Deceived

18

Mica led me behind tires and through more wreckage that screened us from graybeard’s view. In the far corner of the property was a metal building where weeds sprouted along the fencing. The building was to our right, but we turned left and didn’t stop until we were among a row of vehicles that had crashed so violently, they resembled bread loaves all blackened by rust and fire. In red paint on a windshield, someone had scrawled Death Cars, as if designating the area a theme park.

“How’d you like to have been in that van?” Mica asked me, taking out his lighter and cigarettes. “Cops had that towed in last week. Still some flies around it-see ’em?” He leaned his head, exhaled smoke, then offered the pack to me. “Menthol? I got used to ’em in the joint.”

Out here, the noise of the shredder wasn’t so bad and there was more sunlight. I could see that Mica’s skin was pale and that his teeth were blackening at the roots. I had read somewhere that decay was common in meth addicts because their mouths stopped producing saliva. I wouldn’t have made the connection if Mica hadn’t grinned at me, but he did.

“I didn’t come here to provide entertainment,” I said. I had retrieved my organizer and was taking out my cell phone.

“Just explaining why you shouldn’t piss off my Uncle Harris.”

“Your uncle?”

“Grandma’s little brother,” he said, and pointed toward the van wreckage. “I’d rather been riding shotgun in that mess than have ol’ Harris stuff me in a shredder. Hell, he’d do it, too! That boy’d still be in Raiford if they could’a found more than a piece or two of his wife. Harris, he might look messy, but when it comes to his work, that boy’s goddamn tidy!” Mica took a long drag of his cigarette, his message sent, then asked, “How many years it been since we seen each other, Hannah-han?”

Hannah-han. As a toddler, Mica had been unable to pronounce my name, and the nickname had stuck with the Helms children. Which might have been endearing, but Mica was still grinning while his eyes ogled the contours of my blouse.

“I was hoping we could talk like adults,” I replied, concentrating on my phone. The mention of Harris Spooner’s wife being found in pieces had made my stomach roll, and I didn’t want to show he’d upset me.

“Go right ahead, I’m enjoying the scenery. By god, you’ve filled out, girl!” Apparently, Mica expected me to smile at the compliment. I didn’t, which offended him enough to trigger his temper. I was scrolling through recent calls when he added, “A body like a Q-tip, that’s the way I remember you looking. No… what was it kids called you? Oh! Pizza on a stick ’cause of them pimples! One thing that hasn’t changed is your shitty sense of humor. Honey… you need to loosen up.”

Even as a boy, Mica had had a viper’s tongue and the brains to hit his target where it hurt most. His words stung, but the girl he was taunting was long, long gone. I remained calm. “There’s nothing funny about stealing from old folks, people you’ve known all your life,” I said. “But I’ll admit that someone played a pretty good joke when they listed you on the board of directors.”

I had shown him the Fisherfolk membership form but hadn’t mentioned that I had been hired to investigate the organization. It was unprofessional of me, no doubt, but mentioning his directorship now wiped the grin off Mica’s face. He had been lounging against the fence but stepped away. “Who told you that?”

I said, “I don’t know what all Loretta gave you, but the items I mentioned belong to our family, not her. I’ve got a right to know the thief’s name, don’t I? So I checked public records. Crystal’s name’s there, too, but I can’t imagine her being involved in something like this.”

Mica did a vaudevillian take, the one where the comedian’s cheeks bulge instead of spitting water, then sputtered, “You sure as hell ain’t spoke with Crystal in a while, have you?”

“I plan to see her next,” I said.

“The hell you are!”

“Before the funeral, if you wouldn’t mind giving me an address. Is she doing okay?”

Mica played along. “Well, let’s put it this way: Crystal got religion long enough to gain a hundred pounds-but I imagine she’s improving since Mamma died.”

“That’s a terrible way to speak!” I told him.

“Don’t care if it is. It’s true-those two hated each other. If you want Crystal’s address, check with the loony ward or call her probation officer.”

I let that go by saying, “The funeral’s tomorrow, Mica. I expect I’ll see her.”

