Skin Tight

4

After quitting the State Attorney’s Office, Stranahan had kept his gold investigator’s badge to remind people that he used to work there, in case he needed to get back inside. Like now.

A young assistant state attorney, whose name was Dreeson, took Stranahan to an interview room and handed him the Barletta file, which must have weighed four pounds. In an officious voice, the young prosecutor said:

“You can sit here and make notes, Mr. Stranahan. But it’s still an open case, so don’t take anything out.”

“You mean I can’t blow my nose on the affidavits?”

Dreeson made a face and shut the door, hard.

Stranahan opened the jacket, and the first thing to fall out was a photograph of Victoria Barletta. Class picture, clipped from the 1985 University of Miami student yearbook. Long dark hair, brushed to a shine; big dark eyes; a long sharp nose, probably her old man’s; gorgeous Italian smile, warm and laughing and honest.

Stranahan set the picture aside. He had never met the girl, never would.

He skimmed the statements taken so long ago by himself and Timmy Gavigan: the parents, the boyfriend, the sorority sisters. The details of the case came back to him quickly in a cold flood.

On March 12, 1986, Victoria Barletta had gotten up early, jogged three miles around the campus, showered, attended a 9 a.m. class in advanced public relations, met her boyfriend at a breakfast shop near Mark Light Field, then bicycled to an 11 a.m. seminar on the history of television news. Afterwards, Vicky went back to the Alpha Chi Omega house, changed into jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt, and asked a sorority sister to give her a lift to a doctor’s appointment in South Miami, only three miles from the university.

The appointment was scheduled for 1:30 p.m. at a medical building called the Durkos Center. As Vicky got out of the car, she instructed her friend to come back at about 5 p.m.and pick her up. Then she went inside and got a nose job and was never seen again.

According to a doctor and a nurse at the clinic, Vicky Barletta left the office at about 4:50 p.m. to wait on the bus bench out front for her ride back to campus. Her face was splotched, her eyes swollen to slits, and her nose heavily bandaged-not exactly a tempting sight for your average trolling rapist, Timmy Gavigan had pointed out.

Still, they both knew better than to rule it out. One minute the girl was on the bench, the next she was gone.

Three county buses had stopped there between 4:50 and 5:14 p.m., when Vicky’s friend finally arrived at the clinic. None of the bus drivers remembered seeing a woman with a busted-up face get on board.

So the cops were left to assume that somebody snatched Victoria Barletta off the bus bench moments after she emerged from the Durkos Center.

The case was treated like a kidnapping, though Gavigan and Stranahan suspected otherwise. The Barlettas had no money and no access to any; Vicky’s father was half-owner of a car wash in Evanston, Illinois. Aside from a couple of cranks, there were no ransom calls made to the family, or to the police. The girl was just plain gone, and undoubtedly dead.

Rereading the file four years later, Mick Stranahan began to feel frustrated all over again. It was the damnedest thing: Vicky had told no one-not her parents, her boyfriend, nobody-about the cosmetic surgery; apparently it was meant to be a surprise. Stranahan and Timmy Gavigan had spent a total of fifteen hours interviewing Vicky’s boyfriend and wound up believing him. The kid had cried pathetically; he used to tease Vicky about her shnoz. “My little anteater,” he used to call her. The boyfriend had been shattered by what happened, and blamed himself: His birthday was March twentieth. Obviously, he sobbed, the new nose was Vicky’s present to him.

From a homicide investigator’s point of view, the secrecy with which Victoria Barletta planned her doctor’s visit meant something else: It limited the suspects to somebody who just happened to be passing by, a random psychopath.

A killer who was never caught.

A victim who was never found.

That was how Mick Stranahan remembered it. He scribbled a few names and numbers on a pad, stuffed everything into the file, then carried it back to a pock-faced clerk.

“Tell me something,” Stranahan said, “how’d you happen to have this one downtown?”

The clerk said, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, this place didn’t used to be so efficient. Used to take two weeks to dig out an old case like this.”

“You just got lucky,” the clerk said. “We pulled the file from the warehouse a week ago.”

“This file here?” Stranahan tapped the green folder. “Same one?”

“Mr. Eckert wanted to see it.”

Gerry Eckert was the State Attorney. He hadn’t personally gone to court in at least sixteen years, so Stranahan doubted if he even remembered how to read a file.

“So how’s old Gerry doing?”

“Just dandy,” said the clerk, as if Eckert were his closest, dearest pal in the world. “He’s doing real good.”

“Don’t tell me he’s finally gonna pop somebody in this case.”

“I don’t think so, Mr. Stranahan. He just wanted to refresh his memory before he went on TV. The Reynaldo Flemm show.”

