Whitewash
Sabrina noticed a tension between her and Eric without Miss Sadie to buffer their two-year separation. She insisted he leave the TV on, so the silence between them wasn’t so obvious. She heard laughter and chatter from the oyster bar below. Eric almost had her convinced that it’d be safe to go down in about an hour and get something to eat. By then he told her it would be only the regulars and he reassured her they could be trusted. Sabrina wasn’t sure she could believe anything he said. In many ways he was her same old brother, but she kept thinking about the expensive designer stuff in his closet. And she kept wondering why he would call himself Eric Gallo.
Suddenly Eric turned up the TV’s volume. Her eyes caught a glimpse of her photo in the corner of the screen.
The news anchor was saying there was a warrant for her arrest while an aerial view of EchoEnergy appeared on the screen.
“The two were coworkers competing for the same position,” the anchor explained in a tone that Sabrina thought sounded like enough of a reason or motive for murder. “Earlier this evening, the victim’s father announced a hundred-thousand-dollar reward for any information leading to the arrest and conviction of Dr. Sabrina Galloway.” Sabrina couldn’t help thinking that Anna’s father looked nothing like Anna. Instead, he resembled one of the actors on The Sopranos.
The anchor went on to the next news story and Eric lowered the volume again. He evidently read her mind because the first thing he said was, “Damn it, Bree. It looks like you’re gonna have the entire Florida mafia after you.” But then he smiled.
She sat down on the rickety futon. It was soft from wear and smelled like seawater with a hint of Miss Sadie’s lemon shampoo rinse. For the moment it was her only safe haven.
“They make it sound so simple.”
“Most of the time it is. Greed, envy, lust, hate,” Eric said, watching her. “Passions run high and suddenly somebody’s dead.”
“I didn’t kill her. You know that, right?” She couldn’t believe she’d need to convince him. But if he had changed, maybe he thought she had, too.
“Hey, you’re talking to the guy you beaned with a baseball bat,” he joked and fingered the slight indent in the bridge of his nose.
She wasn’t in the mood for kidding around, but still she came back with “Only because you were standing too close to home plate.”
“You cried at the sight of my bloody nose,” he said, laughing.
“I did not,” she lied when in fact she remembered bawling uncontrollably. She was only six at the time. She thought she had caused brain damage. Finding out that his nose was only broken hadn’t been much consolation.
His eyes were serious now. “You were horrified that you hurt me. I don’t think you could hurt anyone.”
“You haven’t seen me in two years. Maybe I’ve changed.”
“People don’t change that much, Bree. They might change careers, religious affiliations, spouses—”
“Or names,” she slipped in and watched his face, waiting for his eyes.
“Who told you?”
“What? That you go by Eric Gallo these days?”
“It’s not what you think.”
“What I think? You disappeared from my life for two years. Your choice. I didn’t get a choice.” Sabrina wasn’t sure where the sudden anger was coming from, but it felt good to get it out. It needed to be said. “I needed you and you just left. Just like that. No forwarding address.”
She was hurt and angry and she wanted him to know she wasn’t sure she could trust him even now when she didn’t have anyone else. “You went to see Dad in Chattahoochee, but you didn’t come to see me.”
She stopped there and waited out the silence, holding his eyes. She wouldn’t look away. She wouldn’t let him joke and pretend it wasn’t a big deal. And she wouldn’t stay here without some explanation…without an apology.
“I left Chicago because I was angry with Dad. Not you.”
Sabrina already knew that. She knew Eric blamed their father for their mother’s accident.
“There was a lot of crap going on in my life,” he continued with little detail. “It was easier to leave and cut off all contact…re-create myself. You were an unfortunate casualty.”
Sabrina blinked hard as though the word casualty had actually physically stung her. Eric noticed and said, “But I’ve missed you every single day.”
76
Tallahassee, Florida
Leon tried to block the penlight with his body. It’d been too easy getting into the Galloway woman’s condo. Why did people leave spare keys in the most obvious places? He had figured her to be a little smarter than to use a flowerpot on the back porch.
He had noticed a rolled-up newspaper on the front steps. A cheap-ass rental still sat in her garage. He figured the police had already checked flights to Chicago, her obvious escape. A little too obvious, Leon thought, but then maybe he was giving her too much credit. After all, she had left the condo’s spare key under a fucking flowerpot.