The man had lost track of the days, though. I could tell by the blank look on his face. “Tomorrow’s Thursday,” I reminded him. “Services are at Kirby Funeral Home, then burial’s at the cemetery on Pine Island Road. I’m sure Crystal will be there, but maybe you have other plans.”

He pointed a finger and stepped toward me. “You stop your damn nagging! And stay away from my sister!”

“What I’m going to do is call a sheriff,” I said, concentrating on my phone, “and get all your threats down on paper.”

That made him even madder, but Mica was too smart to put his freedom and his starving brain at risk. “Hold on a sec… please?” He waited until he had my attention, then the meth addict tried to become a salesman. “For one thing, Fisherfolk is a legal nonprofit, so no one’s stealing nothin’. If you checked the records, you know that’s true. Give me a chance and I’ll prove what a good deal it is for the folks around here.”

“Someone filled out all the right forms,” I countered, “which means it wasn’t you. Was it a doctor named Alice Candor? Or maybe a company she and her husband own. I’ll find out anyway, so you might as well tell me.”

Mica recognized the name, I could tell by the thoughtful look he affected, but seemed unaware of a connection. “Some doctor’s name’s listed in the records? Show me, I’d like to see if it’s true.”

“I didn’t say that. But if that’s who you’re working for, be careful. She’s a psychiatrist, Dr. Alice Candor. She treated prison inmates before she came to Florida. And if she’s treating Crystal, there’s something Crystal should know. This woman did experiments on her patients. The paper she published is on the Internet.”

What kind of experiments? I could see the question forming in Mica’s eyes, but he couldn’t ask without conceding that he knew the woman.

“It’s the truth,” I pressed. “This was in Ohio, but she’s here now. Is that how you got involved? There’s no shame in going to a rehab clinic, Mica, but Dr. Candor is a dangerous choice.”

The man was becoming agitated and tried to regain control by saying, “She don’t have anything to do with what we’re doing-and what we’re doing is legal.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s right,” I said, which was Joel Ransler’s line but seemed appropriate.

“Right?” Mica snorted, then turned to me with a wild look in his eyes. “Name me one time this state treated people like us right. Think about it, girl! Families like ours-there was just a handful who settled this state. They put up with the ’skeeters and heat and snakes long enough to turn this shithole swamp into prime real estate. Our people put fish and citrus on the tables of Yankees who treated us like redneck trash. Then how’d they thank us? Soon as there was enough Ohioans, they voted the net fishermen out of business.”

He began to pace, using his boney hands to gesture. “They closed our co-ops but sold commercial licenses to any asshole from ’Bama or Georgia who plunked down seventy-five bucks. Japs and Cubans, too, running factory ships twelve miles off Marco Island-shit, I seen it, girl! Then taxed us out of our houses, and said, ‘Oh, by the way, you can’t net no more mullet or trout or pompano, neither!’” He snapped his cigarette away. “If there’s anyone who should understand why our people deserve a museum, it’s you, Hannah Smith.”

I looked at my phone again. Birdy Tupplemeyer, Joel Ransler, and Tomlinson had all left phone messages, but it was Birdy’s number that I had selected. My thumb had remained poised, though, while Mica talked. The question I was asking myself was Is he exploiting the truth or does he believe what he’s saying? because much of what he had said was true.

Exploiting, I decided. It didn’t take long to make up my mind.

MICA HAD GOTTEN some coaching. It showed when he went into his sales pitch, telling me, “Picture a whole room showing what the Smith family did for Florida. Old photos of your Aunt Hannahs, your grandfolks, all the famous Smiths.” He used his hands to create a wall for me to imagine. “Your granddaddy’s fishing gear, that would look good up there, too, wouldn’t it? Same thing for my family-a place where tourists could enjoy our family’s pictures and antiques.”

I wondered if he’d practiced these lines on Mrs. Padilla and the others while he continued, “Then you got your Browns and Weeks families. The Padillas, the Hamiltons, and Joiners-you know all the names. Hell, the Woodrings alone should have a whole room. Same with the Chatham family and the Colliers-don’t matter they’re rich or poor,” Mica smiled while his eyes sought my approval.

“The Chathams, huh?” I said, suddenly more interested. “Are they paying to have this museum built?”