Stranahan whistled. Reynaldo Flemm was a television journalist who specialized in sensational crime cases. He was nationally famous for getting beaten up on camera, usually by the very hoodlums he was trying to interview. No matter what kind of elaborate disguise Reynaldo Flemm would devise, he was always too vain to cover his face. Naturally the crooks would recognize him instantly and bash the living shit out of him. For pure action footage, it was hard to beat; Reynaldo Flemm’s specials were among the highest-rated programs on television.

“So Gerry’s hit the big time,” Stranahan said.

“Yep,” the clerk said.

“What did he say about this case?”

“Mr. Eckert?”

“Yeah, what he did he tell this TV guy?”

The clerk said, “Well, I wasn’t there for the taping. But from what I heard, Mr. Eckert said the whole thing is still a mystery.”

“Well, that’s true enough.”

“And Mr. Eckert told Mr. Flemm that he wouldn’t be one bit surprised if someday it turns out that Victoria Barletta ran away. Just took one look at her face and ran away. Otherwise, why haven’t they found a body?”

Stranahan thought: Eckert hasn’t changed a bit, still dumb as a bull gator.

“I can’t wait to see the show,” Stranahan remarked.

“It’s scheduled to be on March twelfth at nine p.m.” The clerk held up a piece of paper. “We got a memo from Mr. Eckert today.”

The man from New Jersey did not call Dr. Rudy Graveline again for four days. Then, on the afternoon of January eighth, Rudy got a message on his beeper. The beeper went off at a bad moment, when Rudy happened to be screwing the young wife of a Miami Dolphins wide receiver. The woman had come to Whispering Palms for a simple consult-a tiny pink scar along her jawline, could it be fixed?-and the next thing she knew, the doctor had her talking about all kinds of personal things, including how lonely it got at home during the football season when Jake’s mind was on the game and nothing else. Well, the next thing she knew, the doctor was taking her to lunch in his black Jaguar sedan with the great Dolby sound system, and the football player’s wife found herself thinking how the rich smell of leather upholstery made her hot, really hot, and then-as if he could read her mind-the doctor suddenly pulled off the Julia Tuttle Causeway, parked the Jag in some pepper trees, and started to gnaw her panties off. He even made cute little squirrel noises as he nuzzled between her legs.

Before long the doctor was merrily pounding away while the football player’s wife gazed up at him through the spokes of the walnut steering wheel, under which her head had become uncomfortably wedged.

When the beeper went off on Dr. Graveline’s belt, he scarcely missed a beat. He glanced down at the phone number (glowing in bright green numerals) and snatched the car phone from its cradle in the glove box. With one hand he managed to dial the long-distance number even as he finished with the football player’s wife, who by this time was silently counting down, hoping he’d hurry it up. She’d had about all she could take of the smell of new leather.

Dr. Graveline pulled away just as the phone started ringing somewhere in New Jersey.

The man answered on the fourth ring. “Yeah, what?”

“It’s me. Rudy.”

“You been jogging or what?”

“Something like that.”

“Sounds like you’re gonna have a fuckin’ heart attack.”

Dr. Graveline said: “Give me a second to catch my breath.”

The football player’s wife was squirming back into her slacks. The look on her face suggested disappointment at her partner’s performance, but Rudy Graveline did not notice.

“About the deal,” he said. “I don’t think so.”

Curly Eyebrows in New Jersey said: “Your problem musta gone away.”

“Not really.”

“Then what?”

“I’m going to get somebody local.”

The man in New Jersey started to laugh. He laughed and laughed until he began to wheeze.

“Doc, this is a big mistake. Local is no good.”

“I ’ve got a guy in mind,” Dr. Graveline said.

“A Cuban, right? Crazy fuckin’ Cuban, I knew it.”

“No, he’s not a Cuban.”

“One of my people?”

“No,” Rudy said. “He’s by himself.”

Again Curly Eyebrows laughed. “Nobody isby himself, Doc. Nobody in this business.”

“This one is different,” Rudy said. Different wasn’t the word for it. “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know, so you wouldn’t send anybody else.”

“Suit yourself.”

“And I’m sorry about the other fellow.”

“Don’t bring up that shit, hear? You’re on one of those cellular phones, I can tell. I hate them things, Doc, they ain’t safe. They give off all kinds of fucked-up microwaves, anybody can listen in.”

Dr. Graveline said, “I don’t think so.”

“Yeah, well, I read where people can listen on their blenders and hair dryers and shit. Pick up everything you say.”

The football player’s wife was brushing on fresh makeup, using the vanity mirror on the back of the sun visor.

The man in Jersey said: “Your luck, some broad’s pickin’ us up on her electric dildo. Every word.”

“Talk to you later,” Rudy said.

“One piece of advice,” said Curly Eyebrows. “This guy you lined up for the job, don’t tell him your life story. I mean it, Doc. Give him the name, the address, the dough, and that’s it.”