With the narrow beam of light he did a quick sweep of the furniture, finding only one framed photo. A family photo. He recognized a younger Arthur Galloway. The daughter looked the same, still attractive, maybe a little less intense. The brother had a mix of Hollywood and Sports Illustrated good looks with dark hair, brown eyes, a dimpled smile in a square jaw. And he did favor his mother. The lovely Meredith was even prettier than Leon had imagined, a contagious smile, wild but generous eyes. He had trouble taking his eyes away. They were a good-looking family.
He checked the phone, clicking through the caller ID list and the numbers stored on the speed dial. There was nothing on her wall calendar by the fridge. Not a single notation on the scratch pad next to the phone or any indentations in the paper from a message written on the page before it.
Leon did find a leather address book in a desk drawer. This was it, finally. The corners were worn, some entries had lines through them with new information jotted in the margins. There were even dates alongside each entry, probably when she added them. It was obviously well-used and yet there was no recent entry for Eric Galloway. Only a Chicago address and phone number with an X over the entire entry. No new information in the margins. Nothing.
Leon was flipping through the address book one last time—maybe she put her brother somewhere else—but he doubted it. He was thinking how organized this Galloway woman was. Suddenly a light clicked on behind him.
He froze, waiting, listening. How could anyone sneak in on him? Sweat trickled down his back and he could feel it on his brow, too, getting ready to slide down his face. He resisted the urge to swipe at it, trying to concentrate on any footsteps coming up behind him, waiting for a voice to say, “Gotcha.” Was it possible she had been hiding somewhere? And he was sure she’d never come in on him so boldly without a weapon.
Instead of turning slowly—the expected response—Leon dived behind the sofa. He knocked his elbow against the sofa table and rammed the top of his head into the piano so hard, the vibration set off a musical twang from inside its cabinet.
“Son of a bitch,” he mumbled, digging for the gun in his waistband while his eyes darted around and above him from the floor. He was seeing two of everything, but thankfully not a single figure.
That’s when he heard a second click. He spun his entire body in the direction of the sound. He held the gun with both hands, arms stretched out and ready to fire. Again, no one there.
He was eye-level with an electrical outlet. And in the outlet was an electronic timer. Leon’s eyes followed the cord that was plugged into the timer. Sure enough it led to the lamp that had just turned on.
“Son of a bitch,” he said again, pulling himself to his feet.
The woman had timers probably to make it look like someone was here. He shouldn’t have been surprised. She looked the type. And sure enough he found timers in the kitchen for the coffee machine and another for a fluorescent light above the sink.
He went through the rest of the condo, leaving the lig
ht on in the living room and using it to his advantage. Light or no light, it didn’t take long to realize there was nothing here that would tell him where she’d gone or even how she left. Maybe another rental, he thought, and quickly discounted it. The cops would have already thought of that. So how the hell did she leave? By foot?
He looked through each room one last time and took a leak in the upstairs bathroom. He decided he’d watch the place for a few hours from the van he’d left on the street, down a couple houses. Before he left Chattahoochee he had switched license plates, again. He hoped he had another eight-hour shift before the company realized it was missing. And even on a quiet cul-de-sac like this, who’d complain about an air-conditioning service making a late-night call, especially on a bitch of a hot night.
Leon made his way back through the living room, trying to stay away from the front window, though the curtains and blinds were closed. He was at the patio door ready to slide it open when he decided he couldn’t leave just yet. He followed the wall back to the framed family photo, grabbed it off the shelf and tucked it under his arm. Then he left the way he came in, replacing the key under the same flowerpot.
Leon had barely climbed into the van when a pair of headlights swung onto the street. He popped open a can of soda from the small cooler beside him and watched the car drive past. It pulled into the driveway next to the Galloway woman’s condo. Leon probably wouldn’t have paid it much attention except it was a vintage Studebaker, the same Studebaker he’d seen leaving this neighborhood last night.
He watched the garage door slide up and in the bright light from inside the garage he got a glimpse of the driver.
He pulled out a small packet of tissues and dabbed at his forehead and upper lip. He couldn’t help thinking it odd that a little old black woman would be out this late at night.
77
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?”
78
Sabrina didn’t want to believe it. But the whole time the woman Eric called Bosco went through the list of contents, Sabrina had been fingering a metal disc through the plastic, trying to get a better look. Before Bosco even mentioned human tissue, Sabrina tried to make out the engraving between the many scratches and grooves on what she guessed might be the back of a watch. It looked like something in Latin above another series of letters. But the only decipherable ones were DW followed by scratches and rubbings and then a dissected L, more scratches and then SIK.