Night vision

CHAPTER 36

The Harman and Fox receptionist didn't bat an eye. She just wished me a pleasant afternoon and tapped a glowing button on the phone with the tip of her polished nail. A law clerk stopped in the corridor, started to ask, thought better of it, and ducked into the copying room. My partners were either at a late lunch or an early golf game, so I was unmolested all the way back to my two-window, bayfront office where Cindy sat in her cubicle, pretending to type.

"Holy shit! Did you get the license number?"

I lifted my standard-issue, rubber-tipped aluminum cane and said, "It's not as bad as it looks."

"It looks like you stuck your leg in a manhole and your head in a beehive."

True. I could barely walk, little welts were popping out of my forehead, and my right eye was swollen shut. Max's jabs had left more marks than pain. The leg wasn't broken, but not for lack of trying, and the foot still hurt from where Carruthers danced on it. I stretched out the leg and eased into my high-backed chair.

"Musta been a mean hombre," Cindy said, fishing.

I didn't bite.

"I mean, he musta been one big nut crusher."

"Right. Runs about a hundred twenty, including his saddle."

"C'mon. Probably a whole gang of thugs with chains and clubs."

"Cindy, it was a tough morning. Bring me the mail and the messages and any work you may have inadvertently done, then leave me alone."

"Okay, okay, I been working. The usual pleadings to sign. Motions to continue, motions to defer, motions to forget. Nothing in the mail to interest you except a trial lawyers' convention in Aruba."

"Great winds," I acknowledged, wondering when I would be able to put weight on my left leg. If I couldn't windsurf in the Aruba-Bonaire classic, maybe I could qualify for the wheelchair races.

"Bunch of calls piling up since you been out of touch. Charlie Riggs says the bass are biting. Granny Lassiter asks whether you're eating enough greens. Dr. Katzen wants to talk. Oh, your friend Rodriguez called."

I picked through the stack of pink forms.

"What the hell does this mean?" I asked her.

"Dunno. Figured you would…"

I read the Rodriguez message aloud: "'Got story for your friends at the paper, on the record this time.'"

"What else did he say?"

"That's it, word for word, or best I can do since shorthand isn't my strong suit. Said it was priority one, or category red, or some cop talk."

I dialed Rodriguez's number, but it rang busy. I signed some letters and some pleadings, barely pausing to note the typos.

Tried again. Still busy. I reviewed some memos from the managing partner about indiscriminate use of the firm's credit cards at a Surfside massage parlor.

Tried another time. Still busy. What did Rodriguez want? Last time he talked to the paper, he was a "source close to the investigation" and let everyone know about the Compu-Mate connection.

One more try, then I rang the operator. I told her my name and semiofficial part-time government position, and through infinite willpower, she concealed how impressed she was. She took a moment plugging into the line. Off the hook, she said.

Okay, maybe he was taking a nap. Could have been at a homicide scene half the night. I grabbed the cane and my cotton duck Tilley hat with the wide brim to hide my battle scars and hobbled toward the parking garage. Cindy advised me not to pop two Tylenols with codeine, but it was the only way to use the clutch without my left leg declaring mutiny. By the time I reached I-95, nothing hurt that much. I felt fine. Even the traffic seemed more tolerable than usual, though there was an inordinate amount of horn-honking headed west on the Don Shula Expressway just south of the airport. I looked at my speedometer and discovered I was doing thirty-five in the passing lane. A little too mellow, the pills woozing me into outer space.

I slapped my face a couple of times, stuck my head into the wind, and put the old buggy into fourth gear, giving it hell. Ten minutes later, I pulled into Alex Rodriguez's driveway, bouncing over the curb when I missed the cutaway.

It was a small concrete-block, stucco house with faded green shutters and a carport. The county-owned Chrysler was there, locked up tight, the hood cool in the shade. The house was old and the yard belonged to a guy who didn't know crabgrass from crawfish. There were no children, so when Maria left him, she really left, heading to Honduras with a man who said he owned twenty-seven percent of a coffee plantation.

I rang the doorbell and waited.

I tried the door. Unlocked.

I stepped inside. The air-conditioning was on, whimpering and groaning. The coils could use cleaning. I called his name. The compressor whimpered. I tried again, louder.

I eased my way, cane-first, through a small living room with lime shag carpeting. The dining room was a raised section to the rear. The kitchen was dark. I flipped on a light. Rodriguez would never win a homemaker-of-the-year award. Beer cans, paper plates, and the fossilized remains of home-delivery pizza covered the sink and counters. The kitchen phone dangled down a wall by its cord. I put the receiver back on the hook and called his name again. Nothing.

Down a narrow hall were two rooms. The first was the master bedroom. The bed was unmade. A rumpled short-sleeve shirt was draped over a chair. Heavy black oxfords sat on the floor, a sock balled in each one.

I peeked back into the hall. One other door to try. It would be a spare bedroom used as a study. The Biggus Dickus sanctuary. Despite the air-conditioning, I started sweating.

