need him. It doesn't matter what a slobbering, pathetic wreck I've made of myself, he grabs the controls and takes charge.'
'Fascinating.'
'Oh, the little bastard's unbelievable! He speaks articulately through my mouth. He walks steadily on my legs. He's extremely courteous to law-enforcement types and attentive to attractive women. Unfortunately, the limped- dicked fool hasn't got the hang of intercourse, but we both have high hopes.' Tomlinson leaned closer. 'Personally, I think my Lifeguard Twin is further proof of evolution.'
I said, 'Uh-huh, no doubt,' as I waved my hand back and forth in front of my nose. His breath smelled of rum and halothane gas and charred cannabis. Awful.
Halothane? Yes, no doubt. Smelled exactly like industrial insecticide.
'Damn it, Tomlinson, you don't learn. You've made some new little doctor friends down on the Keys. Didn't you? Medical types, hipster surgeons with canisters.'
He sniffed the air primly. 'People on Key Largo aren't like you, Marion. They know how to enjoy life. They're eager to share. Fun's a good thing, that's the way they think.'
'You've got a funereal service to perform. You can barely walk.'
'Don't chide me, please. You can see into my eyes but you can't see out of them. Lighten up. I feel shaky enough as it is.'
'There's a 7-Eleven across the street. Get going. Wash your face and buy some coffee.'
'I will, I will! In the meantime, though'-he used his chin to indicate the punk rockers-'don't turn your back on that evil little bastard.'
Eight
The reason there were so many people was because, the day before, the Marco Island Eagle had run a front-page story about Dorothy and the artifacts she'd found, as well as a reprint of the story about her suicide. They'd used old file photographs. The Miami Herald had a shorter piece in its Florida section, too. There was also a reporter from the National Enquirer who'd been calling Delia, wanting to do a story.
Delia had refused.
Detective Gary Parrish told me this, as I stood with him and the funeral rep away from the waiting crowd.
Parrish had a wide, West African face, his head shaved clean; skin a lighter brown than his arms and neck. He had the look of a high school power forward who'd let things go, and the demeanor of someone who'd been at his job too long. It was a mixture of reserve and indifference. Sooner or later, all cops put up shields. Sometimes the shields are for protection, sometimes they are a device.
'Grave robbing in Miami, yeah, it happens a dozen times a year, maybe more,' he said. 'It's almost always the Santeria people, because they need artifacts. The people from down on the islands, all that voodoo shit. Skulls, a piece of bone for their ceremonies. It's like part of their culture, a religious thing. But on Marco? No one expected this.'
The way they'd gotten into the grave was, they'd stolen a backhoe that had been parked beside the nearby church. The city was replacing a sewer line in the area. The backhoe had been there only a day or two. 'It was one of those random deals,' Parrish said. 'The idiot workers left the key in the machine. Whoever stole the backhoe probably saw it when they walked by, said to themselves, 'Hey, lookee what we got here.' And right next to the cemetery.'
The perpetrators, Parrish said, ran over several stones to get to Dorothy's grave, dug it open wide enough so they could drop down into the hole. 'I don't think they expected to find the cement vault down there, though. Those vaults, it's a state law. You look at the cover? First, they use the backhoe to try and crack the thing open, then they got smart and just tilted it up and off.'
I said, 'All that noise, all these buildings around, and no one heard anything?'
'That's exactly why they got away with it. Everybody heard them. People saw their lights. A backhoe in a cemetery, what are you going to think? That they're digging a grave, getting ready for a funeral. Or maybe the city workers were at it late, trying to get the sewer line done. No one even called the station. When our deputy drove by, he was lucky to notice them. He told me if he'd heard a backhoe, he'd of gone right on by. Same thing: figured they was here working.'
Then I listened as the funeral rep told us why he didn't think the casket had been opened. Caldwell looked like a construction worker, not an embalmer, yet he had a delicate tone and a soft voice. He used his stubby hands to talk, but in a way that people who take speech classes are taught to use their hands for effect.
'If they did get the casket open,' he said, 'they were careful, extremely careful, and they knew exactly what they were doing when they sealed it back. I say that because there are no crowbar marks on the casket that I could see. No marks where they tried to sledgehammer the thing open. Inside, nothing was disturbed. Nothing obvious, anyway. Wouldn't you expect vandals to do something like that? Bring a crowbar or an ax, I'm saying. If they really wanted to get inside.'
I said, 'You can't just lift the lid open?'
Caldwell's smile told me that I knew absolutely nothing about his industry. 'Not exactly, Mr. Ford. I'll give you an example. Let's say that the deceased was in one of our top-of-the-line units. A Batesville, let's say. What you're dealing with is a unit made of eighteen-gauge steel. Heavy rubber gasket sealers inside and a cathodic bar on the bottom to stop electrolysis. A casket like that'-his smile broadened slightly-'you'd better bring a lot more than a crowbar to get it open. The only way to get it open is with a hex-key, specially designed, just like the lug nuts on a car tire sometimes require a special key.'
'That's the kind of casket that Dorothy Copeland is in?'
'No, but the vandals couldn't have known that. Ms. Copeland is in a hardwood casket. Cherry wood, I think. Clients who… well, who are of limited means, often make that choice. It's a Marcellus, one of the best in the business, but it locks down with a pin and a heavy clasp.'
'Is it possible to get it open?'
'Yes. If you know how it works, it's not difficult. But again, they couldn't have known.'
'But if they did, is it possible that they could have opened it, then resealed it?'
'I suppose. But I think they'd have done the obvious thing and tired to pry it open.'
I said, 'If they were vandals, sure, a random act. But as Detective Parrish knows, Ms. Copeland has been the target of a series of burglaries over die last few months. It's possible someone knows exactly what they were after and they'll go to remarkable lengths to get it. Exhuming a grave in a city cemetery? That's risky behavior, wouldn't you agree?'
The plainclothes cop said, 'So is murder, bank robbery, assault, the whole long list. You said you live on Sanibel? Lots of money up there, a nice safe little island. Marco, one of the safest communities in the state. Usually. Get away from the money places, though, there are way too many freaks. Understand what I'm saying? I deal with them every working day of my life. There ain't nothing risky to a crackhead. They'd bulldoze a church if they thought it would buy them some rock.'
'Oh, I don't doubt there are bad people in the world,' I said agreeably. 'The kind of people you read about in the newspapers.'
'Exacdy,' Parrish said, an expression of patience in the way he set his jaw. 'The kind of criminals good citizens like you find folded on the doorstep every morning.
'Know what probably happened?' he added. 'A rumor got started the little girl was buried with treasure. People love them stories about buried treasure. Probably got talked around the streets and some drunks or dopers noticed the backhoe and thought, What the hell, let's see what's in there.'
Parrish's tone told me that he was taking me into his confidence, sharing some secrets.
'Could be,' I said.
'Trust me. They come staggering by and go, 'Shit, let's get rich.'' He looked around for a moment. 'That reminds me. Where'd your drunk hippie friend disappear to? The one in them weird robes.'
'He's practicing his eulogy. He's kind of a perfectionist.' Then I said, 'You could be wrong, you know. Maybe it
