missed the police municipal building.

I drove up to the front of the building, parked, and walked through the double glass doors and into the lobby. Paula, the chief records clerk, looked up and waved through her bullet-proof shield. “I'll page him,” she called through the speaker.

“Make that a large fries,” I said back, and sat down across from a crew of Mexican construction workers. The men were so intent on their conversation that they barely looked up. They surrounded another worker who sat clasping his bandaged head in his hands and crying.

Nailor kept me waiting long enough to figure that the crying man had been pistol-whipped and robbed. There was much gesturing and apparently a lot of blaming going on, as the men tried to sort out their buddy's trauma. When Nailor did finally make an appearance, I was reluctant to leave. It was like watching part of a soap opera and not knowing the outcome.

“Don't you have anyone that speaks Spanish here?” I asked Nailor.

He looked over at the men and shrugged. “We've got one, but he's off today. There's a lady who works in the chief's office, but she's at lunch. She'll help out when she gets back.”

I looked up at him and saw that the lines around his eyes were thickened with fatigue. Oh, well, that's what happens when you stay up half the night with Sierra Lavotini. I chuckled and saw, too late, that he had his cop face on.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

He was leading me through the warren of corridors, heading for his minuscule office. He didn't answer.

“Are you pissed 'cause Marla made bail?”

He said nothing until he had me in his office with the door closed.

“No,” he said, “I'm pissed because, as usual, something's going on and I'm the last to know.” He sat down across from me and folded his arms across his chest. “What do you know about a guy named Cozzone being transported to the state hospital in Tallahassee, involuntarily, because of a false commitment order?”

I returned his stare. “Not a damn thing,” I answered.

“All right, let's try this on,” he said. “One of my officers positively identified you as being at Ernie's when they went to pick him up. She says you were seated at a table with him.”

There was no getting out of this one. “Okay,” I said, “but you can't say I didn't try and get your cooperation.”

Nailor's face reddened. “I sure as hell can, because I don't know what in the hell is going on, Sierra.”

I stood up and leaned across his desk. “I told you that Marla the Bomber didn't kill those girls or Barboni, but you didn't want to hear it. I had to find out what I could on my own. And now you're mad.”

“You're damn right I'm mad,” he thundered. “You used my people.”

“I did not. I didn't know Packy Cozzone was wanted.”

Nailor threw up his hands. “What is it with you? Sierra, this isn't a game. You can't manipulate the system to meet your needs.”

“Why not? I didn't see you or anyone else listening to me. What? I should just sit back and let Marla go to the chair for murders she didn't do? I should let a killer run around loose and maybe kill you or me next? You think I like getting death threats?”

“What death threats? What are you talking about?”

I told him about the roses. I reminded him of the other two “messages.” But I don't think that's what turned the tide and got Nailor's attention. Somehow, as I spoke, I had the feeling he'd been sitting on something all along.

“Just suppose Marla didn't kill those people,” he said suddenly. “Suppose Raydean's right and this is somehow about you or the club. Maybe this killer's working to kill off the other headliners. Maybe he wants you to be the only dancer there, or maybe he wants to kill off all of you. Maybe Barboni knew something and that's why he was killed. I don't know, Sierra, but if this is about you, then don't you think it's time you let me handle it?”

“Maybe,” I said. “You're telling me you believe me now?”

His eyes softened and he was about to answer, but the door flew open and his lieutenant stood there. The lieutenant did not look happy.

“Hey,” he said. “We got a report of a possible abduction. Lewis is out. I need you to catch it. Call came in from an attendant at the Chevron station.” The lieutenant stopped and glanced at me. “Am I interrupting something?”

Nailor stood up and gave me a look. “No, Miss Lavotini was just leaving.” His look said that our business would wait, that I should go and wait to hear from him. Well, Sierra Lavotini might wait, but then again, she might not.

I stood up, cool as a cucumber, and turned to leave, brushing past the lieutenant.

“Just remember what I told you,” Nailor called after me.

I didn't say a word. I had come to an unpleasant conclusion of my own and Nailor wasn't going to like the way I handled it. I followed the winding corridors to the exit, my brain working double-time on a nasty theory.

What if Nailor and Raydean were both right? What if the killer was systematically killing off the competition? What if Frosty Licks and Venus Lovemotion died because they were headliners, visiting headliners who had been thinking of staying at the Tiffany? What if Marla'd been set up to look like their killer? What better way to get rid of her? But now she was out and telling people she could prove her innocence. If John Nailor and Raydean were right, then Marla would be the killer's next victim.

Thirty

Nailor had been a thirty-minute waste of my time. Marla was in trouble and stupid Little Ricky would offer her about as much protection as a newspaper in a hurricane. I had to find her, that much was clear. I couldn't wait until three. I needed to track her down at Little Ricky's trailer palace of burning love.

Someone at the Tiffany had to know where Ricky lived. I slipped out of the police lot and onto Fifteenth Street, heading for the beach and the Gentleman's Club. I reached over and punched in a cassette. I felt like something loud and wild. In short, Stevie Ray Vaughan. Music helps me think, and I had to think hard if I was going to figure this mess out.

I sped up over the Hathaway Bridge, waiting for inspiration and finding nothing. The sun was almost straight up overhead, the sky a brilliant blue. It was perfect beach weather. Tourists would be flocking to the sugary sands, but I shivered. Panama City suddenly felt cold and unfriendly. Stevie Ray wasn't scared. He sang out, urging me to come closer. I stopped at a red light and sat waiting to go. I didn't hear anyone coming up behind me; Stevie took care of that. When the passenger side door swung open I was completely unprepared.

“What the fuck is this?” Packy Cozzone said, eyeing the roses and tossing them out into the intersection. He slid into the front seat, an ugly gun poking out of his windbreaker sleeve.

