Florida Knight (7 page)

The traffic funneling through
Golden
Beach
was so ferocious every off-duty city cop was called in to help, standing hour after hour at major intersections while volunteers supplied sandwiches and coffee. Michael had been part of the frantic VIP consultations. How to get southbound I-75 traffic out of downtown
Golden
Beach
.

“What about the new entrance on
Oak Road
?” Michael asked.

“Not scheduled to open for six months,” the Department of Transportation protested.

“The grade’s in, right?”

“How fast ? . . .”

“How soon? . . .”

“. . . can you get it open?” The Chairman of the
County
Commissioners
, the
Golden
Beach
mayor, and Chief of Police spoke as one voice.

“Thirty-six hours.”

“Make it twenty-four,” snapped the
County
Commissioner
.

“I don’t think we’ll last much longer than that,” sighed
Golden
Beach
’s Chief of Police.

And now, three days after the accident, Michael had a different problem. Kate Knight. He managed a grim smile as he passed the solid double line of cars and trucks headed toward the new entrance ramp under the watchful eyes of county deputies. The city cops, after heaving a hearty sigh of relief, had actually thanked him. They’d even been too tired to be profane.

Back to Kate. She’d left a message that his costume needed fitting. The incongruity of being fitted for a Medieval costume in the midst of twenty-first century chaos did not escape him. Even his brother’s suffering was dimmed by the horror on the highway. For the first time, Michael wondered if indulging his need for v
engeance was, well . . . petty.

No way!
Costumes were petty. Keeping people from being hurt wasn’t. And that’s what he was doing. He wasn’t some vigilante out for revenge.

Yet he’d snapped at Kate when he’d called her, as if she was hindering instead of helping. At the rate he was going, Kate Knight would tell him to go to hell long before he ever got to a LALOC event.

Good. He didn’t want to wear a damn costume anyway.

What was that smell? Michael lowered the driver’s side window, took a deep breath. Sweet . . . overpowering. Revolting. Hastily, he jabbed the button, sliding the window closed. Orange blossoms. He was surrounded by acres of the blasted things. So what else could he expect when driving through an orange grove in March? If he hadn’t been so exhausted, he’d have noticed where he was.

Speaking of where he was . . . Michael slowed, checked a street sign, hung a hard left. Although this area of south
Calusa
County
was only a couple of miles from his parent’s home, he hadn’t driven through it in years. He found it hard to believe Kate lived here. If it was anything like the way he recalled . . .

It was worse. Most of the mobile home parks in the county boasted a clubhouse, pool, shuffleboard; some even had tennis courts and boat docks. Almost without exception they were in the “over 55" category—reserved for senior citizens only. Those elegant parks and the haphazard collection of rust buckets where Kate Knight lived had nothing in common except the name mobile home. Even that was a joke, Michael thought, since the run-down shacks he was passing by looked as if they’d been dumped there forty or fifty years ago, never to move ag
ain.

Single-wides with peeling paint or paint so worn the wood had subsided into uniform gray. Storage sheds, scattered lawn chairs, lumber, sheets of plywood, rusting pickups, discarded washing machines and old mattresses. Michael’s scowl deepened. Okay, so he was focusing on the bad, the decrepit, the rundown. There were other sights. Boats, satellite dishes, pink flamingos, a trampoline, basketball hoops, a ham radio tower, a rebel flag, an above-ground pool. All nestled under a canopy of tall pines. There were fences of every size and description from chain link to brick. At least half the mobile homes had been expanded into something resembling a real house; many had fresh new aluminum siding. Every tiny p
atch of grass was neatly mowed.

