couch to tie his shoes.
Stillman watched him impatiently for a moment. “That your suitcase?”
“Yeah,” said Walker.
“Bring it with you. If we can’t find a better place than this to sleep tonight, we deserve what happens to us.”
They went out to a dark blue rental car, a big sedan like the ones Stillman always rented. Stillman snatched Walker’s suitcase, tossed it into the trunk with his own, leaned farther into the trunk, plucked out a folder that had the home office logo on it, and handed it to Walker. “Here, take this.”
They got into the car and Stillman drove toward the area Walker had explored the night before. The traffic looked to Walker to be almost normal—or at least, what it had been before the storm. The streets were clear and dry, but there were many buildings with boarded windows, roofs with bare patches that showed torn tar paper and plywood. They passed two buildings where water was being pumped out through long hoses to the gutters. He looked at the street signs going by. “Hey, wait. You’re going the wrong way. The house is up this way.”
Stillman shook his head. “No point in going there. The owners are still dead, and I don’t want to waste time talking to cops.”
“They might have learned something by now.”
Stillman shook his head. “They’re busy convincing themselves those two were killed in a robbery. They think Fred Teller may have arrived at an inopportune moment.”
“Hard to argue with that.”
“It wasn’t just bad luck. This was all set up because they knew somebody like Teller would be along shortly,” said Stillman. “Teller was sent out with cash, claim forms all ready to go, presigned blank checks, and a bunch of ID with his signature on it. One of the killers probably said he was Mr. Cosgrove, let Teller in the house, and grabbed him.” He drove on for a minute. “The blank checks all got filled in and cashed yesterday.”
“How? The power was off.”
“Here it was. Not in Tampa, Tallahassee, or Mobile. There’s no bank in the world that won’t cash a check from McClaren Life and Casualty. These were like cashier’s checks. Evans had them issued before the hurricane against verified accounts.”
“Do you think they’re the same people—the ones who killed Ellen Snyder?”
“Yeah, and so do you,” said Stillman. “It’s just a small variation on what they did to her: they send in a fraudulent claim approved by a real McClaren’s employee, then make the employee disappear. If anybody suspects fraud, the employee is the suspect—at least long enough for the checks to clear. The only difference is that they heard there was going to be a hurricane, and came in ahead of it. They knew that the phones would go out, the power would be off, and the police would be busy pulling people out from under tree trunks. They also knew that the minute it stopped raining, there would be insurance claims adjusters brought in from everywhere swarming all over the place.”
Walker was silent for a moment. “It’s the same trick, but it seems too small. When they did this to Ellen, they got twelve million. The checks we were all carrying had a ten-thousand-dollar limit on them. Even if Teller had twenty-five like I did, and all of them cleared, it’s still not enough.”
“Who said that was all?”
“It’s not?”
“It wasn’t intended to be, anyway. You know the San Francisco office sent a check for the Cosgrove house. That was two point three million. Well, there are other claims with Fred Teller’s name on them faxed in and processed at San Francisco. Pretty soon we’re going to be getting into some real money.”
“Hasn’t the company stopped payment?”
“Sure,” said Stillman. “I don’t know whether it’s in time, and more to the point, Fred Teller still hasn’t turned up.”
“If you’re not driving to the Cosgrove house, where are you going?”
“We’re going to take a look at the rest of the houses on Teller’s route.” He glanced at his road map, then handed it roughly to Walker. “Here. Find me the Dillard house. The address is 3124 Shaw Creek Road.”
They drove from one huge house to the next. Some of the people who lived in them were at home. Two had even seen Fred Teller and signed claim forms that he had promised to submit.
It was night when they reached the ninth house. It lay on a cul-de-sac at the end of a new road that led out onto a filled-in artificial plateau in what must recently have been wetlands. In the distance they could see tall mangroves hung with Spanish moss, and the gleam of water between the weeds.
As they parked in front of the house, Stillman said, “Interesting.”
“What is?”
“Well, the power is on around here, but this place is dark. It doesn’t look as though there was much damage.”
“Yeah,” said Walker. “It does seem a little odd. Maybe when they heard the weather reports they turned everything off and hit the road. In town, when the power came on, whatever had been left on lit up.”
Stillman said, “Who lives here?”
Walker looked inside the folder and read it by the map light. “Mr. Jeffrey Kopcinsky.” He looked at the other sheets attached to the policy. “He’s also got life insurance, with his brother in New York as beneficiary, and auto on a new BMW. One driver. I guess he lives alone out here.”
Stillman shrugged. “I suppose I wouldn’t have stayed alone in the middle of a damned swamp with a hurricane coming either. Let’s go see if he just goes to bed early.”
They walked up the driveway. Walker pushed the button for the doorbell and heard a faint chime somewhere in the house. “Power is on,” he said quietly. He reached up to knock. Just as his knuckles hit the door for the first time, a small light went on above their heads. “And it looks like he’s home.”
Stillman pointed up at the fixture. “It’s a security light. Noise turns it on.” He pushed the doorbell again.
They waited for a minute, then another, but there were no sounds of footsteps. Just as Walker was preparing to ring again, the light above their heads went off. Walker said, “I want to take a look in the garage.”
Stillman stared at him with interest, but said nothing. They moved toward the wide, three-car garage, then around it to the side. Walker put his hands beside his eyes and leaned close to the glass. “There are two cars in there.”
“There’s room for three, and a man can only flee for his life in one,” said Stillman. He took a step toward the street, but Walker stopped him.
“He has an insurance policy on a BMW. That’s in there. If he has two cars, or three, why wouldn’t they all be on the same policy? It’s a hell of a lot cheaper.”
Stillman stood motionless for a moment. “Let’s look around.”
They walked past the garage to a small terrace made of flat slabs of stone, with four chairs and a table. An umbrella was folded and lying on the stone. Walker stopped. “Look,” he whispered. “The furniture.”
“What about it?”
“It’s here. There were winds over a hundred and fifty miles an hour. The furniture should have blown into the swamp. It must have been stowed in the garage and brought out after. If he left before the storm, who did it?”
They kept walking across the terrace, then into a garden. Walker could see in the moonlight that the low plants had been severely undermined by the rain, pushed to one side and uprooted by the wind. There were four small trees in big wooden planters that had been knocked over.
Stillman walked slowly through the garden toward the lawn beyond. Walker stepped backward and studied the house as more of it became visible. The roof looked intact. There were more security lights under the eaves, then tall, narrow windows set deep into the stucco exterior in a vague evocation of the windows in a castle. None of them was boarded, but none seemed to be broken, either. He supposed the fake medieval architecture had saved them. At the corner of his eye he thought he caught movement in one of the narrow windows near the end of the house. He froze and stared at the window for a few seconds, but he couldn’t induce his eyes to see it again.
He decided the movement must have been his own. He had been walking, and maybe as his angle had changed, it had simply brought some piece of furniture across his line of sight, or caught a bit of moonlight on the glass. He didn’t blame himself for the alarm he had felt, but he had to control it. Just because he had found the scene of a murder, it didn’t mean that every house in Florida was harboring something he had to be afraid of.
