Whitewash (35 page)

Tallahassee

“I saw it happen,” Sabrina said. “As soon as I explain it to the police I’m sure they’ll see there’s been a misunderstanding.”

Miss Sadie nodded and listened while her small frame glided around the kitchen, cleaning up any remnants of supper.

“I knew I would need to call the police.” But even as she spoke the words Sabrina wasn’t sure why that alternative didn’t feel right. Only now did she notice the small cooler on the counter that the old woman passed by, slowing to put things inside but never breaking her stride.

“Seems to me the po-lice should be calling you a witness, not a person of interest,” Miss Sadie said as she continued her constant motion, wiping, washing, wrapping and nodding. She had done the same thing all the while Sabrina described what she had seen take place in Reactor #5.

Sabrina was exhausted, but the effects of the shock were slowly fading. Now the questions came, although none of them concerned her story or whether she was guilty.

“Do you have anyone away from here who you can stay with for a few days?” Miss Sadie’s voice remained low, calm and soothing as if she hadn’t heard Sabrina’s tale of murder.

“I…I, ah, have friends in Chicago.” She hesitated, but Miss Sadie shook her head.

“That would be the
first
place they’d look.” The old woman began gathering the makings of a sandwich on the counter, pulling out mayonnaise, bread, deli-sliced wrapped ham and cheese and a jar of pickles. Sabrina didn’t ask though it seemed odd; she had just cleaned up from supper.

“But eventually won’t the police find me no matter where I go?” Sabrina asked, her eyes riveted to Miss Sadie’s precise swipes and layering, the making of sandwiches no different than creating a work of art.

“I don’t mean the po-lice,” she said, looking over the wire-rimmed glasses at the end of her nose. She had even stopped in midspread of the mayonnaise.

It hadn’t occurred to Sabrina until that moment that Miss Sadie was right. The police were searching for her, but someone else wanted her dead.

She tried to remember what the man looked like. From below she hadn’t been able to see his face. He had on plain navy-blue trousers and a white short-sleeved shirt almost blending in with the white pipes and steel-blue gears and valves and metal grates.

“What about your brother?” Miss Sadie asked, jerking Sabrina’s head and attention back to the kitchen.

She tried to remember what she had told Miss Sadie about Eric. Had she told her anything at all?

“My dad said Eric was living on Pensacola Beach. But I’m not sure where he is. The last I knew he was living somewhere in the Northeast, New York or Connecticut.”

Miss Sadie cocked her head, a look of confusion, but she waited for an answer rather than ask any questions.

Sabrina leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes. Launching into the whole story seemed too exhausting, so instead she said, “Eric hasn’t been in touch with me or my dad since my mom’s funeral. I think my dad wanted so badly to see Eric he hallucinated him visiting.”

When she opened her eyes, Miss Sadie was still watching her, studying her. Maybe, Sabrina thought, she was trying to figure out what the hell to do with her.

“It’s been my experience,” the old woman finally said, “that there’s an awful lot of truth in every lie. Maybe that’s also true of hallucinations.”

She wrapped the sandwiches using wax paper and slipped them into an empty plastic bread bag, then put them inside the cooler. She added cans of cat food to a brown paper sack that Sabrina only now noticed sat next to the cooler on the counter. The woman was back at the refrigerator, pulling out a plastic container from the freezer. Sabrina couldn’t imagine what more she thought was needed.

Miss Sadie plucked out of the container something wrapped in foil and began peeling it open. Sabrina’s eyes widened at the contents, a three-to four-inch stack of bills. Miss Sadie handled it like a deck of cards, counting off a layer of twenty-and fifty-dollar bills, then rewrapping the rest in the foil, snapping it into the plastic container—with a label on the lid that Sabrina could now read—PORK CHOPS—and returning it to the freezer.

When she noticed Sabrina’s look of surprise she said, “My previous employer was very generous to me. When she passed…” She lowered her head with respect and continued, “God bless Miss Emilie’s soul.” She looked back at Sabrina. “She left a third of her estate to me. I’m a logical woman and I’ve invested well, but I just don’t trust banks with all of it. This here’s my little personal stash for a rainy day. My own savings vault.” She patted the freezer door.

Then just as matter-of-fact as ever, she turned to Sabrina and said, “I think we should take a drive over to Pensacola Beach.”

Tallahassee

“I saw it happen,” Sabrina said. “As soon as I explain it to the police I’m sure they’ll see there’s been a misunderstanding.”

Miss Sadie nodded and listened while her small frame glided around the kitchen, cleaning up any remnants of supper.