“Oh, I can trust him,” Dr. Graveline said.

“L ike hell,” laughed the man in New Jersey, and hung up.

The football player’s wife flipped the sun visor up, closed her compact, and said, “Business?”

“Yes, I dabble in real estate.” Rudy zipped up his pants. “I’ve decided to go with a Miami broker.”

The woman shrugged. She noticed her pink bikini panties on the floormat, and quickly put them in her purse. They were ruined; the doctor had chewed a hole in them.

“Can I drive your car back to the office?” she asked.

“No,” said Rudy Graveline. He got out and walked around to the driver’s side. The football player’s wife slid across the seat, and Rudy got in.

“I almost forgot,” the woman said, fingering the place on herjaw, “about my scar.”

“A cinch,” the doctor said. “We can do it under local anesthetic, make it smooth as silk.”

The football player’s wife smiled. “Really?”

“Oh sure, it’s easy,” Rudy said, steering the Jaguar back on the highway. “But I was wondering about something else… “

“Yes?”

“You won’t mind some friendly professional advice?”

“Of course not.” The woman’s voice held an edge of concern.

“Well, I couldn’t help but notice,” Dr. Graveline said, “when we were making love… “

“Yes?”

Without taking his eyes off the road, he reached down and patted her hip. “You could use a little suction around the saddlebags.”

The football player’s wife turned away and blinked.

“Please don’t be embarrassed,” the doctor said. “This is my specialty, after all. Believe me, darling, I’ve got an eye for perfection, and you’re only an inch or two away.”

She took a little breath and said, “Around the thighs?”

“That’s all.”

“How much would it cost?”, she asked with a trace of a sniffle.

Rudy Graveline smiled warmly and passed her a monogrammed handkerchief. “Less than you think,” he said.

The cabin cruiser with the camera crew came back again, anchored in the same place. Stranahan sighed and spit hard into the tide. He was in no mood for this.

He was standing on the dock with a spinning rod in his hands, catching pinfish from around the pilings of the stilt house. Suspended motionless in the gin-clear water below was a dark blue log, or so it would have appeared to the average tourist. The log measured about five feet long and, when properly motivated, could streak through the water at about sixty knots to make a kill. Teeth were the trademark of the Great Barracuda, and the monster specimen that Mick Stranahan called Liza had once left thirteen needle-sharp incisors in a large plastic mullet that some moron had trolled through the Biscayne Channel. Since that episode the barracuda had more or less camped beneath Stranahan’s place. Every afternoon he went out and caught for its supper a few dollar-sized pinfish, which he tossed off the dock, and which the barracuda devoured in lightning flashes that churned the water and sent the mangrove snappers diving for cover. Liza’s teeth had long since grown back.

Because of his preoccupation with the camera boat, Mick Stranahan allowed the last pinfish to stay on the line longer than he should have. It tugged back and forth, sparkling just below the surface until the barracuda ran out of patience. Before Stranahan could react, the big fish rocketed from under the stilt house and severed the majority of the pinfish as cleanly as a scalpel; a quivering pair of fish lips was all that remained on Stranahan’s hook.

“Nice shot,” he mumbled and stored the rod away.

He climbed into the skiff and motored off the flat, toward the cabin cruiser. The photographer immediately put down the video camera; Stranahan could see him conferring with the rest of the crew. There was a brief and clumsy attempt to raise the anchor, followed by the sound of the boat’s engine whining impotently in the way that cold outboards do. Finally the crew gave up and just waited for the big man in the skiff, who by now was within hailing distance.

A stocky man with a lacquered helmet of black hair and a stiff bottlebrush mustache stood on the transom of the boat and shouted, “Ahoy there!”

Stranahan cut the motor and let the skiff coast up to the cabin cruiser. He tied off on a deck cleat, stood up, and said, “Did I hear you right? Did you actually say ahoy?”

The man with the mustache nodded uneasily.

“Where did you learn that, watching pirate movies? Jesus Christ, I can’t believe you said that. Ahoy there! Give me a break.” Stranahan was really aggravated. He jumped into the bigger boat and said, “Which one of you assholes is Reynaldo Flemm? Let me guess; it’s Captain Blood here.”

The stocky man with the mustache puffed out his chest and said, “Watch it, pal!”-which took a certain amount of courage, since Mick Stranahan was holding a stainless-steel tarpon gaff in his right hand. Flemm’s crew-an overweight cameraman and an athletic young woman in blue jeans-kept one eye on their precious equipment and the other on the stranger with the steel hook.

Stranahan said, “Why have you been taking my picture?”

“For a story,” Flemm said. “For television.”

“W hat’s the story?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

Stranahan frowned. “What’s it got to do with Vicky Barletta?”

Reynaldo Flemm shook his head. “In due time, Mr. Stranahan. When we’re ready to do the interview.”