The door was cracked an inch. I pushed it open with the tip of my cane. No one went in or came out. I raised the cane like a sword, figuring I could handle anybody armed with an umbrella, maybe even a crutch.

The room contained a chair, a desk, a phone, bookshelves, a computer.

And Alex Rodriguez.

He lay on his back. His bare feet stuck out from beneath the desk. The chair was overturned. He wore gray slacks and a white T-shirt. The T-shirt had a small, blackened hole just over the heart. The hole was surrounded by a spray of gunpowder. Somebody had gotten close. I felt for a pulse, didn't expect to find any, and wasn't surprised.

I was breathing hard and my mind was racing. I tried to think like Charlie Riggs. What would he do? Slow down. Talk to me, Charlie. There are four manners of death. Accident, suicide, homicide, and natural. Even I knew it wasn't a heart attack. I looked around for a gun. Suicide or accident, and it would be right there on the floor. No gun. Okay, Lassiter, it's a homicide. Very good. Step to the front of the class.

Now, try not to disturb anything and look around. What do you see? A fairly neat desk. Some bills, a day-old newspaper, some advertising fliers, and a police-department fingerprint kit. Something else that looked familiar, the logo of interlocking male and female symbols. I picked it up. It asked for name, address, handle, and password. It asked how often you used the service and if you had any suggestions. It asked, on a scale of one to ten, how you would rate the overall quality of the fantasy and the flesh produced by your pals at Compu-Mate.

Alex Rodriguez never answered the questions. Before he had a chance to fill in the blanks and stick on his stamp…wait. There was no return envelope. The questionnaire didn't come in the mail. It would have been brought by Bobbie Blinderman, who personally surveyed her customers.

Satisfaction guaranteed.

Somewhere in the back of my mind a buzzer was going off. The Compu-Mate connection. Of course.

Nick Fox and Alex Rodriguez didn't kill anyone. The murders weren't to silence anyone. And they weren't the work of a motiveless serial killer. They were planned and carried out for the oldest and best of reasons. Jealousy and revenge.

Nobody fucks with Bobbie.

Bisexual and promiscuous, Bobbie Blinderman waltzed door-to-door with her cockamamie surveys. You never know who'll invite you in for a drink and a tickle. Maybe a TV Gal, a Flying Bird, a Forty Something. And you never know who'll be right behind. An enraged husband who borrows a dead guy's poetry and a drunk guy's handle. He finds the bedroom, too, gets his revenge. Uses a gun to force his way, then ends the rivalry with his powerful jockey's hands. Until the next one comes along.

Larynx snapped in two. Fractured hyoid, thyroid, and cricoid cartilage, the whole shebang.

I remembered his hands, clawing reflexively at my own throat. With the women, it was easy enough. But that's not how you kill a man. If you target a man, a cop, you bring a gun and use it.

I gingerly picked up the phone, trying not to leave prints. I called the state attorney's office and told Nick Fox where I was and who lay on the floor.

"Oh Jesus," he said.

I told him about Bobbie and Max Blinderman, and he said it sounded crazy.

"Nick, the guy's flipped out. He assaulted me this morning because he thinks I'm diddling his wife."

"Are you?"

"No! What's that got to do with it?"

"You musta beat the shit out of the little punk."

He waited. "No, I took it easy on him."

"Okay, I'll send homicide out there. You stay put. Let's hope we get lucky, and somebody saw him going in or coming out of the house, or we come up with a gun."

"Lucky! We've got the printouts, and Max had the motive and the ability to sign on as Passion Prince. He raped the women and strangled them, and now he's shot Rodriguez. What more-"

"Jakie, simmer down. And start returning your calls, or don't they teach that downtown? Your pal Doc Katzen stopped by about twenty minutes ago. Blinderman's blood doesn't match up."

"What?"

"You heard me, Jakie. No match on the DNA. You got nice theories, tying everything up and all. And maybe you're right for once. But Max Blinderman didn't do the screwing, so you tell me how you're gonna prove he did the strangling…"

I didn't know.

"And one other thing, Jakie."

"Yeah?"

"You're fired. I'm taking you off the investigation. Back to your divorces and whiplashes. I'll handle it from here. Turn in your badge and your gun. And give me some blood."

"Blood?"

"Yeah, Jakie. Bleed a little. You like to take it. Time to give. It's for a worthy cause. Just stop at the lab and see Dr. Katzen. And bring the gun into ballistics."

"The gun. Why?"

"Standard procedure. A man says he found a gunshot victim and the man doing the finding has a gun. Routine request, nothing more."

The gun.

The last time I saw the gun it was on a black enamel table in Cindy's apartment taking a breather after Pam fired it.

Oh brother. It's one thing to lose your new fountain pen, another to lose a county-owned gun. But what was I worried about? I hadn't done anything wrong. My blood would be red with just the right amount of calcium, phosphorus, and potassium, and a tad too much cholesterol. The gun would be right there where I left it, oiled and shiny. Wouldn't it?