34


At dawn the cold front arrived under a foggy purple brow, and the wind swung dramatically to the north. The waves off the Atlantic turned swollen and foamy, nudging the boat even farther from the shore of Cape Florida. The tide was still creeping out.

The women were weary of shouting and waving for help, but they tried once more when a red needlenose speedboat rounded the point of the island. The driver of the speedboat noticed the commotion and cautiously slowed to approach the other craft. A young woman in a lemon cotton pullover sat beside him.

She stood up and called out: “What’s the matter?”

Christina Marks waved back. “Engine trouble! We need a tow to the marina.”

The driver, a young muscular Latin, edged the speedboat closer. He offered to come aboard and take a look at the motor.

“Don’t bother,” said Christina. “The gas line is cut.”

“ How’d that happen?” The young man couldn’t imagine.

It was a strange scene so early on a cold morning: Three women alone on rough water. The one, a slender brunette, looked pissed off about something. The blond in a sweatsuit was unsteady, maybe seasick. Then there was a Cuban woman, attractive except for an angry-looking bald patch on the crown of her head.

“You all right?” the young man asked.

The Cuban woman nodded brusquely. “How about giving us a lift?”

The young man in the speedboat turned to his companion and quietly said, “Tina, I don’t know. Something’s fucked up here.”

“We’ve got to help,” the young woman said. “I mean, we can’t just leave them.”

“There’ll be other boats.”

Christina Marks said, “At least can we borrow your radio? Something happened out there.” She motioned toward the distant stilt houses.

“What was it?” said Tina, alarmed.

Maggie Gonzalez, who had prison to consider, said firmly: “Nothing happened. She’s drunk out of her mind.”

And Heather Chappell, who had her career to consider, said: “We were s’posed to meet some guys for a party. The boat broke down, that’s all.”

Christina’s eyes went from Heather to Maggie. She felt like crying, and then she felt like laughing. She was as helpless and amused as she could be. So much for sisterhood.

“I know how that goes,” Tina was saying, “with parties.”

Heather said, “Please, I don’t feel so hot. We’ve been drifting for hours.” Her face looked familiar, but Tina wasn’t sure.

The Cuban woman with the bald patch said, “Do you have an extra soda?”

“Sure,” said Tina. “Richie, throw them a rope.”

Sergeant Al Garcia bent over the rail and got rid of his break-fast muffins.

“I thought you were a big fisherman,” needled Luis Cordova. “Who was it told me you won some fishing tournament.”

“That was different.” Garcia wiped his mustache with the sleeve of the windbreaker. “That was on a goddamn lake.”

The journey out to Stiltsville had been murderously rough. That was Garcia’s excuse for getting sick-the boat ride, not what they had found inside the house.

Luis Cordova chucked him on the arm. “Anyway, you feel better now.”

The detective nodded. He was still smoldering about the patrol boat, about how it had taken three hours to get a new pin for the prop. Three crucial hours, it turned out.

“Wh ere’s Wilt?” Garcia asked.

“Inside. Pouting.”

The man known as Chemo was standing up, his right arm suspended over his head. Luis Cordova had handcuffed him to the overhead water pipes in the kitchen. As a security precaution, the Weed Whacker had been unstrapped from the stump of Chemo’s left arm. Trailing black and red cables, the yard clipper lay on the kitchen bar.

Luis Cordova pointed at the monofilament coil on the rotor. “See that-human hair,” he said to Al Garcia. “Long hair, too; a brunette. Probably a woman’s.”

Garcia turned to the killer. “Hey, Wilt, you a barber?”

“Fuck you.” Chemo blinked neutrally.

“He says that a lot,” said Luis Cordova. “It’s one of his favorite things. All during the Miranda, he kept saying it.”

Al Garcia walked over to Chemo and said, “You’re aware that there’s a dead doctor in the bedroom?”

“Fuck you.”

“See,” said Luis Cordova. “That’s all he knows.”

“Well, at least he knows something.’“ Garcia groped in his pocket and came out with a wrinkled handkerchief. He put the handkerchief to his face and returned to the scene in the bedroom. He came out a few minutes later and said, “That’s very unpleasant.”

“Sure is,” agreed Luis Cordova.

“Mr. Tatum, since you’re not talking, you might as well listen.” Garcia arranged himself on one of the wicker barstools and stuck a cigar in his mouth. He didn’t light it.

