Part 11 (2/2)
A handful of moments pa.s.sed 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, sungla.s.ses 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.
Unlike me, Sean still enjoyed embarra.s.sing his proper Palm Beach family by occasionally showing up at the charity b.a.l.l.s that are the life of Palm Beach society during the winter season. The b.a.l.l.s 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.
”G.o.d 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 relations.h.i.+p 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 fas.h.i.+on plate of the morning?”
”She had a very long day of p.i.s.sing 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 G.o.d'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?” ”He doesn't have to. His mother left nearly the entire Hughes estate to him.”
”Sallie Hughes died?”
”Last year. Fell down the stairs in her home and fractured her skull. So the story goes. You really ought to keep up with the old neighborhood, El,” he scolded. Then he kissed my cheek and left.
F airfields. Bruce Seabright had just that morning been on his way to close a deal at Fairfields.
I don't like or trust coincidence. I don't believe coincidence is an accidental thing. In college I had once attended a lecture by a well-known New Age guru who believed all life at its most basic molecular structure is energy. Everything we do, every thought we have, every emotion we experience, can be broken down to pure energy. Our lives are energy, driving, seeking, running, colliding with the energy of the other people in our small worlds. Energy attracts energy, intent becomes a force of nature, and there is no such thing as coincidence.
When I feel like believing strongly in my theory, I then realize I have to accept that nothing in life can truly be random or accidental. And then I decide I would be better off believing in nothing.
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