On the trip back across Alligator Alley, it was only twenty minutes before Nick looked back through the rearview mirror to see Carly sound asleep. His cruise control was set at eighty, and he was feeling pretty good about himself. He'd spent the day with his daughter. She'd been relatively pleased with their adventure. He was being the dad he was sure he was supposed to be, the dad he promised to be over and over on moonlit nights when he went to his family's grave site and sat in the grass, and whispered to Julie and Lindsay, "I will do the right thing by her, guys. I will do the right thing by all of you."
When his cell phone rang Nick's shoulders jumped as if a trumpeter had sneaked into the passenger seat and ripped a high C into his ear.
"Jesus!" he hissed and reached over to snatch up the phone. He didn't recognize the number on the readout. He knew no one at the paper would bother him on the weekend, but it wasn't a paper prefix anyway.
He was about to let the cell take a message but then pushed the answer button. Sources, he thought. Can't live with them, can't live without them.
"Nick Mullins," he said, businesslike.
"Mr. Mullins. This is Detective Hargrave."
Mr. Uncooperative, Nick thought. No use for the press.
"Detective. What's up?"
"I'd like to have a sitdown with you, Mr. Mullins. Go over some things that might benefit the investigation."
Despite his reticence, Hargrave knew exactly how to dangle possibilities in front of a reporter. Even if the ploy was new to him in dealing with the media, Nick was sure Hargrave had used it with informants and inmates before.
"I would be more than happy to meet wherever you'd like on Monday, Detective," Nick said.
"You know JB's on the Deerfield Beach oceanfront? Just north of the pier?"
"Yeah," Nick said, picturing the place.
"I figure it's close enough to your home. We could meet there about eleven tonight."
Nick didn't answer. Why would Hargrave know where he lived? And though Nick knew how easy it was to find someone's private cell number, it was unusual for a cop to check out the address and phone of a reporter.
"Detective, I don't usually work on weekends. I like to be with my family."
Nick checked the rearview The sun was going down in the west behind him. Carly was still asleep, her head flopped to one side against the door panel, her mouth slightly open.
"So eleven o'clock, then," Hargrave said and Nick could picture the man's hatchet face, impassive, unaffected by anything Nick had said. The detective had not called to ask. He was ordering, like he would if Nick were a suspect, or a confidential street source, or an underling. Nick didn't like any of those labels. He was about to get pissed off and open his mouth again but stopped himself. A sentence seemed to slip into his head from the back seat: You're not the boss of me! It was the girls' favorite answer to each other when they'd argue and Nick recalled it as being cute. Petty. But cute.
"OK, Detective. If it's that important, I'll see you at eleven," he finally said. Hargrave did not answer and simply hung up.
Chapter 15
Elsa met him at the door. Always vigilant when her Carly was away, she had watched for the sweep of headlights coming into the drive. Nick checked his sleeping daughter and then got out and opened the back door. He slipped his hand under Carl's legs and as he lifted her from the seat she instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck and lay her head on his shoulder, her eyes still shut. He carried her in as Elsa held open the door: "Aaayyy, pobrecita, esta cansada," Elsa. said.
In Carly's bedroom, the covers were already turned down. Nick laid her in her bed, took off her shoes and watched her scrunch her body into the pillows and heard her exhale contentedly. He bent to kiss her forehead, then turned out the dimmed lamp and started to leave.
"Good night, Daddy."
Nick turned back.
"Faker," he whispered and knew her smile was there in the dark. "Thanks for going with me."
"You're welcome."
In the hall, he asked Elsa to make him some coffee and then went out to empty the car. It was ten o'clock when he sat alone at the kitchen table and ate the saltenas from the cooler and sipped his coffee. Why did Hargrave want to meet with him in a seaside bar, of all places? Not in his office. Not with Joel riding shotgun. He had been rolling the possibilities in his head since the detective had hung up and wasn't any closer to a solid guess. It was well out of character for the guy, and Nick kept running the conference-table scene through his head, trying to pick out who in that room had gotten the worst of Hargrave's skepticism and distrust, and decided it hadn't been him.
"You are OK, Mr. Mullins?" Elsa said, breaking the silence with her quiet voice.
"Huh? Oh, yes, yes, Elsa. I'm fine," Nick said, shaking his head back into the present. "We had a good day. But I have to go out again."
The housekeeper pointedly looked up at the kitchen clock.
"I'll lock up when I leave."
Elsa did not bother hiding her worried brow.
"It's OK, Elsa," Nick said. "I'm OK."
"You are going to talk to Ms. Julie and Lindisita?"
Nick had once confided in Elsa, told her of his night trips to the cemetery. He guessed that her heritage, her acceptance of the souls and ghosts of the dead, led her to be wary, but not overtly concerned. She wasn't going to call the loony bin to come take him away.
"You will be home to take Carlita to church, yes?"
Sunday was the one day of the week that Elsa spent with her own family since the accident. Her grown daughter and now teenage grandsons would be expecting her. She'd given so much to Nick, he would never deny her that. But he was also feeling an apprehension in the old woman's eyes. His late nights before the accident. The heavy drinking she had witnessed afterward.
"Yes, Elsa," Nick said. "I will be back." Nick let the valet park his old Volvo because it was the only way at JB's. Nobody in South Florida puts a parking lot on the waterfront, so restaurants and bars were forced to purchase alternative spots for their clientele, and they sure weren't giving it out for free.
Nick took the stub, walked into the restaurant foyer and immediately wished he'd taken a shower and shaved. JB's was an upscale place and the late diners looked wealthy and hip. A scruffy-looking guy in blue jeans and a polo shirt didn't get so much as a look from the maitre d'. That was OK by Nick. He figured Hargrave for the outdoor bar and walked right on by the WAIT TO BE SEATED sign and worked his way back. As he stepped out through the glass doors, the live, the slightly sour scent of the ocean washed up into his face and although the smell of low tide was pleasant enough to Nick, he wondered how the to-be-seen people could dine with the odor washing over their food on the humid breeze. He moved toward the bar and let his eyes go first to the corners, where he knew a cop like Hargrave would have his back against a wall. He found him there, sitting on a stool, his thin back straight as a stick, his pointed elbows stuck into the bar top. Nick thought of a praying mantis and then walked over in full view so the detective could see him coming. The burly sergeant was nowhere to be seen.
"Hey, how's it going?" Nick said, never knowing for sure how plainclothes detectives wanted to be greeted out in the civilian world. He noted that Hargrave did not unlace his fingers to offer a handshake and he slid onto the open stool.
"Sticky," Hargrave said.
Nick thought what multiple meanings that statement held and then fell back on the weather.
"Yeah, pretty humid," he said and listened for a moment to the sound of the surf brushing up onto the sand fifty yards out into the darkness.
"Buy you a drink?" the detective said.
"Just iced tea."
Hargrave's hands hovered over a bourbon glass and with a nod of his head got the attention of the bartender and ordered Nick's tea. Nick had not taken a drink of alcohol since he'd gone on a six-month bender after the accident, but he did not begrudge others their habits.