“I knew I would need to call the police.” But even as she spoke the words Sabrina wasn’t sure why that alternative didn’t feel right. Only now did she notice the small cooler on the counter that the old woman passed by, slowing to put things inside but never breaking her stride.

“Seems to me the po-lice should be calling you a witness, not a person of interest,” Miss Sadie said as she continued her constant motion, wiping, washing, wrapping and nodding. She had done the same thing all the while Sabrina described what she had seen take place in Reactor #5.

Sabrina was exhausted, but the effects of the shock were slowly fading. Now the questions came, although none of them concerned her story or whether she was guilty.

“Do you have anyone away from here who you can stay with for a few days?” Miss Sadie’s voice remained low, calm and soothing as if she hadn’t heard Sabrina’s tale of murder.

“I…I, ah, have friends in Chicago.” She hesitated, but Miss Sadie shook her head.

“That would be the
first
place they’d look.” The old woman began gathering the makings of a sandwich on the counter, pulling out mayonnaise, bread, deli-sliced wrapped ham and cheese and a jar of pickles. Sabrina didn’t ask though it seemed odd; she had just cleaned up from supper.

“But eventually won’t the police find me no matter where I go?” Sabrina asked, her eyes riveted to Miss Sadie’s precise swipes and layering, the making of sandwiches no different than creating a work of art.

“I don’t mean the po-lice,” she said, looking over the wire-rimmed glasses at the end of her nose. She had even stopped in midspread of the mayonnaise.

It hadn’t occurred to Sabrina until that moment that Miss Sadie was right. The police were searching for her, but someone else wanted her dead.

She tried to remember what the man looked like. From below she hadn’t been able to see his face. He had on plain navy-blue trousers and a white short-sleeved shirt almost blending in with the white pipes and steel-blue gears and valves and metal grates.

“What about your brother?” Miss Sadie asked, jerking Sabrina’s head and attention back to the kitchen.

She tried to remember what she had told Miss Sadie about Eric. Had she told her anything at all?

“My dad said Eric was living on Pensacola Beach. But I’m not sure where he is. The last I knew he was living somewhere in the Northeast, New York or Connecticut.”

Miss Sadie cocked her head, a look of confusion, but she waited for an answer rather than ask any questions.

Sabrina leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes. Launching into the whole story seemed too exhausting, so instead she said, “Eric hasn’t been in touch with me or my dad since my mom’s funeral. I think my dad wanted so badly to see Eric he hallucinated him visiting.”

When she opened her eyes, Miss Sadie was still watching her, studying her. Maybe, Sabrina thought, she was trying to figure out what the hell to do with her.

“It’s been my experience,” the old woman finally said, “that there’s an awful lot of truth in every lie. Maybe that’s also true of hallucinations.”

She wrapped the sandwiches using wax paper and slipped them into an empty plastic bread bag, then put them inside the cooler. She added cans of cat food to a brown paper sack that Sabrina only now noticed sat next to the cooler on the counter. The woman was back at the refrigerator, pulling out a plastic container from the freezer. Sabrina couldn’t imagine what more she thought was needed.

Miss Sadie plucked out of the container something wrapped in foil and began peeling it open. Sabrina’s eyes widened at the contents, a three-to four-inch stack of bills. Miss Sadie handled it like a deck of cards, counting off a layer of twenty-and fifty-dollar bills, then rewrapping the rest in the foil, snapping it into the plastic container—with a label on the lid that Sabrina could now read—PORK CHOPS—and returning it to the freezer.

When she noticed Sabrina’s look of surprise she said, “My previous employer was very generous to me. When she passed…” She lowered her head with respect and continued, “God bless Miss Emilie’s soul.” She looked back at Sabrina. “She left a third of her estate to me. I’m a logical woman and I’ve invested well, but I just don’t trust banks with all of it. This here’s my little personal stash for a rainy day. My own savings vault.” She patted the freezer door.

Then just as matter-of-fact as ever, she turned to Sabrina and said, “I think we should take a drive over to Pensacola Beach.”

Tallahassee Regional Airport

Abda Hassar arrived at the airport first. Though the other two weren’t with him he had dressed according to Qasim’s detailed instructions. Now, as he walked through the crowds of tourists and business travelers, he was grateful for his young friend’s attention to popular culture. No one appeared to notice Abda. Though he felt ridiculous carrying a leather briefcase while wearing cargo shorts, sandals and what Qasim had called a Tommy Bahama shirt, amazingly he blended right in.

