my peripheral vision I could see one of the sergeants had come out of his office to watch. In the background a phone rang unanswered.
'Are you trying to tell me how to do my job, Estes?'
'I've done your job, Landry. It's not that hard.'
'Yeah? Well, I don't see you working here now. Why is that?'
The phone stopped ringing. The silence in the room was the silence of outer space: absolute.
Half a dozen valid answers trailed through my head. I gave none of them. Only one answer counted-to the people in this room and to me. I didn't work here anymore because I'd gotten one of our own-one of their own- killed. Nothing trumped that.
Finally, I nodded. 'All right. You win,' I said quietly. 'Cheap Shot of the Day Award goes to Landry. I figured you'd be a big asshole, and I was right. But Erin Seabright is missing, and someone has to care about that. If it has to be me, so be it. If that girl ends up dead because I couldn't find her quickly enough and you could have, that one will be on your head, Landry.'
'Is there a problem here?' the sergeant asked, coming over. 'Oh, yeah,' he said, stopping in front of me. 'I'm looking at it. You've got a hell of a nerve coming into this building, Estes.'
'Sorry. I didn't realize crime fighting had become by invitation only. Mine must have gotten lost in the mail.'
The path to the door seemed to elongate as I walked away. My legs felt like columns of water. My hands were shaking. I went out of the squad room, down the hall, and into the ladies' room, where I slumped over a toilet and vomited.
A handful of moments passed as I leaned against the wall of the stall, closed my eyes, and held my face in my hands. I was hot, sweating, breathing hard. Exhausted. But I was still alive, literally and metaphorically. I had bearded the lions in their den and survived. I probably should have been proud of myself.
I pushed myself to my feet, went and washed my face and rinsed my mouth with tap water. I tried to concentrate on my small victory. James Landry wouldn't be able to put Erin Seabright so easily out of his mind tonight, if for no other reason than that I had challenged him. If confronting him resulted in one phone call that turned up one lead, it would have been worth the effort and what it had cost me emotionally.
As I walked out to my car, I wondered dimly if I was developing a sense of purpose. It had been so long since I'd had one, I couldn't be sure.
I got into the BMW and waited. Just when I was ready to decide Landry had made his exit while I was hugging the porcelain life preserver, he came out of the building, sunglasses hiding his eyes, a sport coat folded over one arm. I watched him get into a silver Pontiac Grand Am and roll out of the parking lot. I pulled into traffic two cars behind him, wanting to know who I was dealing with. Did he go straight home to a wife and kids? Could I play that parental angle on him? He hadn't been wearing a ring.
He drove straight to a cop bar on Military Trail. Disappointingly predictable. I didn't follow him inside, knowing my reception would probably be openly hostile. This was where the rank and file blew off steam, complained about their superiors, complained about civilians, complained about their ex-spouses. Landry would complain about me. That was all right. I didn't care what James Landry thought of me… as long as thinking of me made him think of Erin Seabright too.
8
Unlike me, Sean still enjoyed embarrassing his proper Palm Beach family by occasionally showing up at the charity balls that are the life of Palm Beach society during the winter season. The balls are lavish, over-the-top affairs that cost nearly as much to put on as they raise for their various causes. The net for the charity can be shockingly low, considering the gross, but a good time will be had in the process. If one goes for that sort of thing-designer gowns, designer jewels, the latest in cosmetic surgery, the posturing and the catty mind games of the ridiculously rich. Despite having been raised in that world, I had never had the patience for it.
I found Sean in his closet-which is larger than the average person's bedroom-in an Armani tuxedo, tying his bow tie.
'What's the disease du jour?' I asked.
'It starts with a P.'
'Pinkeye?'
'Parkinson's. That's a hot one with the celebs these days. This will be a younger crowd than some of the more traditional diseases.' He slipped his tux jacket on and admired himself in the three-way mirror.
I leaned against the marble-topped center island and watched him primp. 'One of these years they're going to run out of afflictions.'
'I've threatened my mother I'm going to put on a ball for genital herpes,' Sean said.
'God knows half the population of Palm Beach could benefit.'
'And the other half would catch it at the after-party parties. Want to be my date?'
'To catch herpes?'
'To the ball, Cinderella. Your parents are sure to be there. Double your scandal, double your fun.'
The idea of seeing my mother and father was less appealing than going into the Sheriff's Offices had been. At least facing Landry had the potential for something good to come of it.
My mother had come to see me in the hospital a couple of times. The maternal duty of a woman without a maternal bone in her body. She had pushed to adopt a child for reasons that had nothing to do with a love of children. I had been an accessory to her life, like a handbag or a lapdog.
A lapdog from the pound, my heritage was called into question by my father every time I stepped out of line- which was often. He had resented my intrusion on his life. I was a constant reminder of his inability to sire children of his own. My resentment of his feelings had only served to fuel the fires of my rebellion.
I hadn't spoken to my father in over a decade. He had disowned me when I'd left college to become a common cop. An affront to him. A slap in his face. True. And a flimsy excuse to end a relationship that should have been unbreakable. He and I had both seized on it.
'Gee, sorry,' I said, spreading my arms wide. 'I'm not dressed for it.'
Sean took in the old jeans and black turtleneck with a critical eye. 'What happened to our fashion plate of the morning?'
'She had a very long day of pissing people off.'
'Is that a good thing?'
'We'll see. Squeeze enough pimples, one of them is bound to burst.'
'How folksy.'
'Did Van Zandt come by?'
He rolled his eyes. 'Honey, people like Tomas Van Zandt are the reason I live behind gates. If he came by, I didn't hear about it.'
'I guess he's too busy trying to sweet-talk Trey Hughes into spending a few million bucks on horses.'
'He'll need them. Have you seen that barn he's building? The Taj Mahal of Wellington.'
'I heard something about it.'
'Fifty box stalls with crown molding, for God's sake. Four groom's apartments upstairs. Covered arena. Big jumping field.'
'Where is it?'
'Ten acres of prime real estate in that new development next to Grand Prix Village: Fairfields.'
The name gave me a shock. 'Fairfields?'
'Yes,' he said, adjusting his French cuffs and checking himself out in the mirror again. 'It's going to be a great big gaudy monstrosity that will make his trainer the envy of every jumper jockey on the East Coast. I have to go, darling.'
'Wait. A place like you're saying will cost the earth.'
'And the moon and the stars.'
'Can Trey really live that large off his trust fund?'
