“Whaaat?”
Do you live with someone?”
“Nooo… I told you, I’m divorced.”
“You better let me drive,” Hess said. “You can’t even stand up.”
“I drive sitting down,” Lynn said and laughed. She reached a hand into her purse, feeling around. It took a few minutes to find the keys, half a dozen on a silver ring. She handed them to Hess. He unlocked and opened the door, sat her in the front passenger seat, leaned in, brushed her cheek with his, buckling the seat belt around her.
She touched his face and said, “Is Mr. Scruffy growing a beard?”
He closed the door and walked around the car and got in. “What is your address?”
“Whaaat?” She was angled in the seat, leaning back against the door, eyes closed.
He reached over on the floor in front of her, picked up the purse, opened it, found her wallet and driver’s license. He drove to Seabreeze Avenue, checking addresses. Lynn lived in a single-storey house hidden behind a sculpted wall of hedge four blocks from the ocean. Hess parked on the circular drive. The front porch light was on and there was a light on inside.
He got out, went to the front door, tried several keys until he found the right one, and opened it. Went back to the car, picked Lynn up and brought her into the house and bumped the door closed with his hip. He heard voices in another room, sat Lynn on a couch in the salon, and went to investigate. A television was on in the kitchen. He turned it off.
Adjoining the kitchen was a utility room with a washing machine and dryer. On the opposite wall built-in shelves held tools, cleaning supplies, an assortment of items, including a coil of rope which he grabbed, and a knife. Hess walked though the house. There were two bedrooms off the salon, one obviously lived in, disheveled, and the other spotless. He went back in the salon. Lynn was stretched out, sleeping on the couch. Hess bent and picked her up, carried her to her bedroom, and laid her across the double bed. He cut lengths of rope and tied her ankles and wrists while she slept.
Hess had been in the same clothes now for twenty hours. He went into the master bathroom, undressed, turned on the shower and stood under the hot water. He dried himself with a pink bath towel, and wrapped it around his waist. Found a razor and shaving cream in the cabinet under the sink, and shaved in front of the fogged-up mirror he had to keep wiping clean with a towel.
He dressed, feeling better, checked on Lynn, still asleep. Went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, found sliced turkey in the meat drawer and made a turkey sandwich with Dijon mustard. He poured a glass of milk, sat at the table and watched TV, a program called McMillan & Wife, starring Rock Hudson. When he finished the sandwich, Hess turned off the TV and went to the guest room, stretched out on the bed and fell asleep.
Lynn Risdon’s head was pounding and her mouth was dry from the vodka. She’d have to slow down, take it easy for a while. She was drinking too much, getting drunk almost every night. She was on her side, couldn’t move her arms. They were tied behind her back, and her legs were tied together at the ankles. What was going on? Was the erotic film producer into S&M? At first she thought it was a dream. But her eyes were open staring at the red numerals on the clock in her dark bedroom. She remembered being at the restaurant, sitting at the bar drinking a martini. Talking to the guy. What was his name? Brank, that was it. They’d had several drinks, having a good time. Remembered offering him a ride home, the events of the night a little hazy after that. Lynn couldn’t remember how she got home. Did she drive? Or maybe he did. Then, in a flash of memory she saw herself hanging onto him leaving the restaurant. But he was a good sport, didn’t seem to mind. She’d picked up other men in bars, and brought them home, had sex and never heard from them again. Lynn liked being in control, liked initiating things. Guys picked up girls all the time. Why couldn’t girls pick up guys? It was 1971 after all.
Now as her eyes adjusted she could see rope binding her ankles and wrists. Why would he do that? Why would he leave her like this? She was going to fuck his brains out. It didn’t make sense. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and tried to sit up. Now what? She couldn’t walk, couldn’t crawl. Lynn looked at the phone on the bedside table and slid along the bed on her knees, knocked the receiver off the cradle, and it went over the side of the table and landed on the floor. She pressed the 0 button with her chin, heard the operator’s voice say, “How may I direct your call?” and went down on the carpet, trying to get closer to the phone.
“I’m in my house, tied up. Call the police?”
“Where are you calling from?”
“Palm Beach.”
“What’s the address?”
He came in the room, standing over her, picked up the receiver, put it back and ripped the cord out of the wall. He picked her up and dropped her on the bed. It was the porno-movie guy from the bar.
“What’re you doing?” Lynn was afraid now. “What’s with the rope? You into bondage? I’ll try anything once. What the hell. It might be fun.”
He pushed her on her back, arms under her.
“Stop it. You’re hurting me.”
He reached for the pillow. She thought he was going to put it under her head.
“How’d we get here? You must’ve driven, right?” she said, trying to reconnect with him, but he didn’t respond. And now he put the pillow over her face, pressing down and she couldn’t breathe. Fought to get out from under him with everything she had, but he was sitting on her. Lynn thought about Larry, her ex, wondering why she’d wasted twenty years of her life with him. She pictured his face when he found out she was dead and he wouldn’t have to pay alimony. She thought about her parents and her brother, Chris. Would anyone miss her when she was gone? And then she was floating, looking down at herself, Brank, the porno-movie guy still holding the pillow over her face. He didn’t know yet.
Hess felt her body go slack but kept pressing the pillow on her face, watching the minute hand on the clock go around three more times, and let up, lifted the pillow and saw her eyes staring at him, an expression of fear or panic frozen on her face. He pulled the side of the bedspread up and covered her. He would have to figure out what to do with the body, but not now. Hess was tired. He went back in the guest room, laid down on the bed and fell asleep.
In the morning, Hess had two soft-boiled eggs and toast for breakfast, watched the news on the small TV in the kitchen. One story in particular piqued his interest. A somber female reporter was broadcasting live from a marina. “Last night the U.S. Coast Guard discovered an abandoned yacht half a mile off the Palm Beach coast. The names of the yacht owner and his wife are being withheld by authorities, pending a police investigation.”
Now the camera pulled back and Hess could see the white fiberglass hull of Brank’s Hatteras behind her. The reporter gave her name and the name of the TV station and signed off.
At 8:45, Hess drove Lynn Risdon’s car to the SunTrust Bank on Royal Poinciana Way, waited in the parking lot until the doors opened. Dana Kovarek, the assistant manager who had rented Hess the safe deposit box a week earlier, did a double take when Ernst walked into his office and said, “Dana, remember me? Gerd Klaus. I want to open my box.”
“I remember, but it can’t be. You died. I saw the death certificate.”
“Do I look dead?”
Kovarek was nervous, eyes darting around. “Your daughter came with the key, a death certificate and a court order claiming she was your rightful heiress. Don’t you remember, I explained the terms, conditions and procedures associated with having control over your safe deposit box,” Kovarek said, sounding defensive. “We talked about relatives of the deceased and their right to claim the contents of the box.”