means missing all that nice interest.'
Fuming, biting her lips, the woman pulled open a drawer, flipped through files, and pulled out the statement. 'I'd prefer a major credit card. It would make it easier for our records.'
Ford said, 'I don't use credit cards.'
The woman slammed the drawer closed. 'I'm not surprised.'
TEN
Rafe was in the pickup, riding right there beside him through the heat and traffic, and Ford couldn't resist the urge to open the urn and have a look: some brown and gray stuff, about the same texture as cat litter, but a whole bunch of bone shards, too. Seemed to be way too many bones to be properly called ashes, and then Ford remembered the man on the phone, the man at the crematorium, saying they'd cremated the remains but hadn't pulverized them, and should they put a hold on that?
Apparently they'd put a hold on the pulverization just to be safe, or had forgotten because the process had been interrupted. Which wasn't great news. Now Harvey was going to have to see his brother's bones spread along with his ashes; bits of fingers, tibia, ribs easily recognized. And Ford had thought the worst was over. . . .
North Cut was a deep-water pass that separated Sandy Key from the next barrier island. It was narrow, only about a hundred yards wide, and the tidal current ripped through like a river. Ford carried the urn down onto the beach where Harvey and the other men were standing. They were an odd-looking group in their dark suits, standing uneasily in the sun as vacationers strolled by and while, down the shore, teenagers threw a Frisbee for a big Chesapeake Bay retriever.
Harvey took a breath and said, 'Well, I guess we ought to get it done. What you figure, just sort of pour the ashes in the water? Tide's going pretty good; nice outgoing tide. Take my brother right out to sea.'
Ford was holding the urn in his right arm, but he shifted it to the other side, away from Harvey, and removed the lid so that Les Durell and a couple of others could peek in, but Harvey couldn't. Ford said, 'We could do that, Harv. Or ... I guess there are a couple of other ways to do it, too. '
Durell was looking in the urn, then he looked down the beach at the dog. The danger of dumping all those bone shards in the water with a retriever around was obvious, and he said quickly, 'Yeah, Harvey, maybe we ought to think of another way.'
Harvey looked perplexed, but a little irritated, too. 'What other way? You guys have a better way, just come out and tell me. Damn it, I wish we'd brought that minister. He was a good guy. He'd of known how to do it.'
Bern Horack, who was a couple of years older than Ford but had graduated a year behind him, said, 'Maybe you should say a few words, Harv, then we could throw the whole jar in. Like a burial at sea.' He was staring at the retriever, giving it an evil look. 'Unless you boys want to excuse me for a minute, while I find a club—'
Ford cut in, saying 'How about this, Harvey? We could walk past the urn and each take a turn throwing some of Rafe's . . . ashes . . . into the water. It might be a nice way to say good-bye. And each man could have a moment of silence to think about Rafe, remember him the way he was.'
The look of evil on Horack's face faded. 'Reach in there . . . with our hands?'
Harvey was nodding, oblivious to Horack, relieved. 'That's a good idea, Doc. I like that. These are the best friends Rafe ever had. Your way would make it real personal.' He looked at Ford for a moment. 'You were his best friend. You start. I'd like to just watch for a bit.'
Ford placed the urn at the water's edge and stood in silence for a time. Then he reached into the urn and took a piece of bone with the ashes, hoping to set a precedent. He threw overhanded, far enough out into the pass so the tide wouldn't bring the bone back, pretended not to notice the ashes that blew back in his face, then stepped away so the next man could take his turn. It was a moving thing to see—at first. But there were a lot of bone and ashes, and only ten men. It would take three, maybe four full passes to get rid of everything, and Ford was already beginning to worry the heat and the grimness of the task would destroy what, at best, was a delicate mood. But then he noticed something . . . something in the way the men were throwing. The moments of silence were becoming shorter and the throws longer, each man trying to throw a little farther than the other, but without showing extra effort. They were watching until the shards hit, too, leaning to the right or left, depending on how they curved. Even Ford had to admire how the wind caught the chunks of bone, making them veer like wild curveballs or screwballs. The veil of competition finally burst open when Horack, on the fourth round, took a piece of rib, crow-hopped like an outfielder, and hurled it halfway across the pass, then turned around beaming. 'Let's see you bastards beat
Harvey, though, was smiling. Then he was laughing; laughing and sniffing at the same time, wiping the tears away. 'I know, I know. Did you see that thing break?'
Relieved, Bern Horack said, 'Even when Rafe was pitching regular, he never had better stuff in his life. Like it dropped off a fucking
Les Durell said, 'Why don't you and I take a little walk,' looking up at Ford, this broad man with a boyish face but piercing eyes.
The others were heading toward a bar down the beach, and Ford yelled to Harvey that they'd be there soon, then said to Durell, 'Let's go.'
They walked for about a hundred yards in silence before Durell said, 'You got me all the way down here. So talk.'
'I remember you as being more cheerful. It was that much trouble to come?'
'Right; cheerful. I'm normally very cheerful—when I'm not being forced to act like a cop. You're forcing me. Not that I'm sorry I came. It was probably the nicest service I've ever been to; the only one where I've ever laughed, anyway. But I've been going to too many of them lately. That's how you can tell you've reached middle age, by the way: Your friends start dying.'
'Rafe didn't just die.'
'So I've heard.'
'But you're not going to pay any attention to Harvey or me?'
'In this state, about two thousand people every year take the suicide cure for insomnia. How many times you think the loved ones go running to the police, saying it had to be murder because so-and-so wasn't the type? I'll pay attention when I hear something worth listening to.'
'Just the facts, ma'am, huh?'
'That's right. I like facts. Numbers are easier to deal with than people. Law enforcement is tough enough without getting emotionally involved.'
Ford said, 'Okay, Les, I'll give you the facts. I have information that proves someone—probably one or more people in the Everglades County Sheriff's Department and the medical examiner's office—tampered with, suppressed, or ignored evidence in the investigation of Rafe's death. The information I have also strongly suggests that he was murdered.'
'Yeah? So tell me.'
'That's the catch. If I give you that information, I'll be confessing to a felony. '
'That's just great; just goddamn great. You and Rafe were smuggling drugs together, weren't you?'
'I only saw Rafe twice since high school. I wasn't smuggling anything.'
'Right, oh sure. Rafe with his big house and big cars, flying in and out of the country. You think I didn't know? Every morning I woke up, I expected to see his name in the paper, arrested by the feds. I was very damn glad he didn't live in my county. I hate arresting friends. I've done it.'
'Which is a subtle warning to me.'
'I didn't mean it to be subtle.'
'I'll give you the information, but I'd like it to be in confidence.'
'I can't promise that, M.D. I'm sorry.'
'Then I'm going to tell you anyway.'
Durell held up an open palm. 'Before you do, let me give you another warning. More facts and figures. Every