“Everybody’s got to chip in. It wouldn’t be fair otherwise.” Mica stood straighter, his smile broadened.

I had to smile, too, when he said that. “You were never known for fairness, Mica Helms. Tell me the truth. How much you charging Loretta and the others to get into this museum of yours?”

Before he answered, he studied me, his manner now asking Can I trust you? It was his reluctance that told me my suspicions were accurate.

“What you’re really doing,” I said, “is tricking old people into signing over their property, aren’t you? Especially waterfront. That’s why your mother moved out of Munchkinville, I’d bet. She signed over her cottage, then you got her preaching to her friends and handing out donation forms. Mica”-I tried to stop myself but couldn’t-“Mica, did it ever cross your mind that your mother might still be alive if she’d lived closer to her friends? I’m not going to let that happen to Loretta!”

He glared a glassy warning, then tried to settle himself by lighting another cigarette. He smoked and paced in a circle, but he was too mad, and too mean, not to punish me for guessing the truth. Finally, he stopped and faced me. “You always did act like Miss High-and-Mighty. Well, let me tell you something, girl. You’re just mangrove trash, no better than the rest of us.”

I deflected the insult by replying, “If that’s true, maybe I’d understand why you’re stealing from your own people.”

Mica pretended to give that some serious thought, then seemed to drop his guard a little. “Well, honey, truth is, I ain’t the dumb little kid you remember. I figured something out. Back in the day, folks around here made money. I’m talking piles of cash. Now that they’re old, most of ’em are happy to donate to a place that will show off their family history. Plus it helps ease the guilt they feel-which I’m sure you already know.” He let that sink in before adding, “Mamma was tickled pink to help spread the word about Fisherfolk. Same with your own sweet Loretta. So I don’t see it as stealing.”

What was that supposed to mean? I told him, “I didn’t hear you mention any pot haulers on your list of names.”

“Didn’t I?” he said, and gave me a look that asked How can you be so damn naïve? At last, I understood. He was hinting that Rosanna Helms and Loretta had both been involved in smuggling drugs.

“That’s cruel, even for you,” I said. “Your mother’s not even in the ground yet, and Loretta hated boats. Still does! Show some respect!”

Mica laughed that away while a silky wink came into his tone. “Instead of fighting me, you could be helping collect donations. I wouldn’t expect you to work for free. You’d be paid on a percentage basis-like all charities do it. Hannah-han”-he spoke my name as if I was already a conspirator-“some of our people had so much cash lying around, they didn’t know what to do with it. You think they put it in banks? You think they paid income tax on that money? Hell no! They hid it-and killed more than one man to protect what they were doing.”

“You’re talking about your father,” I said.

“Goddamn right I am! Didn’t you hear me say folks around here got reasons to feel guilty? Daddy was a mean sonuvabitch, but he wasn’t dumb. Think how much you could sock away if you made ten, twenty million cash, and didn’t pay the IRS? If I’m right, someone owes us both. Think of this as collecting your inheritance, ’cause that’s the way I see it.”

Once again, taxes had been mentioned, but that ended the conversation as far as I was concerned-and also explained why Mica Helms might have ransacked his own mother’s house. Hunting for cash, hunting for something. I started toward the gate while tapping numbers on my phone.

“Hey… hey! Who you calling?” Mica followed, the cigarette clinched between his teeth.

“That sheriff’s deputy,” I replied. “I’m less tolerant of bullying since Friday when you chased me with an axe. Or was it him?” I looked toward the trailer, but Spooner had vanished from the steps.

“You’re crazy!” Mica hollered, but then surrendered in a rush by promising to return Loretta’s donations if I hung up the phone.

Too late. Birdy answered, saying, “You better not be backing out. My friend loaned me his night vision dealie.” She was talking about the plans we’d made for tonight.

I remained formal. “Deputy Tupplemeyer, you said I should call if I had any problems at the junkyard.”

Mica groaned and spun away while the redhead became all business. “If you’re in trouble, give me a landmark, I’m on my way. In danger, say something about-shit, I don’t know-say your watch broke, that’s why you’re late. Then pretend to hang up-but don’t.”

Looking at Mica, I said, “No trouble so far, but you asked me to check in. Can I call you back in twenty?”

