and your career goal.'
'Are you fucking insane? You're setting me up, you phony bullshit artist. My career goal? Shining your shoes in Tallahassee, reminding you to zip up when you come out of the john. What the fuck is going on here?'
I stepped toward him. The two deputies had some quickness for guys who had a liter of booze in their pants, all in three-ounce bottles. Each grabbed a wrist. But there was nothing wrong with my arms, and I shook one off the left and used it to hook the other one in the gut. He wheezed and fell back. I wobbled toward Nick, who had drawn his weapon from a shoulder holster.
I stared down the barrel of his service revolver. It looked like a cannon. Then I saw his face. He was ready to squeeze. I was a problem for him, just like Lieutenant Evan Ferguson, and in a second I could be just as dead. I wondered if he would see my face in his sleep. I put my hands over my head.
'Now, we could tack on simple assault and resisting arrest with violence if we wanted to,' Fox said, 'but I'm cutting you a break, Jakie. Stay out of trouble over the weekend, and I'll be in touch. Remember, I'm your friend. Maybe I can even come up with a way to help you out. Maybe I can still teach you.'
'Teach me what, you miserable fuck?'
He smiled. So wise, so kind. 'To keep your ass down, Jakie. Before it gets shot off.'
CHAPTER 40
Friday came and went. It was a day of oppressive heat, and I lay in the hammock strung between live oak and chinaberry trees in my backyard jungle of overgrown weeds and bushes. I wore canvas shorts and nothing else and let the sweat trickle down my chest as I thought it over.
And over.
They had it nailed down pretty good.
Item one: Max kills Mary Rosedahl and Priscilla Fox. No doubt there. In tortured mourning, Max spills his guts.
Item two: Bobbie trips over the raised track of the sliding door and cartwheels to the pool deck. Clumsy in those high heels, the lady detective said. But I had seen Bobbie gliding through life on four-inch sticks, and they suited her like fins on a fish.
Item three: An envious lawyer named Jacob Lassiter uses his government-issued. 38 to kill a homicide detective, then conveniently drops the weapon in the bushes. Oh, come on, good and true citizens of the grand jury, you will see through that malarkey, won't you? No. Because a grand jury is the tool of the prosecutor, and if one of those eighteen faithful citizens asks the question, smiling Nick Fox will be ready.
'It was not a carefully planned execution,' Fox will say. 'Perhaps they argued, Lassiter becomes enraged. He is a former football player prone to sudden violence. You have heard the testimony of Dr. Maxson and Mr. Carruthers as to his propensity for unprovoked aggression. Without warning, Lassiter shoots his rival for a high government position. Panicked, he flees, discarding the weapon. Ladies and gentlemen, murderers act irrationally. If they did not, we might never apprehend them.'
Oh well, under that scenario, it's only second degree.
All buttoned up tight. Bodies get buried, files closed, Blinderman and Lassiter imprisoned, and Nick Fox becomes the governor.
But how tight is it? Somebody killed Marsha Diamond. Did everybody forget about her? That was how I got into this. Investigate Diamond's murder and prosecute the bad guy. Only I didn't find the bad guy. Instead, I managed to get myself framed for somebody else's murder. And with that thought, I had a cold Grolsch and dozed off in the muggy shade of my infinitesimal slice of the planet Earth.
Saturday arrived, just as hot, just as sticky. My leg and foot were healing in the steaminess. My face looked better, though I hadn't shaved in three days and I needed a trim, shaggy hair covering the ears, flapping down the neck. Lying on the warm, crinkly grass I did fifty stomach crunches, twenty one-armed push-ups, first right then left, then used both arms for fifty more. I gave myself the rest of the day off and resumed my place of contemplation in the hammock, two cold beers to battle the elements.
I thought about Alex Rodriguez. I remembered the phone message. Got story for your friends at the paper, on the record this time.
This time.
Last time was Compu-Mate.
Or was it? What was it Nick Fox said yesterday? The folks at the Journal were mighty friendly since he leaked the story on Compu-Mate. I had always assumed Rodriguez was the source. If he wasn't, when did Nick talk to the paper and why?
I called Symington Foote at home, got him out of the pool where he was doing his laps. His phone was in his cabana on a waterfront pool deck. I pictured him dripping onto the turquoise tile.
'I never know the identity of confidential sources,' he said formally. 'House rules. The publisher doesn't interfere with the newsroom.'
'Are any of your investigative reporters working on projects involving the sheriff's department?'
'I don't think so.'
'What about the state attorney's office?'
In the background I heard a powerboat going too fast in the channel behind Foote's home. The speed-crazy weekenders are slaughtering our manatees, those big, slow, lumpy mammals of our waterways. After a moment Foote answered. 'Henry Townsend's been looking into Nick Fox for more than a year, but you know that.'
'I thought that was over when we lost the libel suit.'
'Townsend's still poking around, trying to turn up something we can go with, somebody on the record who knows the story behind the campaign financing.'
'Who's his source?'
'Don't know.'
'Can you have him at your house in an hour?'
'I can, but he won't tell-'
I had hung up. I stripped off yesterday's sweaty shorts and headed for the shower. I turned it up hot, lathered my old battered body, which didn't feel that bad after all. I smeared shaving cream on my face and chopped off the stubble. I washed my hair and combed it straight back and left it wet. Then I put on white jeans, white sneakers, white socks, and a white polo shirt. I looked in the mirror. A spanking-clean, overgrown, blue-eyed angel. Good. I could grow horns later.
The Olds purred on the way to Gables Estates, the ritzy waterfront enclave south of Coconut Grove. A canopy of banyan trees cooled Old Cutler Road and the breeze dried my hair. In the yards of Miami's privileged, the petals of red hibiscus flowers were opening for the day. Timed sprinklers watered sprawling lawns despite almost daily thunderstorms. On Symington Foote's handsome grounds, a gardener fertilized lush beds of impatiens as delicate hummingbirds flitted around the flowers of cape honeysuckle bushes. The flagstone path to the house was bordered by white gardenias, their rich fragrance filling the morning air.
It was a glorious Saturday, the day before a game, and I was getting ready. Life is war, Nick Fox had told me. Now all I needed were the weapons.
They sat under a lime-green umbrella on an immense patio behind Foote's gleaming postmodern house. The house was a series of stark white boxes of different sizes connected at odd angles by concrete passageways painted highway-marker orange. It was the creation of a trendy Argentine architect who won several awards given by people who live in SoHo lofts. Foote once confided that he hated the place, especially the fact that you couldn't get to the downstairs bathroom without either going up one set of stairs and down another or walking outside and coming in another door. When he complained, the architect told him he was missing the point of our disjointed, fragmented lives. The point, Foote replied, was that he had to roam his property just to take a piss.
