'Yes, but-'
'And the same with Priscilla Fox. You had sex with both of them and left your borrowed poetry behind.'
'Yes, yes.'
'And then strangled them, the sleek and shining creatures of your chase.'
'No. I'm a woman. I want to be loved by a man. I want to change.'
'You hunt them for the beauty of their skins.'
'No, no!'
'The rest of the stanza. Say it.'
She turned away and hugged herself, hunching over, the fragile blades of her shoulders delicate as the wings of a bird. 'Or shall I do it?' I asked. In a whimper, she recited the verse:
'' They love us for it, and we ride them down.
Wheedling and siding with them! Out! For shame!
Boy, there's no rose that's half so dear to them
As he that does the thing they dare not do,
Breathing and sounding beauteous battle, comes
With the air of the trumpet round him, and leaps in
Among the women, snares them by the score
Flattered and flustered, wins, though dashed with death… ''
'Bobbie, you're not a woman…'
Great sobs racked her body. 'I am, I am.'
'You're a man and you blame them for it, hate them for it.' She whirled and brought her hand toward my cheek. Her slim-fingered boy-girl fist wouldn't have hurt, but it held a Miami Dolphin mug half-filled with hot tea. The mug glanced off my forehead, and the tea splashed square across my face. I yelped and hopped backward on my one good leg. My eyes were half-closed, but I sensed her bending over, and something black was in her hand. I tried to pivot, and if my left leg had held the weight, I would have dropped her with a straight left hand. But it couldn't and I didn't, and the leg collapsed, and as I fell without help from anyone she bashed me square on the skull. It felt like a hammer, and great gongs went off as I crumpled to the kitchen floor. I started up and she hit me again, this time at the base of the skull. The world lit up and I lay down.
I took a futile stab at a leg as she stepped over me, and as she stepped away I saw the blurry image of her shapely calves and stockinged feet. In each hand she held a stylish black shoe with a stiletto heel.
I was woozy but awake. I had not been out long.
The kitchen floor was cool and sticky against my face. I looked for my own blood, would maybe send some to Nick Fox. But there was no blood. Last week's spilled beer, tacky on my skin.
I touched my face. Raw skin that would blister from the hot tea. I felt my head. Two bumps with round dents where the metal-tipped heel had jolted me. I pulled myself up with my good leg and totaled the score. I figured I was the first guy to be KO'd on consecutive days by Mr. and Mrs. Max Blinderman. Even if the missus was nearly a mister, it would not look good on my resume.
The cobwebs were clearing and I picked up the phone. First I called Nick Fox, who didn't believe me and wanted to know why the hell I hadn't delivered my blood and my gun. I yelled at him to shut up, then told him about the hermaphroditic nature of Robert Simon aka Bobbie Blinderman.
'You touched it?' he asked, incredulous. 'You really touched it?'
'Listen, Nick. She or he is the killer. Get somebody to the Sunset Beach Hotel right now. Pam Maxson's suite.'
He was still skeptical but said he would take all necessary precautions. I hate the way politicians talk.
I called the hotel, hoping Pam Maxson was there.
Her laugh was filled with derision. 'Are you trying to tell me you just learned of her sexual identity? I find that hard to believe, though it's not surprising she was at your house. Tell me, were you doing her or vice versa?'
'What are you talking about? Do you think I-'
'You and that promiscuous creature…'
'Pam, if you're jealous, let me assure-'
'Jealous! Of her, of you? Do you think either of you means anything to me?'
'Pam, listen to me. I'm trying to tell you she's a killer. She wants to kill you.'
'Rubbish. She's had sadistic fantasies quite normal among transsexuals, and she's as slutty as the rest of them, but-'
'Pam, I'm telling you she's coming over there.'
'I know that. She called from the lobby a minute ago. I would expect that's her at the door just now.'
CHAPTER 39
The medical examiner's van was angled in front of the hotel, its front tires sinking into a bed of geraniums. The van bore little resemblance to the emergency vehicles favored by police and fire rescue. There was no oxygen, no plasma, no sophisticated electronics for monitoring hearts and brains.
There was no need.
The state attorney's car was pulled off the driveway under a sweet-gum tree. Nick Fox hadn't spent four years as a patrolman without learning the first rule of survival in south Florida: never park in the sun.
A uniformed sergeant stood guard at the suite's double doors. He looked at my cane and at my face and let out a low whistle. Then he blocked the door and made me negotiate.
'Let 'em in!'
It was Nick Fox. 'Been expecting you, Jakie…' He did a double take. 'Jesus H. Christ, you look like shit warmed over.'
I looked around the room. No Pamela Maxson. No Bobbie Blinderman. 'You were too late,' I said hoarsely.
'It happens that way sometimes.'
'Where's the body?'
He jerked a thumb toward the balcony. The sliding glass doors were open, and a humid breeze from the Atlantic puckered the flimsy curtains. I hobbled out. A police photographer was crouching, taking a shot of something on the concrete slab of the balcony. He was blocking my view. I stepped around him.
A woman's shoe.
A black shoe with a stiletto heel cleanly broken off. The heel was jammed in the track of the sliding glass door. The rest of the shoe lay forlornly on its side near the edge of the balcony. I looked straight down over the railing, gripping it tight. One hundred twenty feet below, on the pool deck, lay a body in a black dress. The legs were splayed at an unnatural angle, and a pool of blood seeped from beneath her head and across the hard Chattahoochee. Alongside, a man in a white coat was taking photos. Another man was on his hands and knees, whisking the deck with a brush.
'Dr. Maxson's in the bedroom,' Nick Fox said, standing behind me.
My eyes must have had a desperate look. 'She's okay, don't worry. Now, before you go in there, I gotta ask you a couple questions. The other night, you were at your secretary's place, and you had the. 38, right?'
'Right.'
'Did the gun discharge?'
'Yeah.'
'Did Dr. Maxson shoot the gun?'
'Yeah.'
'Why did she shoot?'
'To get my attention.'