“Is this about that charity scam?”

“Seems so.”

“You’re trying to scare some asshole,” Birdy guessed. “No problem. I’ll call you back in five. Put your phone on Speaker before you answer.”

I replied, “Well, if you’re already in Glades City, that’s fine,” and hung up.

Mica was lighting another cigarette, his nerves and starving brain on overload. “Shit, that’s just dandy. I give you a chance to make some real money, but you go crying to the cops anyway!”

I pointed to the metal building and said, “Not if we find Loretta’s things in there. Otherwise, the deputy and I are just meeting for lunch.”

“Lunch! With a cop?” Mica studied me, suddenly suspicious. “You stay away from that storage barn. Hear me? It’s up to Harris whether he gives us the keys or not.”

For the first time, I took a real look at the building: corrugated roof and siding, with sliding doors like a garage but bigger, and they were padlocked. Against an outside wall was a stack of car batteries and piles of trash that included metal cans-the kind that hold paint thinner. I sniffed the air and suddenly understood why the area had a nasty chemical smell. The building was probably a meth lab.

“Don’t get any stupid ideas,” Mica warned softly.

I was moving away from him when Birdy, whose internal clock runs fast, called back. I touched Speaker and turned the volume loud so Mica wouldn’t miss a word.

“Ms. Smith? Deputy Tupplemeyer here. We’ve got a couple of K-nine units in the area, and I know how much you like dogs. Mind if we stop and say hello?”

When my eyes shifted to Mica, he was waving his hands to focus my attention and mouthing the words Okay!… Okay! meaning he would open the storage barn, answer my questions, anything I wanted. I didn’t believe him but the K-9 unit was a fiction, too, so I went along with it, telling Birdy I would call back in a few minutes.

Mica was lying, as expected. But it gave Harris Spooner time to appear, the ZZ Top giant who moved methodically despite the pit bull that was pulling him along by its leash.

“I’m betting on that Chevy again!” he called to us, grinning. “Or she can pay me twenty bucks and walk out like a lady. Her choice.”

The man had added an extra ten as interest, apparently, but it was actually extortion because I was terrified of the dog, which he could read in my reaction. It caused Spooner’s grin to broaden, a grin so wide and wild it spread his beard like a curtain and laid his teeth bare on a face that was the size of a yeti and just as hairy.

I didn’t freeze but didn’t argue back either. Just stood there numbly while Harris knelt to slap the dog’s neck while saying to Mica, “You talk too much, dickweed.”

Mica feigned indignation. “You know I wouldn’t do that!”

“I heard you, boy. Piles of money and unpaid taxes. You didn’t say that?” Harris’s head pivoted slowly until his eyes found Mica. “You ever bring another stranger back here, keep flapping your lips way you do, I’ll turn you into something Vixxy can lap from a bowl.”

Mica’s expression became glassy, but he tried to save face by saying, “This girl, she’s almost like family. You knew her people!”

Spooner nailed him with another look that read I’ll deal with you later, then got back to me and his wager, saying, “I don’t see no money in your hand, girl, so you must be real proud of those legs of yours. Well, if that’s the way you want it.” He reached to unsnap the dog’s collar. “You get a five-second head start. Damn it, girl, better run!”

The threat shocked me out of my daze and I replied with a threat of my own. “Mister, I’ve got a sheriff’s deputy waiting outside-ask Mica, if you don’t believe me. A whole team, plus a K-nine unit!”

It was the wildest of lies but didn’t matter. Before Spooner could respond, a familiar voice stopped everything by hollering, “Leave her alone, Harris! Mica, back away, and let me see your hands! I’ll shoot that damn dog, if I have to.”

Joel Ransler was there when I turned, a pistol in his left hand and ready but pointed at the ground. Then proved he could bully both men-possibly showing off for my benefit-by asking, “What’s the problem, you fellas miss showering at Raiford? Or just the strip searches?”

A few minutes later, in the parking lot, I told Joel, “Thank god you made me text the address!” which I had to yell out because Mica had resumed shredding tires.

The special prosecutor responded by asking me to lunch, then leading me to his Audi, which was a new A6, it turned out.

Best of all, the car was quiet inside.