It wasn’t good enough. A girl like Kate Knight couldn’t—shouldn’t—live in a place like this. Michael checked the address once again. Oh, hell! He made a right, slowing as he cruised down her street. Kate’s small plot of land leaped at him from half a block away. Her minuscule front yard was covered with plants that could survive the
Florida
climate. Michael recognized a few from his mother’s garden. Seagrape, crotons, firecracker and powderpuff plants, those daisies that looked like someone threw red and yellow paint at them. Began with a G, he thought. The front half of Kate’s carport was trellised and almost completely covered by bright pink bougainvillea, a sharp contrast to the single-wide’s shining white siding. To the rear, bright flowers tumbled from hanging baskets that obscured the top of a burgundy red van.

Michael knew he should be thinking some stupid word like cozy—or, worse yet, charming—but even after so many years on the job he’d let the events of the last few days get to him. That the glorious Viking Kate Knight lived in the midst of this . . .this
squalor
was the final straw. He pulled his 4Runner up behind the burgundy Dodge van, slapped away swaying strands of bougainvillea as he charged toward Kate’s door. His knock sounded more like the thunder of a midnight police raid than a business meeting between reluctant partners.

Kate’s green eyes widened as open
ed
the door. Lieutenant Michael Turco was poised on the top step, fists clenched, eyes blazing like some avenging angel come to deliver the wrath of God. Could he be this uptight about trying on a costume? “Uh
–
hi,” Kate gulped, “come on—” She swallowed her welcome as Michael slammed through the doorway. Hastily, she led the way down the narrow hallway toward the living area. If she hadn’t, she was convinced he would have mowed her down. What was wrong with the man? The last time she’d seen him he’d been almost civilized.

Kate waved her hand toward a comfortable upholstered chair next to her sofa. Blankly, Michael stared at it as if he’d never seen a chair before. Perhaps he didn’t like lavender, Kate thought.
Well, too bad, Turco. I like my color scheme.

He didn’t sit,
his fists were still clenched. Agitation radiated from every pore. Michael Turco was definitely too big for her tiny living room. Kate suddenly felt as weak and defenseless as a heroine in a long-ago Barbara Cartland romance. A feeling she’d spent years getting rid of. She didn’t like it.

“How can you live like this?” Michael burst out. “You’re bright, well-educated. You’ve got a good job. This is no place for a woman like you.”

Stunned, Kate stared at the scowling face bent over hers. Was that what was bothering him? He didn’t like the neighborhood? She couldn’t think of a thing to say but the truth. “I work part-time, Turco. This is what I can afford. I feel very fortunate to have found it.”

“It’s drug city!”

“It’s an area with a lot of good hard-working people—many of them trying very hard to make a silk purse out of sow’s ear.” They were toe to toe, Kate’s fists clenched. She wasn’t going to be the one who blinked.

“It’s Loserville.”

Kate took a deep breath. If she could keep her temper, maybe he wouldn’t completely lose his. She didn’t know him well enough to tell if he was the type to tear up the room. Herself along with it. “Lieutenant, some of us live alternative lifestyles. That often requires alternative living arrangements. Would we like something a bit bigger? Sure. But this is what we can afford. So shut up and sit down, okay?”

The entry door slammed back against the shed at the front of the carport. A hulking shadow loomed in the hallway. Kate gasped as Michael swung round, poised and ready, a very nasty-looking black gun gripped in both hands. “Michael, no!” she cried. “It’s okay, he’s a friend.” For a moment, Kate thought he hadn’t heard her; then the gun was gone, back to wherever it came from.

“You okay, Kate?” the hulk growled.

Michael’s heartbeat threatened to choke him. He’d nearly lost it. The last few days had gotten to him more than he’d thought. He was past exhaustion. Then again, the menace filling the entry hall was more than startling. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been intimidated by someone’s size, but there was a first for everything. The man’s head barely cleared the ceiling; his shoulders came close to brushing the narrow hallway on either side. His weight must be close to three hundred. None of it appeared to be flab.

“I’m fine, Bubba,” Kate assured the giant, “but thanks for checking.” She turned to Michael. “This is Clay Culpepper, known as Bubba. Bubba, this is Michael . . .” Kate broke off, Michael’s undercover name lost in the shock of the moment.