Stranahan said, “I’m ready to do the interview now.”

Flemm smiled in a superior way. “Sorry.”

Stranahan slipped the tarpon gaff between Reynaldo Flemm’s legs and gave a little jerk. The tip of the blade not only poked through Reynaldo Flemm’s Banana Republic trousers, but also through his thirty-dollar bikini underpants (flamenco red), which he had purchased at a boutique in Coconut Grove. The cold point of the gaff came to rest on Reynaldo Flemm’s scrotum, and at this frightful instant the air rushed from his intestinal tract with a sharp noise that seemed to punctuate Mick Stranahan’s request.

“The interview,” he said again to Flemm, who nodded energetically.

But words escaped the television celebrity. Try as he might, Flemm could only burble in clipped phrases. Fear, and the absence of cue cards, had robbed him of cogent conversation.

The young woman in blue jeans stepped forward from the cabin of the boat and said, “Please, Mr. Stranahan, we didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Of course you did.”

“My name is Christina Marks. I’m the producer of this segment.”

“Segment of what?” Stranahan asked.

“Of the Reynaldo Flemm show. In Your Face. You must have seenit.”

“Never.”

For Reynaldo, Stranahan knew, this was worse than a gaff in the balls.

“Come on,” Christina Marks said.

“Honest,” Stranahan said. “You see a TV dish over on my house?”

“Well, no.”

“There you go. Now, what’s this all about? And hurry it up, your man here looks like his legs are cramping.”

Indeed, Reynaldo Flemm was shaking on his tiptoes. Stranahan eased the gaff down just a notch or two.

Christina Marks said: “Do you know a nurse named Maggie Gonzalez?”

“Nope,” Stranahan said.

“A reyou sure?”

“Give me a hint.”

“She worked at the Durkos Medical Center.”

“Okay, now I remember.” He had taken her statement the day after Victoria Barletta had vanished. Timmy Gavigan had done the doctor, while Stranahan had taken the nurse. He had scanned the affidavits in the State Attorney’s file that morning.

“You sure about the last name?” Stranahan asked.

“Sorry-Gonzalez is her married name. Back then it was Orestes.”

“So let’s have the rest.”

“About a month ago, in New York, she came to us.”

“To me,” croaked Reynaldo Flemm.

“Shut up,” said Stranahan.

Christina Marks went on: “She said she had some important information about the Barletta case. She indicated she was willing to talk on camera.”

“To me,” Flemm said, before Stranahan tweaked him once more with the tarpon gaff.

“But first,” Christina Marks said, “she said she had to speak to you, Mr. Stranahan.” ‘“About what?”

“All she said was that she needed to talk to you first, because you could do something about it. And don’t ask me about what, because I don’t know. We gave her six hundred bucks, put her on a plane to Florida, and never saw her again. She was supposed to be back two weeks ago last Monday.” Christina Marks put her hands in her pockets. “That’s all there is. We came down here to look for Maggie Gonzalez, and you’re the best lead we had.”

Stranahan removed the gaff from Reynaldo Flemm’s crotch and tossed it into the bow of his skiff. Almost instantly, Flemm leapt from the stern and bolted for the cabin. “Get tape of that fucker,” he cried at the cameraman, “so we can prosecute his fat ass!”

“Ray, knock it off,” said Christina Marks. Stranahan liked the way she talked down to the big star.

“Tell him,” he said, “that if he points that goddamn camera at me again, he’ll be auditioning for the Elephant Man on Broadway. That’s how seriously I’ll mess up his face.”

“Ray,” she said, “did you hear that?”

“Roll tape! Roll tape!” Flemm was all over the cameraman.

Wearily, Stranahan got back into his skiff and said, “Miss Marks, the interview is over.”

Now it was her turn to be angry. She hopped up on the transom, tennis shoes squeaking on the teak. “Wait a minute, that’s it?”

Stranahan looked up from his little boat. “I haven’t seen Maggie Gonzalez since the day after the Barletta girl disappeared. That’s the truth. I don’t know whether she took your money and went south or what, but I haven’t heard from her.”

“He’s lying,” sneered Reynaldo Flemm, and he stormed into the cabin to sulk. A gust of wind had made a comical nest of his hair.

Stranahan hand-cranked the outboard and slipped it into gear.

“I’m at the Sonesta,” Christina Marks said to him, “if Maggie Gonzalez should call.”

Not likely, Stranahan thought. Not very likely at all.

“How the hell did you find me, anyway?” he called out to the young TV producer.

“Your ex-wife,” Christina Marks called back from the cabin cruiser.

“W hich one?”

“N umber four.”

That would be Chloe, Stranahan thought. Naturally.

“How much did it cost you?” he shouted.

Sheepishly, Christina Marks held up five fingers.

“You got off light,” Mick Stranahan said, and turned the skiff homeward.