The officer was still looking at the body. Behind him on the huge living room’s walls hung abstract oil paintings. Black leather chairs and couches had been positioned in groups to create areas for conversation.
“Hell, say he’s out on one of those chaises,” Buddy said. “Who’s to know he croaked until it’s time to put him to bed?”
“It was just a matter of time.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Deputy Thurston called.
As tall, hefty and black as Thurston was—six-four, 290-plus—when he now appeared under the entrance hall’s dome, he did not look big. It had to do with the high ceiling.
“Refrigerator back there’s got more drugs than Walgreen’s,” he said. “Enough oxygen in this place to do the NFL a whole season.” He hoisted his pants and straightened the Glock on his belt. “Okay, the techies are finishing up. We’ll take him to Naples Community.”
“I’ll call the family,” Rivera said. “I know what funeral home they’ll use.” He gave Thurston the name.
“That’s good. We’ll shoot him right over.”
“If you need the attendant, he’ll be at my place.”
“That’s in Immokalee?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, then—” Thurston motioned to the EMS team to bring the gurney. “Take it easy, Jimmy.”
“Take it any way I can get it.”
“There you go.”
The body was lifted, then the gurney was guided out, followed by the technicians and officers. Rivera walked out to the circular drive and watched as the body was loaded. After twenty-two months, he knew many officers and sheriff’s deputies. Nurses, family lawyers, EMS technicians. As the patrol car circled the drive he raised his hand. When it was gone, he reentered and closed the door.
Outside, beyond the great room’s open door wall, Stuckey was at the far end of the pool cage. He was talking to golfers in a cart, a man and woman.
“Dennis! I need to see you!” Stuckey waved to the couple and started back, slapping in sandals. He was holding a plate under his chin, eating as he came.
“They gone?” he called.
Once he was inside, Rivera pushed a button next to the curtain. Heavy polarized glass panels began closing. When they tapped shut, he put out his hand.
Stuckey looked down at what was left of his portabella mushroom sandwich. He handed the plate to Rivera. “Okay, I suppose I fucked up again,” he said. “What is it this time? But I made sure he waved—” Stuckey gestured with his head. “You said to be sure people saw him waving. I did that, every time.”
“Dennis, do you really not know what’s wrong?”
Stuckey put his hands in his hip pockets and looked resigned. “I wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone,” he said.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Lawsuits. Insurance type shit. You don’t want complications.”
“That’s right, I don’t. This will happen again. Clients die, and when they do, you call me just the way you did. Then the police. If it happens in a club dining room or pro shop, you call management and security. But you don’t talk to anyone unless you have to.”
“Got it.”
“Anything else?” Rivera asked.
Bored now, Stuckey looked up at the ceiling. Just like a teenager being lectured by a parent, Rivera thought. Except Stuckey was thirty-two. “No idea,” Stuckey said finally. “You tell me.”
Rivera looked down at the plate. No, he would not fire him. If it wasn’t hard or complicated, Stuckey would do what he was told and not ask questions.
“The people you were talking to,” Rivera said. “Did they know Ivy?”
“Just the wife. They used to play golf with her.”
“So, you’re talking to people who knew the family. Someone who played golf with Ivy’s wife.”
“Hey, boss—” Arms out, Stuckey looked at him and shook his head.
“Chester Ivy died an hour ago. Police have been here, medical. You’re outside telling people all about it. And eating.”
Stuckey dropped his arms. He looked again at the ceiling.
“You still don’t get it, do you?” Rivera said.
“Hey, Jim, maestro—” Sensing now he might be in trouble, Stuckey shrugged and looked again at Rivera. “Come on, everyone eats. I made lunch, okay? The food’s all organic. Healthy. One thing you should remember, I’m going out to Oakes Farms Market for these people. On my own time, okay? They’re eating right, everything’s all natural. The nurse, hell, she shows up Wednesday, she sees my eggplant parmigiana, she goes, ‘What is that, got any extra?’”
The memory seemed to give Stuckey confidence. “So, what’s the problem?” he asked. “Are you telling me people get old, they don’t want to watch someone eat?”
Rivera set the plate on a coffee table. “Do you want to go back to shagging golf balls in lakes?” It worked. Stuckey again looked nervous. “No, you don’t, so listen. The whole business is knowing how people think. Putting yourself in their shoes. How do you think that couple saw you just now?”
“I’m clean,” Stuckey said. “White shorts and shirt, just like you said.”
“What kind of shirt?”
Stuckey held out his arms. “A tee shirt. So?”
“What are the regs at this club?”
“Regs?”
“On the sheet I gave you. The regulations say no shirt without a collar. You can’t go to the clubhouse or the restaurant or cocktail lounge—you can’t even walk the golf course unless you wear a shirt with a collar.”
“You lost me,” Stuckey said. “I thought we were talking about eating lunch.”
“What a detail like that tells you isn’t about shirts,” Rivera said. “People here want things a certain way. It’s not a do-your-own-thing kind of place. They have money, this is a gated community. They’re old, they have health problems. Their families are often trying to get them to do things they don’t want to do.”
Listening at first, Stuckey was fading again. Hands once more in his hip pockets, he looked from furniture, to the overhead sculpture, to the abstract paintings on the walls. Rivera snapped his fingers, and Stuckey’s eyes swung back.
“Right,” he said. “Shirts with collars.”
“What’s on your tee shirt?”
Stuckey looked down. “See?” he said. “I chose it on purpose. I remembered you said these people are all Republicans.” He looked up, nodding agreement with
