DON'T EVEN COOK ME DINNER, BIGGUS. SO HOW ABOUT I COME OVER NOW, BRING A BOTTLE OF SCOTCH? NOT NOW, B.D. IT'S INCONVENIENT. OH, GOT SOMEBODY OVER? SORRY. SO WHY ARE YOU WASTING MY TIME? 'NIGHT, BIGGUS.
'That what you're after?' Richie asked. He was in a hurry to get home and perfect a system for trading citrus-futures contracts in somebody else's account.
'That's it.'
But it wasn't what I expected. Sure, Rodriguez was putting the make on her. But he sounded halfway reasonable. Even cloaked with anonymity, he was just a guy looking for a date, a little miffed not to get one. Not a drooling psychopath. But there was something new here, a man in her apartment when Rodriguez called. Not Nick, his alibi was ironclad. He was attending a prosecutors' conference in Orlando, returned the next morning. Who was it, some computer chatterbug who beat Biggus to the punch? And Nick thought she was only seeing him. I smiled at that, a pinprick in his ego when I would tell him.
'Hey, Richie, you know much about women?'
'Less than most, I suspect.'
'Say it's around midnight, a woman's got one guy in the bedroom, why would she be calling around, trying to meet somebody else, somebody new?'
'Dunno, maybe the guy in the bedroom couldn't cut the mustard.'
Maybe, but we still didn't have a suspect, and the question was nagging at me. Who was Marsha's lover that night, and why was she still on the make?
Richie pulled all the cables, and we replaced everything in the right locker. I repacked my file and declined Richie's kind suggestion that he break into the county traffic computer and fix all the lights green for our drive down Dixie Highway. Then we walked past the old sergeant, nodding our thanks, Richie sniffling and blowing his nose.
'Got a cold?' the sarge asked.
'Virus,' Richie told him.
CHAPTER 29
Pamela Maxson leaned on me and removed her shoes, sensible professional-lady blue pumps. I stood on one foot and hopped a step, taking off my battered Keds. High-tops. We rang the doorbell, said hello to my wacky secretary, and left our shoes on the front doorstep of her townhouse. Cindy's hair, once stained a rusty orange, was now dyed black and cut short with bangs. She wore a white silk kimono tied at the waist. She smiled placidly and waved us in. With mincing geisha steps, she led us past a collection of dried flowers in a green Oriental vase and into a small room set off with sliding paper walls. Silently, she motioned us toward pillows and a table barely eighteen inches off the floor. My right knee, the crosshatched one, groaned at the thought of it. My back, which hadn't gone into spasm in years, demanded an appointment at Hoshino Clinic in the Gables.
Cindy said, 'I humbly offer my hospitality, lawyer-san.'
'Still dating Morikawa,' I observed.
'Tea?' she offered.
'No thanks, let's get to work.'
'Care for a drink? Sake?'
'Cut it out, Cindy. Where's the computer?'
'Barbarian.'
When Cindy had dated a bearded biker, her townhouse was furnished in Early Hell's Angels. When she took up with a weak-winged shortstop for the Miami Marlins, her place looked like Cooperstown. Now, her Tokyo-born beau had the Panasonic concession for the Caribbean and Central America, and Cindy was doing Teahouse of the August Moon.
'C'mon, Cindy. It's going to be a long night.'
'If you're hungry, I can call a sushi place.'
'Please! The computer.'
She opened the paper doors and backed out of the room, bowing and shuffling. Oriental music tinkled from her CD player. We walked into the living room, a place hung with colorful silk paintings. The coffee table was covered with red lacquer boxes and bright ceramic pottery. Pam was admiring black-and-white ink prints of little fishes and big flowers.
'Ito Jakuchu,' Cindy said.
'Gesundheit,' I responded politely.
'The artist, silly. That one's called Fish in a Lotus Pond. Do you sense the mix of humility and grandeur?'
'Cindy, we need to get-'
'Don't you find the brushwork almost Zen-like?'
'Cindy!'
'All right, already. Over here.'
In the corner of the living room, under a painting of more fishes in more ponds, sat her computer. Japanese, of course.
'I signed up as Lady Chattery,' Pam Maxson said, after Cindy turned on the juice. 'Your friend Mrs. Blinderman was quite helpful.'
'Uh-huh.'
'Despite her apparent hostility the other day, I get the distinct impression she is attracted to you.'
'Uh-huh.'
'Jake?'
'Huh?'
'Why do you become uncommunicative when I mention her name?'
Cindy rescued me. 'Say, Dr. M, you didn't have to sign up. You could have used my handle, Barely Legal.'
My mouth dropped open. 'Cindy, you?'
'Sure, boss. With Mori traveling so much, a girl gets lonely. I been online a couple months now.'
'Cindy, don't you know there's a freak out there?'
'Don't I ever! I been single a long time.'
'Jake, perhaps Cindy is right,' Pamela said. 'A new name may alert the killer. Perhaps using a familiar handle will be reassuring.'
I thought about it. 'Okay. We start with Barely Legal, maybe switch to Lady Chattery if we come up empty.'
'Have fun, kids,' Cindy said. 'Gotta meet Dottie the Disco Queen and catch the last shuttle to Paradise Island. Twenty-four hours in the casino, hitting the slots, fending off Romeos. Sayonara. '
Pam sat, posture perfect, at the keyboard. I stretched out on the sofa, hefting my. 38-caliber revolver, courtesy of Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson. It's the air-weight bodyguard model with the checkered walnut stock and the blue steel cylinder, an ugly little five-shot gun with a two-inch barrel. At fourteen ounces, just about anybody can fire it, whether they ought to or not. Every assistant state attorney gets one, along with a laminated badge and an autographed, smiling photo of Nick Fox. The gun shouldn't scare me. It has the requisite safety devices and fits snugly in the hand, a solid feel. It should be reassuring. But it scares me.
I hate a knife.
I hate a needle.
And I hate a gun.
A gun doesn't do you any good unless you're willing to shoot. You can't aim at somebody and not mean it. You can't pull the trigger and take it back. I put the gun down and picked up a four-foot gaff I keep on the skiff. A
