He turned away and saw Brenda on the fairway.
She was looking down, absorbed. His vantage point was three or four feet higher, and he studied her movements. She was holding back her hair, moving slowly toward the house, looking down for something in the grass. It touched him, her intensity, even when doing something small. Looking for an earring, or a ring of keys, he thought. Head still down, she turned and moved slowly back out into the fairway. But she turned quickly and looked up at him.
Brenda straightened, arms at her sides. What was it? She had on a beige camp shirt and white shorts, and he saw she was without shoes. “That’s not a good idea,” he called.
“What isn’t?”
“Your feet. This is Florida. Didn’t anyone tell you about fire ants?”
She hesitated. “No.”
“You don’t want the experience.”
“Do you love me?”
“Yes.” Schmidt laughed. His answer had come without thought.
“Do you believe I love you?”
“That’s why I’m here. We need to talk.”
“I met a man on the plane.”
“So I heard.”
“You went to the house? You saw Rayette?”
“She sent me to the greenskeeper, he sent me here.”
“This man, Charlie. He was very nice, his story—” Brenda didn’t finish.
“Is this about something he told you on the plane?”
She shook her head. “I learned it here. His wife killed herself.”
Schmidt looked above her, to the fairway. Sweeney, that was the name. He looked back at her. “The neighbor told me he disappeared. You were the last person to see him.”
Steps led down. He took them and moved to her. When he was near, she grabbed his hand to pull him close. It reassured him, because that, too, was her way. She kissed him and let go to look at him. But she wasn’t happy.
Still holding his hand, she drew him close again. “We were out here last night,” she said. “He’s a golfer. He put on lights after dark, we hit golf balls. His house is there—” She pointed across the fairway. “When I left, he said he’d clean up. This morning, they found everything still out here—”
A transformer hummed, and Schmidt turned. At the back of the pool cage, shimmering glass panels were moving.
“I don’t care, Jason, I have what she said…”
The glass panels were still moving as a man stepped outside. “No, Jason, that’s bullshit, they are absolutely admissible… Of course she didn’t know, that’s the point of recording her calls…”
He began marching along the pool, phone clamped to his ear. He had not seen them, and Schmidt studied him. Walking with his free hand in his pocket, wearing striped suspenders with his tie and collar loosened, he was nodding slowly, the way you nodded to show boredom. He’s acting, Schmidt thought. Being dramatic. All alone, he was acting for himself. He reached the end of the deck, still listening, and rounded the pool. At eye level with Schmidt, feet in tassel loafers marched past. The man shook his head.
“No, she didn’t, she did it out of spite. A fucking nurse’s aide she gives a Jasper Johns lithograph… Jason, the woman’s dumb, she’s not a moron. Rivera? Not yet…”
He rounded the next corner. At the open glass panels, he stopped to look inside. “Jason? Jason? Shut up a minute, this is what it is. He put up a painting of a toucan on a Chevrolet. No, buddy, I wish you were here, I really do. Between a Larry Rivers and a Lichtenstein—”
Now it registered—people on the course—and he turned to look out. “Can I help you? Are you letting people play through to hear this?”
Schmidt heard the squeak of brakes. He turned to see a couple in a golf cart.
“Is that your car in front?” Schmidt turned back to the pool deck. “This isn’t a tourist attraction,” the man called.
“We’re looking for someone,” Brenda told him.
“No shit? I know all about that—” He held the phone away but was still acting for Jason.
“His name’s Patrick Sweeney,” Brenda called.
“Nope, no go, wrong guy. If it’s James Rivera, definitely I’m interested. Otherwise, please leave.” The man turned away and went inside.
“Wait!” Brenda moved to the cage. “What about Rivera!”
Schmidt turned to the couple in the golf cart. The man wore Kelly green, the woman pink. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it,” the woman said. “He’s upset about his father.”
“He died Friday,” the man said. “In that swimming pool right there.”
“It was an accident,” the woman said. “We saw him all the time, didn’t we?” The man nodded. “You could tell he was frail, but he always waved. He seemed fine. They say he was taking a dip, and the aide went in to bring out lunch.”
“He seems angry about some painting,” Schmidt said.
“Is this the one with the collection?” The man shrugged, and the woman turned back. “He may have found something missing,” she said. “I think he collects art.”
The couple waved and moved off. No longer sure she was glad to see him, Schmidt waited for Brenda to face him.
“You know these people?” he asked.
“I met James Rivera.”
“I thought the name was Sweeney.”
“Let’s go.”
“If you’re looking for something, I’ll help you.”
“I’m just looking.”
She bent to scan the grass. But now Brenda, too, seemed to be acting. For his benefit or her own, he wasn’t sure. “You say this Sweeney disappeared—” He said it to make her look at him.
When she did, her face was serious. She straightened, arms at her sides, like a prisoner, or a witness about to be sworn in. “I’ll show you,” she said.
◆◆◆◆◆
They drove without speaking. When he had to stop for carts, Schmidt said, “Who’s this Rivera?”
“He has a business called All Hands on Deck. He looks after old people.”
“He must work for the guy back there.” She nodded. “And
