Mobley mumbled something and looked to Louis as he started a long slide out of the curved booth. “I got to take this call,” he said. “Don’t be here where I get back.”
Louis watched Mobley stagger toward the bar where he leaned on his elbows and picked up the phone. Louis drew a breath and put a five on the table.
Half-way to the door, he stopped and took another look around O’Sullivan’s. It was one level above a dive with its sputtering neon and cracked leather booths. He had never found a place like this when he was wearing a badge. Back in Ann Arbor, flush with a criminology degree and a rookie’s idealism, he had decided he was too smart, too good to be part of the gritty off-duty lifestyle of a cop. And in Mississippi, the only tavern in town had been decorated with a confederate flag.
Outside, the August air was still and scorched-smelling, baking the buildings and sidewalk like they were rocks in a kiln. Louis headed toward his Mustang.
“Kincaid.”
Louis turned to see Mobley standing in the doorway of the bar. His hair was the color of hay, his skin as bronzed as a lifeguard. A cigarette hung limply from the side of his mouth.
“You really serious about wearing a uniform again?” Mobley asked.
“I told you I was.”
“Okay, I’ll give you a shot.”
“A shot?”
Mobley tried to take the cigarette from his mouth but the paper stuck to his dry lip and he had to peel it off. It took him a moment to refocus on Louis.
“I got this situation going on I’m going to deputize you for.”
“Deputize me?” Louis asked. “Is that even still legal?”
“Yeah, kind of,” Mobley said. “Anyway, doesn’t really matter. I can do what I want.”
“Right.”
“You’ll get a temporary badge and ID card,” Mobley said, “but no uniform. You’ll wear street clothes. Jacket and tie.”
In ninety-nine degree heat. Mobley was screwing with him but that was okay. He had a jacket. Somewhere. In his truck maybe, from that last case he had worked over in Palm Beach.
“So, consider this a test, Kincaid,” Mobley said. “You pass it — and only I decide if you do — and I’ll get you in front of my hiring board with a five-star recommendation.”
“You got a deal,” Louis said. “When do I start?”
“I’ll get you your credentials tomorrow, but you can start right now.”
Louis squinted up at the sun. It was already three. He looked back at Mobley.
“Okay, what’s the job?”
“I want you to go pick up a dead cat.”
CHAPTER TWO
It wasn’t just any cat.
This one weighed about a hundred and thirty pounds and had claws that could rip a man to shreds.
The panther was lying on its side, motionless, on the baking cement of the pool deck. Louis stood about ten feet away, sweat dripping down his face, muscles tensed. He moved closer. Close enough to see the cat’s big pink tongue hanging from its mouth.
“Is it dead? It’s dead, right?”
He glanced back at the old woman standing at the open sliding glass door. She was holding a small poodle whose curly white hair and anxious eyes matched her own. The damn dog had barked non-stop from the moment Louis set foot on the patio but at least for the moment it was just shaking, like it was having a seizure.
“Yes, ma’am, I think it’s dead.”
The pool pump kicked on with a loud groan and gushing noise.
The poodle went into a barking frenzy. Louis looked back at the woman who was trying hard to keep it from jumping out of her arms. When he looked back at the big cat it still wasn’t moving.
No, it wasn’t dead. Its chest was moving, just barely.
“Ma’am,” he called back over his shoulder. “I think you’d better take your dog inside.”
“What?”
“Please go inside the house.”
He waited until he heard the sliding door close. The barking was muted now at least. He crept closer to the cat and squatted down.
It was about seven feet long from nose to tail’s end with a tawny brown coat that was white on the belly and tipped in black on the tail and ears. Its yellow eyes were open but unfocused and its mouth hung open, showing its tongue and large teeth.
Louis had never seen one alive before, just pictures in magazines and those black silhouettes on the road signs cautioning people to drive slower. But he knew it was a Florida panther. He knew, too, that there weren’t many left in the wild. And he knew that this one was dying.
He craned his neck, trying to get a better look at the big cat but he couldn’t see any wounds or any blood. The only thing that seemed off was that the animal looked too thin. Louis could see the gentle rippling of its ribs as it labored to breathe.
Louis jerked the radio from the back pocket of his chinos and keyed the special frequency Mobley had assigned him.
“Kincaid to Lee County base.”
A pause. “Identify again?”
“Kincaid. Louis Kincaid.”
Another pause. “Who is this?”
“Kincaid. I’m on temporary assignment for Sheriff Mobley and — ”
“One moment.” The radio went silent. Louis wiped his sweating face and looked down at the panther. He couldn’t see the chest moving anymore. He inched closer and gently nudged a back paw with his shoe. The leg moved and Louis jerked back.
The radio squawked to life. “Okay, Mr. Kincaid. What’s your business?” It was a woman dispatcher. She sounded young, with the sweet calming tone of a kindergarten teacher.
“I need to speak to the sheriff ASAP.”
“He’s unavailable.”
Louis glanced at his watch. It was past four. Mobley was probably still at O’Sullivan’s laughing his ass off.
“Miss, I could use some help here,” Louis said. “I’ve got a Florida panther here on someone’s patio and — ”
“Panther?”
“Yeah, it’s — ”
“You’re sure it’s a panther?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Does it match the BOLO description?”
Bolo? What the hell?
“Read me the BOLO, please,” Louis said.
The dispatcher read the be-on-the-lookout alert put out by the Fish and Game Conservation Commission. As far as Louis could tell the description matched the panther, right down to the bulky radio collar it was wearing.
“Is it dead?” the dispatcher asked.
“Not yet.”
And that was what was going to help Louis pass Mobley’s damn test. He knew Mobley didn’t care about a dead cat. A dead panther found in the wild wasn’t news. The sad fact was the cats were routinely killed by cars. But a rescued live panther found on an old lady’s patio in Lehigh Acres was another story. A story that the TV cameras — and Lance Mobley — wouldn’t be able to resist.
“I need to contact the Fish and Wildlife people,” Louis said. “Can you patch me through to someone, please?”
“I can notify them for you.”
“I’d like to speak to them myself,” Louis said.
“One moment, Mr. Kincaid.”
A minute later a man came on the line and Louis told him about the panther on the patio. The man asked no questions, only for directions to Elsie Kaufman’s house. He asked Louis to stay until a ranger arrived.
Louis thanked the dispatcher and clicked off. He looked back at the sliding glass door. Elsie Kaufman was still standing there clutching her poodle, staring out at him. He looked up at big clock-sized thermometer on the house. It read ninety-five.
Fuck this.
He tore off his tie and blazer and tossed them toward a lounge chair, his eyes still locked on the panther.
He crept back to the animal and squatted down, about four feet away. Maybe he was too close but he didn’t think so. The cat’s eyes opened for second then closed again.
“Hang on, cat,” he said.
CHAPTER THREE
It was almost five but the slanting sun was still beating down on the patio full-force. Louis had retreated to the overhang near the sliding glass door with the glass of lemonade Elsie Kaufman had given him. The panther had not moved but Louis could see from his vantage point it was still breathing.