five hours or so, someone in Florida ends up on the business end of a knife or some cheap handgun and gets murdered. A couple thousand known murders a year, and a fourth of those never even come close to being solved. Never mind about the bodies we don't find that end up scattered across the 'Glades or shoved under some mangrove root someplace. Those poor bastards go into the books under missing persons. You've read how tough it is to pull off the perfect murder? Well, that's pure bullshit. A perfect murder happens every day in this state; every single day. And it's not because the law enforcement agencies aren't competent, or that cops don't work their butts off, or don't care.'
'If you're trying to make a point—'
Durell stopped, turned, and looked at him. 'The point is, your information better be very good. If it's not, you could confess to a felony and get absolutely nothing in return. Murder isn't that easy to prove, and murderers tend to make themselves real hard to find. Think it over before you tell me anything.'
Ford had already thought it over. It took about ten minutes to give Durell the entire story. He spent most of that time describing how determined Rafe was to get his son back from the Masaguan kidnappers. The only thing he left out was what he'd found in the tree trunk. Durell's expression went from pained to suspicious to thoughtful. He was silent for a time, then said, 'Tell me again why you thought it might not be Hollins. At first, I mean. You went too quick over that part.'
'Just small things. The watch was on the left wrist, with suntan marks to match. There was identification in the wallet, but nothing current. '
'So? Lots of left-handers wear their watches on their left wrist, and he'd spent so much time out of the country maybe he had no current I.D.'
'I know, Les, I know. I was just trying to tell you step by step how my mind was working when I found him. The point is, if he was alive, he'd have gotten in touch with me by now.'
Durell was quiet again, receding into the cop mind; big-shouldered man in a suit, out of place in the heat of a Florida beach. He said, 'I come up with four or five different scenarios; reasons for you to make up a story like this. But none of them seem to fit what I know about you.'
'It's because I'm telling the truth.'
Durell was nodding, still thinking. 'The jerks who run Everglades County, this little island kingdom, have been riding toward a fall for a long, long time. Maybe this is it. But why would they want a murder to go in the books as a suicide?'
'Bad publicity.'
'It's possible, but I don't buy it.'
'Rafe used to work for Sealife Development; put them down as employer when he bought his last house. I have a copy of the computer records back at my place.'
'What'd Rafe do for them?'
Ford said, 'I don't know; some kind of flying, probably. But one of the last things he said to me on the phone was that he had to meet some guys from Sandy Key. Maybe he had something on them and was trying to leverage it into cash. Or maybe he tried to sell them something and they decided to just take it.'
'Some guys from Sandy Key?' Durell said. 'That doesn't narrow it down much.'
'Les, I worked on that body for twenty minutes and it seemed a hell of a lot longer. I tied the feet and hands so there would be no mistaking it for suicide. But they called it suicide anyway and, less than twenty-four hours later, cremated the body. Somebody is trying to cover up something.'
Durell was nodding, thinking, saying 'Okay, okay. ...'
Ford said, 'Then you're convinced?'
'I'm convinced you tampered with evidence and that DeArmand's bunch got a little too cute trying to smooth it over.'
'Rafe was murdered and you know it.'
'What I know is, there's almost zero chance of proving it now. But the governor's office might like to hear about DeArmand and the Everglades County Medical Examiner's office. Dereliction of duty, criminal negligence, failing to hold a body forty-eight hours. You drop the right bomb and sometimes all kind of creatures start crawling out. Even killers. '
'I've collected some data on DeArmand. None of it is incriminating by itself, but, taken as a whole, it shows he's crooked and slippery . . . and dangerous. I've got stuff on Sealife Development Corporation, too. And the registration numbers from the boat I found on the island that day. I'll put it all in a letter and send it to your office.'
Les Durell was looking at him, not reacting, a steady look of appraisal. 'You know what I'm worried about? I'm worried about you. Some guy who thinks he's clever enough to bang around playing detective, manipulating people, making way too much noise. If DeArmand suspects someone is interested, he's going to cover his tracks so quick that even the governor's office won't be able to seal his records or get subpoenas out fast enough. And I don't want to spend a lot of time, do a lot of work, knowing someone is going to screw it all up making amateur mistakes. '
Ford shrugged. 'I guess you'll have to take it on faith that I won't.'
'I take God and the Democratic Party on faith, not you. Within an hour of you calling me, I'd done computer checks through the Federal Crime Information Center, the FBI, and a couple of others. Missed my tee-off time, and you know what I got for my trouble? Almost nothing. Bare bones stuff. You did your military training at Naval Special Warfare Center in Coronado, California. So I take that to mean you were a navy SEAL. You got a couple of college degrees while in uniform, so I take that to mean the navy invested extra money in you for a reason. You scored real high on your Civil Service exam and left the navy for no apparent reason. And that's it, buddy boy. I've run checks on priests that gave me more.'
'I've lived a quiet life.'
Durell said, 'You think if I hadn't figured out what kind of quiet life, I'd be wasting my time talking to you right now? I don't know why Sanibel Island attracts so many retired CIA agents. You guys have meetings, put on dances? And there's another thing. '
'Oh?'
'Yeah. Maybe you didn't think of it, but if DeArmand's bunch
Ford said, 'I didn't work for the CIA.'
'You're better off me thinking you did. Being an admitted felon and all.'
'The next time we have a dance,' Ford replied, 'I'll make sure you and your wife are invited.'
Ford stopped at the beach bar and had a beer with Harvey Hollins, Durell, and the rest of the guys, then left them there, old teammates hooting it up and replaying lost games. It was the way all funerals should end. Across the asphalt parking lot, his truck shimmered, saturated with midday sunlight; the door and steering wheel hot enough to cauterize flesh. He rolled down both windows and shifted to speed, his soaked shirt cooling in the wind off the road. He had Rafe's address book out. There were a couple of places Ford wanted to see.
The main street was Ocean View Drive, a slow business district four-lane: True Value Hardware, Burger King, Island Doctors Clinic, Cobb Cinema; everything built of concrete block, low to the ground. Sealife Development Corporation offices were just beyond, not quite to Sandy Key Mall, a one-story building behind a two-story fagade: broad lawn, a fountain with American and Canadian flags, a parking lot dividing the main building from two model homes, DELUXE VALUE AT MIDDLE CLASS PRICE. Billboard signs with open-house banners. There was a car in the lot, so Ford pulled in and a salesman in one of the model homes told him the corporate office was closed, being Monday—Sunday was their big day—but if Ford wanted a deal on a house or condo, now was the time to buy. Was he interested? Ford said he was—wishing there was some way to get inside the corporate building to see what kind of bric-a-brac the corporate elite used to decorate their offices.
The salesman wanted to know if he was interested in a beach condo. They had one or two new units, a very few used units. Or, if Ford wanted something a little higher priced, they'd just listed a split-level executive house on the seventh green of the country club. 'Our Thomas Jefferson model,' the salesman said. 'Rarely available.' Ford asked if he had a photo of the house—he'd be willing to follow him into the corporate building, if the salesman wanted to unlock. The salesman said no, he might have one back in the files and, when he went to check, Ford lifted the Realtors Only listing book and glanced through it. In the few minutes the salesman was away, Ford
