As I passed, Sal torched a fat cigar. I could clearly see his profile in the flickering glow. But who was in that other car, parked in a deserted spot for a clandestine meeting near midnight?
When Sal’s lighter flared a second time, I nearly ran Pam’s car into the war memorial on the courthouse square.
Carlos Martinez leaned from his driver’s window with an equally large cigar between his lips. Sal, smiling, fired him up. The detective puffed, and settled back in his seat with a contented look. As he exhaled, a smoke cloud swirled around the two men.
Sal relit his own stogie. Martinez said something. They both laughed. From my vantage point, now getting more distant in the rearview mirror of the VW, it looked like the investigator in Jim Albert’s murder and the man we all thought might be the killer were the oldest and best of friends.
I slammed on my brakes and did a U-turn.
The putt-putt-putt of the ancient VW made a stealth approach unlikely. By the time I navigated off the road, into the police department lot, and all the way to their corner in the back, Sal had started his car and gunned it. Pedal to the metal, he screeched out the exit like Dale Earnhardt Jr. in the last lap at Daytona.
As I sputtered up, Martinez got out of his car and leaned against the driver’s door. He looked completely relaxed; casual. Just an average, hard-working cop, enjoying a cigar at the end of a long day. Of course, his smoking pal happened to be the very same man Martinez had said was criminally linked to the dead mobster. And that wasn’t the least of it. He’d all but told me Sal was a suspect in that mobster’s murder.
I brought Pam’s car shuddering to a stop, and turned off the key in the ignition. Martinez walked over to the VW to greet me. “We meet again so soon, Ms. Bauer.’’
“Oh, can the act, Detective. It’s been a long day. I’m as tuckered out as a plow horse after forty rows. Why were you just sharing a smoke with the man you implied might have murdered Jimmy the Weasel?’’
“I like a woman who cuts to the chase.’’ He smiled down into the driver’s seat.
“I’m thrilled,’’ I said. “And I like a man who isn’t a pathological liar. What the hell is going on?’’
He looked right then left, like there might be someone lurking in the vast rows of vacant parking spaces. He turned around and peered behind us. Then he took a step around the front of my car and scanned the road I’d just come from. Unless someone was hovering over our heads or hiding underneath one of our cars, there wasn’t a soul to overhear him.
“I can’t really talk about the investigation.’’ He pressed his lips together like a crooked cop on the witness stand who’d just invoked the Fifth Amendment.
“That’s it?’’ I asked. “You can’t talk about it? That’s all you’re going to say?’’
“I wish I could say more. I really do.’’
I started counting, but only made it to two.
“Maybe Chief Johnson will be more forthcoming when I share with him that I saw you chumming around with a murder suspect,’’ I snapped. “What do you think he’ll say about that?’’
His big brown eyes filled with disappointment. “Do whatever you have to do, Ms. Bauer. I will say this: the situation with Sal Provenza is a very delicate one. You going around spreading tales when you don’t understand what you’re talking about could compromise the investigation into Jimmy Albrizio’s murder. You’re not Agatha Christie, you know. The last thing the police need is some half-cocked civilian, meddling in crucial matters and trying to solve the Big Case.’’
My hands squeezed the steering wheel. My knuckles were white. This man had a way of getting on my last nerve. “I get your point, Detective. You don’t have to insult me while you’re at it.’’ I turned the key. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take my dumb civilian self home and get some rest.’’
The car stalled. So much for a dramatic exit. I pumped the gas again. It finally started on the fourth try.
“Good night.’’ I raised my chin and stared straight ahead, trying to appear as dignified as possible for a woman who was driving the Little Engine That Couldn’t.
I glanced into the rearview mirror as I pulled out of the police lot. Martinez was leaning against his car, puffing away on that stupid cigar and watching me disappear.
___
As the VW rattled down the dirt drive that leads to my cottage, the outline of three masked bandits flashed in the headlights.
I cursed. “Stupid raccoons!’’
The creatures seemed to be struggling to get the tops off my garbage cans. A smart-ass detective from Miami might put me in my place. But, by God, I’d shown those raccoons. I’m not an experienced animal trapper for nothing. My garbage was trussed up tighter than Fort Knox. The lids on top of the cans were snapped down; bungee cords secured the tops to the handles.
I was feeling pretty good, until I got a little closer and saw the ’coons had busted the vault. They were picnicking on leftover chicken and cantaloupe. The biggest one looked as pleased as a fat man at an all-you-can-eat buffet.
I flashed the brights and blew the horn. They just looked up and blinked. Most of my country neighbors would have simply shot the varmints. But I’m soft about animals. I parked the car, headed to my shed, and picked out a rake. Then I turned the hose on them, holding the rake ready in case they ran at me instead of into the woods. As they scampered away, I swear that biggest one aimed a look out of Terminator at me over his shoulder.
I’ll be back.
“Just try it, you little bastard,’’ I yelled.
Hump-backed, they loped toward the line of cypress trees and Sabal palms that mark the edge of my property. “I’m getting out the smelly stuff,’’ I shouted after them. “We’ll see how y’all like it when you come sniffing around for dinner and the stench of laundry bleach knocks you over instead!’’
So this is what I’d descended to: a crazy woman living alone in the woods, warring with raccoons. I grabbed my purse from the car, tossed a tarp over the seats in case of rain, and headed for my cypress-wood cottage.
From the front porch, I took a moment to appreciate what I love about living so far out. The stars lit the black sky. Cattle lowed in a distant pasture. The scent of orange blossoms from a grove hung in the air. There was also a whiff of manure, fortunately faint, from the Big Lake Dairy. It had drifted over Highway 98 and across the marshes of Taylor Slough, traveling west on a slight breeze.