“Gibbs,” Michael supplied. The hand Bubba offered was the size of his mother’s Christmas ham, Michael thought as he accepted the hulk’s peace offering, wondering if he’d have a hand or nothing but crushed pulp left to show for it. But the giant’s grip was gentle, the face friendly to the point of ingenuous.

“Michael’s interested in LALOC, Bubba,” Kate explained. “He’s come to try on his costume.”

Bubba thought about it, nodded his pumpkin-sized head. “Uh
–
that’s okay then, Kate. Mona thought I ought to check. Said this guy looked awful mad about somethin.’”

“You tell Mona she was right,” Kate told the giant. “And you can check on me any time. I appreciate it. Having you next door, Bubba, always makes me feel safer.”

Bubba offered her an embarrassed grin. “Bye,” he muttered, then headed for the door. Kate walked him out, once again expressing her thanks.

When she returned, Michael was sitting in the lavender upholstered rocker. He raised one black shaggy eyebrow.

“Bubba and his girlfriend Mona are my next-door neighbors. Mona is Assistant Manager at Golden Beach Groves. Bubba . . . Bubba does odd jobs, helps out wherever an extra hand is needed. He’s–um–on permanent disability.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Why?”

Hell, yes, why would he want to hear another tragedy? And Michael was sure that’s what it was going to be. He shrugged. “Just tell me. If Bubba’s in LALOC, then I need to know.”

“Scotch or beer?”

“Huh?”

“You look like you could use a drink. Scotch or Guinness is all I’ve got.”

“Scotch. Sprinkle some water over the rocks.”

After Kate handed Michael his drink, she sat on the end of the sofa as far from his chair as she could get. She took a sip of her own scotch, felt the cool of it sliding down her throat. Keeping her gaze on the mound of ice in her glass, she said, “Bubba and Mona were high school sweethearts. They planned to get married as soon as they could afford it. Mona worked as a receptionist, took some night courses at the community college. Bubba worked construction. Mona lived at home, rode a bicycle to work. Bubba had a motorcycle.”

Kate took another swallow, choked, coughed, waving Michael away as he came halfway out of his chair. “Sorry,” she gasped. “This isn’t easy. Mostly I try not to think about it. I didn’t know Bubba then, but my imagination
tends to
works overtime when
it comes to people I care about
. Anyway . . . not long before I moved to
Golden
Beach
—about seven or eight years ago—Bubba was riding to work one morning when a car pulled out of a driveway straight in front of him. It’s hard to think of anyone Bubba’s size being invisible, but the driver swore he never saw him.” Kate sighed. “Bubba recovered from all his other injuries, but . . . well, he’s never going to be able to hold a regular job again.”

Like Mark.

Maybe like Mark. With Mark, there was still hope.

“I’m sorry, Kate.” The inanity was all Michael could think of. He was sorry for Bubba, for the unknown Mona, for Kate. For so many things.

“When he came back from rehab, Mona moved in with him. Financially, they’re better off if they don’t get married. Insurance quirks,” Kate added. “So they just keep going, living life as best they can. Any time I feel sorry for myself, I only have to look next door to realize I ought to be counting my blessings.”

For a few moments silence filled the mobile home. A thought-filled silence, Kate realized, not at all awkward. She got up, took Michael’s empty glass, fixed a refill. She was at the sink when she finally took in Michael’s haggard appearance, the deep lines of exhaustion, and . . . stress? Pain? She should have thought . . . should have known. The billows of black smoke had filled the sky to the east. The newspapers had been full of the story of the crash and burn of the gasoline tanker, the death of the driver, the incredible traffic tie-up to follow.

As Kate put the fresh drink in his hand, she could see Michael had given in at last. From uptight and belligerent, he had faded to slumped and silent, all the fight gone out of him. “You were involved in that accident, weren’t you?” she asked.

“Yeah. I’m lead investigator.”

“Oh, Michael, I’m sorry,” Kate breathed.