The man moved directly toward the bathroom door on his left, Toots’s right hand coming up alongside her head as he reached for the doorknob, still unaware of her presence. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the shoe, her eyes focused on the back of his head as he opened the door. She stepped into the swing, her right arm uncoiling, the heel of the shoe moving out and sideward to catch him just behind the right ear. Stunned, he fell against the opening door, and she hit him again as he turned toward her, catching his breath when the narrow end of the heel went deep into his forehead, opening a hole, spurting blood. He reached for the knife sheathed at his belt, yanked it free, and took a stumbling step toward her.
Take him out! Warren thought but dared not yell.
Toots brought her arm back again like a pitcher about to hurl a fastball, unleashed it with a snap, the heel of the shoe colliding with his right temple this time, opening another deep wound there, staggering him. She hit him yet another time because this wasn’t fun and games here, girls, this wasn’t a coy maiden with an ardent suitor, this was a man with a knife, and a woman who would kill him if she had to. Her next blow did almost that, ripping into his face and tearing his right eyeball from its socket. The knife clattered to the deck. He fell unconscious beside it.
There’s still the other one, Warren thought.
With a gun.
Toots tried to catch her breath.
Far out on the water, there was sudden lightning.
The storm had swept out to sea.
Sunshine was breaking through in patches.
We sat in Sheila’s living room, the clouds tearing away in tatters beyond the sliding glass doors. She was telling me they’d got back to the apartment at about eight-thirty on the night of the murder. She was saying that Bobby seemed anxious and upset, constantly checking his watch, finally going to the phone to call Brett Toland.
“What time was this?”
“About nine.”
“Did you overhear the conversation?”
“Bobby’s end of it.”
“What did he say? Can you tell me?”
“I don’t want to get him in trouble.”
“You told me you wouldn’t alibi anybody for murder. No matter how well you knew him.”
“I don’t think he killed anyone.”
“Then he has nothing to worry about.”
She nibbled at her lower lip. Her hands were clasped in her lap. Blue sky was beginning to show close to shore now. Dark angry clouds were racing out over the water.
She took a deep breath.
I waited.
“He asked Mr. Toland if he’d looked at the tape.”
“And?”
“Then he said, ‘So? Do we have a deal?’”
I nodded.
“He got angry then. ‘What do you mean, no? You’re telling me no?’ Like that. Very angry. ‘It’s of no use to you? It’s only your whole fucking case! You’re sorry? Oh, you don’t know sorry, Brett! “You’ll find out sorry!’ And he hung up.”
“Then what?”
“He began pacing, back and forth, like a wild animal, cursing, telling me he’d offered the man something that would solve all his problems and he turned it down, ‘I should have made my deal first, I was stupid, stupid, I thought I was dealing with a gentleman. But I’ll show him, oh, he’ll be sorry, all right, he’ll be sorrier than he’s ever been in his whole fucking life!’”
The room went silent.
“Were those his exact words?”
“No, not exactly. But that was the gist. Mr. Toland would be sorry for turning down Bobby’s deal, whatever it was.”
“Okay.”
“That doesn’t mean he killed him.”
“Not if he was here all night,” I said.
Something flitted across her eyes.
“He was here all night, wasn’t he?” I asked.
She shook her head.
In a very small voice, she said, “Well, no. Not exactly.”
Toots put on her shoes, picked up the knife, and went immediately to where Warren sat tied up. Neither of them said a word. Over her shoulder, Warren was watching the ladder behind her. The blade was exceedingly sharp. She cut through the lines in an instant. Warren massaged his wrists. Still, they said nothing. He nodded toward the ladder. She nodded back. He made a pistol with his hand, cocked it with his thumb. She nodded again.
And suddenly, there was the sound of rain sweeping across the topside decks.
It was a good half-hour drive from Sheila’s condo on the end of Whisper to Diaz’s condo on Sabal. Sandalwind to Evensong II, door to door. Well, to be precise, thirty-two minutes by my car clock. I got there at a little past six that evening. Rain from the swift recent storm lay in huge black puddles on the parking lot asphalt, reflecting a clear blue sky and fast-moving puffy white clouds. I parked the car and walked to unit 21. The same white heron picked its way along the path’s border of Blue Daze. This time, he did not take wing at my approach. The same teenyboppers in thong bikinis were splashing in the pool behind the condo. The same old man in red boxer trunks was sitting watching them, his legs dangling in the water. There is sometimes, in Florida, the feeling that nothing ever changes, everything remains ever and always the same, smothered by sunshine.
Diaz had just got home from work. He was still dressed for the office except for his bare feet. His shoes and socks were on the living room floor in front of the couch, where he’d left them when he took them off. He’d been at the bar mixing a vodka-tonic when I arrived. He finished doing that now, asked me if I wanted one...
“No, thanks,” I said, though I was exceptionally thirsty.
...dropped a wedge of lime into the glass, and then stood with drink in hand, waiting.
“This won’t take a minute,” I said, and smiled.
He did not smile back.
“Bobby,” I said, “I hate to assume these confrontational stances with you, but...”
“Then don’t,” he snapped. “Because I find them frankly irritating.”
“Me, too.”
“Good. We agree on something.”
“But,” I said, “there are some...”
“No buts,” he said. “You said a minute. You’ve already had thirty seconds.”
“Then I’ll make it fast. Where’d you go when you left Sheila Lockhart at a little past nine on the night Brett Toland was killed?”
“You’re already wrong,” he said. “I was with Sheila all night long. I didn’t leave her till eight the next morning.”
“No, I’m sorry. You made a call to Brett Toland at nine...”
“No, I didn’t make any call to...”
“I can subpoena Ms. Lockhart’s phone bills.”
Diaz sipped at his drink.
“Do we always have to pull teeth?” I asked.
“All right, I called him.”
“What about?”
“I wanted to know if he’d had a chance to look at that video.”
“And had he?”
“Yeah, he said he’d watched it.”
“Did you ask him what he’d thought of it?”
“I’m sure I did.”
“In fact, didn’t you ask him if you had a deal?”
“No, I don’t remember asking him anything like that.”
“And didn’t he say no, you didn’t have a deal? Didn’t he tell you the tape was of no use to him?”