'Can't get the damn thing open.'
Ford took the bottle, opened it with an easy twist of the wrist, trying to keep his eyes off her but not succeeding, and she said, 'I know—am I cold or just glad to see you?' as she turned, brushing her hand across the front of his pants, and that quick she was in his arms, her mouth on his, stripping off the bikini top as if Ford just couldn't do things fast enough, her nipples sharp, hard projectiles against his shirt. She was whispering 'God, laying out there in that sun, with all that oil on me, God, how I need it,' but Ford was already pushing her away, holding her by the shoulders, his own sexual wanting replaced by a growing revulsion.
He said, 'Rafe said something about a little boy. You sure you have time for this?' hoping that would jolt her out of the mood.
It didn't. 'He's gone, babe. Just you and me in this great big house,' and she was back in his arms, touching him, touching herself, mouth open . . . but then a banging sound came from outside, the sound of a car door shutting. 'Oh, shit, it's Robert!' and she was hurrying to get back into her bikini top. 'Hey . . . you—'
Ford interpreted the blank expression. 'Doc.'
'Yeah, Doc. Why don't you walk on out by the pool, have a seat. I was expecting this friend of mine, only—' She was walking toward the front door, glancing at the small gold watch on her wrist. '—only the shithead's early.'
Ford took the bottle of tonic and strolled back to the pool. He could hear the muted conversation coming from inside, then the woman led a man out onto the deck: a tall man, early thirties, with a tennis player's body to match the tennis shorts and sports shirt. Neatly styled brown hair, glasses, bookish face, and a cold look of disinterest until Helen said, 'Robert, Doc and Rafe used to work together down there in Central America.'
'Oh? Doing what?'
From the screened pool door he was about to open, Ford could see a blue Porsche in the drive. The judge who had railroaded Rafe had driven a Porsche; Judge Robert Alden, if his computer printouts were correct, a sizable stockholder in Sealife Development. Ford decided to take a chance. He said, 'We were in the antique business,' and got just the forced nonreac-tion he was hoping for.
'Ah, well . . . that must be exciting.' Suspicious, but not willing to pursue it.
Ford said, 'Depends on who you deal with,' and stepped out into full sunlight as Helen took his arm, saying 'Hey, wait—I'll walk you out. '
At his truck, she glanced back at the pool, then held her mouth up to be kissed, but Ford touched his finger to her lips. 'You'd better save some of that for later.' Which she misinterpreted, winking. 'The guy 's kind of a dud in the sack, so give us an hour or so to talk, huh? We've got some business. Then come back and the two of us can get some real exercise.'
Ford shut his door, started the truck, and smiled. 'Don't bet your firstborn on it, lady. '
He was being followed.
The white car had come out of nowhere; must have been doing over a hundred, then slowed when it got on his truck's rear bumper. Looking in his rearview mirror, Ford recognized the white unmarked squad car and knew that the driver must be Sheriff Mario DeArmand. Image of a big, swarthy face, no hat . . . carrying a passenger with him, too; a man, but Ford couldn't make out the features.
Judge Alden must have gone straight to the phone.
Ford assembled a plausible story in his mind, expecting to be stopped.
But DeArmand didn't stop him; just followed half a car length off his bumper, giving him a message, then slowed and turned away as Ford crossed the county line.
Late that afternoon, Ford worked in his lab, finishing up the order for Minneapolis Public Schools, hoping the phone would ring. Once he had looked upon phones as little plastic invasions of privacy just waiting for an opportunity. Now he seemed chained to the damn thing.
When he finished injecting the last shark, he laid them all out in a row on the stainless-steel table, savoring his handiwork. Like a carpenter reveling in his tongue-in-grooves, he felt kind of proud. He put the unpackaged specimens in laminated barrier bags, added formalin, sealed the bags, and boxed the whole lot. Then he typed out an invoice—Sanibel Biological Supply's first—and taped everything nice and neat, ready for mailing.
It was after dark by the time he finished, and he decided to try Henry S. Melinski, the investigative reporter. It was possible—maybe probable—that Durell could get the governor's office interested in the malfeasance of Everglades County officials on his own. But Ford knew that while political appointees sometimes acted out of a sense of the righteous, they acted faster when publicity and righteousness were combined.
Melinski wasn't at the paper, so Ford tried the home number again. This time, Melinski answered. He sounded bored; real bored and hard to impress. Yeah, he knew about the suicide on Tequesta Bank, so what? Sure, it was murder-—this guy Hollins murdered himself, right? Not joking, but not serious either; a man who had to deal with a lot of cranks on the phone.
Ford said, 'An anonymous caller told the police where to find the body. I was the anonymous caller.'
Which knocked some of the boredom from his voice, but Melinski still wasn't impressed. So Ford told him that what he saw on the island and what the Everglades County Sheriff's Department concluded didn't match up, and now he was pretty sure the governor's office, probably the Florida Department of Criminal Law Enforcement, was going to investigate. Melinski said, 'Pretty sure they're going to investigate? To me that means you probably had a couple of martinis, decided to call Tallahassee so you could act like a big shot, and the secretary you reached at
CLE was polite. What's this pretty sure bullshit? You're wasting iny time, mister.'
'Major Les Durell didn't think I was wasting his time. He's the one who's going to contact the governor's office.'
There were a couple of beats of silence. 'Durell's in on this?' Impressed, but not wanting to show it.
'You'd better ask him. Or you could wait for him to call you.'
'That'll be the day. When it comes to giving information, that guy's so tight you couldn't yank a pin out of his ass with a Land Rover. The question is, if Durell's involved, why do you want to let me in?'
'Because Rafe Hollins was a friend of mine. '
'So what? Friends send flowers. They don't call reporters.'
'The governor's office investigates criminal matters, not civil. And Hollins got a raw deal the whole way around. The judge who presided at Hollins's divorce hearing is having an affair with Hollins's ex-wife. Judge Robert Alden. It may have started before the hearing, I don't know. She's a drunk and a drug user, but she got full custody of their son. Plus all the money. Hollins kidnapped his son after an eyewitness described to him how this judge hit the boy and bloodied his nose. The boy, by the way, is eight years old. The eyewitness called the police, and I'll give you one guess how that went.'
'I don't need to guess. I know some of those wormy bastards on Sandy Key. They stick together . . . which is why we never hear about it when one of them slips up.'
'They slipped this time. Like the way they handled Hollins's autopsy and cremation. Plus what I saw on the island.'
'What did you see on the island?'
'I can't tell you. Major Durell said if the people involved suspected they were under investigation, the case would be ruined. I was sort of hoping you'd just concentrate on the way Rafe was railroaded in the divorce. When that boy's found, they sure as hell shouldn't give him back to his mother.'
'Do you remember who you're talking to? I'm the reporter you called. You can trust me.'
'Durell said specifically not to trust any reporters with the information. He said they'd print it way too soon, blow the whole thing—'
'Listen, buddy, I don't need some mystery voice or some Eagle Scout cop to tell me how to do my job. I've held more stories and hung more corrupt assholes—Hey, Durell didn't mention me specifically, did he?'
'Well, your name came up.'
'That son of a—'
'He said he didn't want you looking over his shoulder.'
'His