“Get out of my car!” I yelled, my voice certainly carrying out of the open T-tops.

“Shut up, bitch,” Packy snarled. “If you wanna see that cousin of yours again, you'll drive like I say, where I say.”

“My cousin?”

Packy gestured to the white sedan that idled behind us. A hand emerged from the moon roof, waving the tie Francis had worn to the meeting with Cozzone.

“I got him in the backseat. Satisfied?” Packy looked smug. He knew he had us.

“What do you want, Packy?”

“Pull over to that motel lot over there. We're gonna leave your car and take mine. I don't like your taste in music and I got air-conditioning.”

There was nothing else to do but follow his instructions. I parked under a small crepe myrtle and locked the car, all under Packy's watchful supervision. I left my purse in the car, hoping that if it eventually got found by the police they'd figure I hadn't left willingly.

We walked to the sedan, the windows tinted too darkly to see what waited inside for me. Packy was practically dancing with glee at having the tables turned on the Lavotinis. I really didn't have time for this.

The back door opened as I approached the car and one of Packy's men stepped out. He did not look friendly. Francis sat hunched in the backseat, leaning against the far window. When he looked up at me, I gasped. His eyes were blackened and his nose was horribly swollen, obviously broken.

I whirled around toward Packy. “You son of a bitch!”

The muscle grabbed me and shoved me into the car, propelling me into Francis, who groaned with the pain of another sudden impact. Packy's hand shot out and smacked the back of my head, just so we could all see that he was in the driver's seat now. I bit down hard on the inside of my lip and resisted the urge to cry.

“Francis, are you all right?” I said. His hands were tied behind his back and his feet were bound together.

“Francis?” Packy said.

“That's her pet name for me,” Francis replied evenly. “The people closest to me call me Francis.” I remembered and took the cue. If Packy Cozzone found out that we weren't related to Big Moose, we'd be dead. As it stood now, we might be dead anyway, but at least the Lavotini name was slowing him up.

“Do you know what you're doing, Packy?” I said. “Do you know who you're fucking with? Because if his father sees him like this…”

“Shut up!” Packy yelled. His face was red and his foot tapped a rapid staccato burst against the car door. “Give me the stuff.”

One of Packy's men reached inside his jacket pocket and started to pull out a small plastic bag.

“Boss,” the other said, “that might not be such a hot idea. Don't you think—”

“Shut up,” Packy said, the gun suddenly aimed at the man's chest. He took the envelope from his other goon and grabbed a magazine from the floor of the car. From the looks of it, Packy was setting up to fill his nose with cocaine. He spilled a small amount of powder out onto the magazine and began tapping it into a thick line. He reached behind him and pulled a short straw off of the ledge behind the backseat. With a quick, practiced move, he snorted the cocaine. He leaned back against the seat and sniffed deeply, pulling the rest of the powder up into his nose. For a minute no one said a word. Packy sat with his eyes closed.

I looked over at Francis. He sat there, staring at Packy, his eyes filled with hatred. I knew if he could reach Cozzone, he'd kill him. Packy's eyes sprang open and he smiled at Francis, as if he'd heard him thinking.

“You don't fuck with a Cozzone,” Packy said softly. “I don't care who you are.”

The car was heading away from the Strip, I could see that much. We were moving out toward the flat farmland that rimmed the rest of the Panhandle, spreading its way back into South Georgia. There were miles and miles of deserted roads and small towns, sinkholes and briny marshes that could swallow bodies without any trace. My stomach turned and flipped as we bounced over potholes. Packy Cozzone didn't seem to care that we could see outside the car window and knew where he was taking us.

“Do you know what it's like to be led off in handcuffs to the nuthouse?” he said softly.

I stared back at him, tossing my head and trying to look at him with disdain. “I imagine it was just terrible,” I said. “But of course, you can understand our position and see why it was necessary.”

Packy's eyebrows rose into a shocked peak. “Understand? The fuck I do.”

Francis nodded. “What else could we do? You had us in a bind. In New York, we might've handled this differently, in a more, shall we say, civilized manner. But here in the boonies, we gotta improvise.”

Packy looked dumbfounded, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

“After all,” I said, “we don't know your organization that well. We didn't know you weren't going to try and hit us right there on the deck of Ernie's. You show up with a couple of armed morons. Maybe you were thinking that the best defense would be a good offense. I mean”—here I lied outright—“you guys aren't stupid, are you?”

Packy was in a bind. To deny that he'd thought about killing us would make him look like a fool; to admit to it made anything we did to protect ourselves fair game. He said nothing.

“I didn't think you were dumb,” I said. “That's why I called in a favor. See, Little Moose here, he said if you tried anything, he wanted to kill you. But I knew our two families wouldn't want a war on their hands, not at a time like this.” I leaned back and tried to look like Packy should get what I was talking about. I looked like we all knew the true story. Packy couldn't stand that. He definitely didn't want to look like he didn't know what was going on between our two syndicates.

“Well, despite that,” he said, “you handled it all wrong. You didn't need to disgrace me in front of my compatriots.” The two goons stifled smiles.

“Better that than dead,” Francis added.

Packy shrugged, possibly thinking that dead would've saved his reputation, maybe even enlarged it.

I played the trump card again. “Big Moose sure isn't gonna like this,” I said. “You hurt us, and there goes the truce.” I shook my head and looked over at Francis. “In light of what Big Moose was planning, I'd say you haven't talked this over with the higher-ups in your organization. Maybe they don't trust you with all the details, or maybe they thought you knew. That's why we didn't say too much at Ernie's. That's why we had to deal with you as we did.”

Packy sniffed and looked from one goon to the other. “Hand me the phone,” he commanded. He laid his gun down on the seat next to him and took the cell phone. I was figuring my odds if I made a grab for it, while Packy dialed.