He said, “Here’s what’s happened. You and the doctor have a serious business disagreement. You lure the dumb bastard out here and try to torture some dough out of him. But somehow you screw it up-you kill him.”

Chemo reddened. “Horse shit,” he said.

Luis Cordova looked pleased.

“ Progress,” he said to Garcia. “We’re making progress.”

Chemo clenched his fist, causing the handcuff to rattle against the rusty pipe. He said, “You know damn well who it was.”

“Who?” Garci’a raised the palms of his hands. “Where is this mystery man?”

“Fuck you,” Chemo said.

“What I can’t figure out,” said the detective, “is why you didn’t take off. After all this mess, why’d you stay on the house? Hell, chico, all you had to do was jump.”

Chemo lowered his head. His cheeks felt hot and prickly; a sign of healing, he hoped.

“Maybe he can’t swim,” suggested Luis Cordova.

“Maybe he’s scared,” Garcia said.

Chemo said nothing. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the soothing sounds of freedom: the wind and the waves and the gulls, and the ticking of his waterproof wristwatch.

Al Garcia waited until he was outside to light up the cigar. He turned a shoulder to the wind and cupped the match in his hand.

“I called for the chopper,” said Luis Cordova. “And a guy fromtheM.E.”

“Gives us what, maybe half an hour?”

“Maybe,” said the young marine patrolman. “We got time to check the other houses. Wilt’s not going anywhere.”

Garcia tried to blow a smoke ring, but the wind sucked it away. The cusp of the front had pushed through, and the sky over Biscayne Bay was clearing. The first sunlight broke out of the haze in slanted golden shafts that fastened to the water like quartz, lighting up the flats.

“I see why you love it out here,” Garcia said.

Luis Cordova smiled. “Some days it’s like a painting.”

“Where do you think he went?”

“Mick? He might be dead. Guy that size could probably take him. Dump the body off the house.”

Garcia gnawed skeptically at the end of the cigar. “It’s possible. Or he could’ve got away. Don’t forget he had that pump gun.”

“His skiff’s sunk,” Luis Cordova noted. “Somebody blasted a hole in the bottom.”

“Weird,” said Al Garcia. “But I had to guess, I’d say he probably wasn’t around when all this happened. I’d say he got offthe house.”

“Maybe.”

“Whatever happened out here, it was between Tatum and the doctor. Maybe it was money, maybe it was something to do with surgery. Christ, you notice that guy’s arm?”

“His face, too,” said Luis Cordova. “What you’re saying makes sense. Just looking at him, he’s not the type to file a lawsuit.”

“But doing it with a hammer, that’s cold.” Garcia puffed his cheeks as if to whistle. “On the other hand, your victim ain’t exactly Marcus Welby… whatever. It all fits.”

That was the main thing.

A small boat, a sleek yellow outboard, came speeding across the bonefish flats. It was headed south on a line toward Soldier Key. Garcia watched the boat intently, walked around the house to keep it in view.

“Don’t worry, I know him,” said Luis Cordova. “He’s a fishing guide.”

“Wonder why he’s out here alone.”

“Maybe his clients didn’t show. That happens when it blows hard-these rubes’ll chicken out at the dock. Meanwhile it turns into a nice day.”

Just south of Stiltsville, the yellow skiff angled off the flats and stopped in a deep blue channel. The guide took out a rod and casted a bait over the side. Then he sat down to wait.

“See?” said Luis Cordova. “He’s just snapper fishing.”

Garcia was squinting against the sun. “Luis, you see something else out there?”

“Whereabouts?”

The detective pointed. “I’d say a quarter mile. Something in the water, between us and that island.”

Luis Cordova raised one hand to block the glare. With the other hand he adjusted his sunglasses. “Yeah, now I see it,” he said. “Swimming on top. Looks like a big turtle.”

“Yeah?”

“Grandpa loggerhead. Or maybe it’s a porpoise. You want me to get the binoculars?”

“No, that’s okay.” Garcia turned around and leaned his back against the wooden rail. He was grinning broadly, the stogie bobbing under his mustache. “I’ve never seen a porpoise before, except for the Seaquarium.”

“Well, there’s still a few wild ones out here,” Luis Cordova said. “If that’s what it was.”

“That’s what it was,” said Al Garcia. “I’m sure of it.”

He tapped the ashes off the cigar and watched them swirl and scatter in the sea breeze. “Come on,” he said, “let’s go see if Wilt’s learned any new words.”


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