As much as Abda hated to admit it, Qasim had been correct about the gold rings, too. He had insisted all three of them buy and wear simple gold wedding bands.

“Married men, family men,” Qasim told them, “are looked at with less suspicion. They will treat us differently if they believe we have families. They will think we are less likely to do something reckless like blow ourselves up for the promise of virgins in the afterlife.”

Abda despised any comparisons to what he considered religious zealots who knew nothing of national pride, who cared little about a greater good beyond their selfish desires. He despised the comparisons, but he also wasn’t surprised that Qasim was right again. Back at Reagan National, Abda had caught an airport security officer glancing at his fake wedding ring right before he waved Abda through the security checkpoint without pulling him aside for a more thorough search. Small details, but Abda knew each one could be the difference between success and failure.

He bought a drink and a sandwich and found a table by the window of the airport restaurant. He glanced at his watch as he pulled out his laptop. Qasim’s flight from Dallas would be in shortly. Khaled’s flight from Baltimore would be another hour. He would wait for them as planned. Three Middle Eastern men flying together raised eyebrows. Three Middle Eastern men eating together at an airport restaurant was much less interesting.

Abda turned on his computer and plugged in the small jump drive he had kept separate in one of the many pockets of his cargo shorts. If airport security had confiscated his computer, at least they would not have gotten his files. Now he accessed the file folder named CatServ.

The week before, the young, blond-haired man had left an envelope on the backseat of his cab. That envelope had contained what looked like three ID badges but was in fact worth more than gold. They were for three employees of JVC’s Emerald Coast Catering. There were no photos on the badges. There was no need because there was something better. Each badge had a computer bar code printed across the bottom in special ink that according to Khaled was similar to other government documents that made them almost impossible to duplicate. Which also meant, again according to Khaled, that each employee had already passed a security background check.

Abda clicked through the file folder until he found the one he wanted, a page he had downloaded from the Web site for JVC’s Emerald Coast Catering. All he needed was to see their employees’ uniforms. He already had three free passes to the energy summit’s reception banquet. Now he just needed to see what to wear.

Tallahassee Regional Airport

Abda Hassar arrived at the airport first. Though the other two weren’t with him he had dressed according to Qasim’s detailed instructions. Now, as he walked through the crowds of tourists and business travelers, he was grateful for his young friend’s attention to popular culture. No one appeared to notice Abda. Though he felt ridiculous carrying a leather briefcase while wearing cargo shorts, sandals and what Qasim had called a Tommy Bahama shirt, amazingly he blended right in.

As much as Abda hated to admit it, Qasim had been correct about the gold rings, too. He had insisted all three of them buy and wear simple gold wedding bands.

“Married men, family men,” Qasim told them, “are looked at with less suspicion. They will treat us differently if they believe we have families. They will think we are less likely to do something reckless like blow ourselves up for the promise of virgins in the afterlife.”

Abda despised any comparisons to what he considered religious zealots who knew nothing of national pride, who cared little about a greater good beyond their selfish desires. He despised the comparisons, but he also wasn’t surprised that Qasim was right again. Back at Reagan National, Abda had caught an airport security officer glancing at his fake wedding ring right before he waved Abda through the security checkpoint without pulling him aside for a more thorough search. Small details, but Abda knew each one could be the difference between success and failure.

He bought a drink and a sandwich and found a table by the window of the airport restaurant. He glanced at his watch as he pulled out his laptop. Qasim’s flight from Dallas would be in shortly. Khaled’s flight from Baltimore would be another hour. He would wait for them as planned. Three Middle Eastern men flying together raised eyebrows. Three Middle Eastern men eating together at an airport restaurant was much less interesting.

Abda turned on his computer and plugged in the small jump drive he had kept separate in one of the many pockets of his cargo shorts. If airport security had confiscated his computer, at least they would not have gotten his files. Now he accessed the file folder named CatServ.

The week before, the young, blond-haired man had left an envelope on the backseat of his cab. That envelope had contained what looked like three ID badges but was in fact worth more than gold. They were for three employees of JVC’s Emerald Coast Catering. There were no photos on the badges. There was no need because there was something better. Each badge had a computer bar code printed across the bottom in special ink that according to Khaled was similar to other government documents that made them almost impossible to duplicate. Which also meant, again according to Khaled, that each employee had already passed a security background check.

Abda clicked through the file folder until he found the one he wanted, a page he had downloaded from the Web site for JVC’s Emerald Coast Catering. All he needed was to see their employees’ uniforms. He already had three free passes to the energy summit’s reception banquet. Now he just needed to see what to wear.