"So what do you think, Charlie?"
He laid the rod across his lap and scanned the water. The skiff drew about nine inches; the water was two feet deep, tops. It's part hunting and part fishing when you're after Mister Bonefish. "What are the possibilities?"
He loves the Socratic method of teaching.
"At least two. First, a conspiracy. Fox has his pal Rodriguez kill a couple of ladies who know too much."
Charlie removed his palm-frond hat and wiped his forehead with a red bandana. "What could have happened in a Vietnamese village that would lead him to commit murder more than twenty years later?"
So many questions, so few answers.
"Don't know, I'm working on it."
"And if he wanted to silence Marsha and his wife, why kill the Rosedahl girl?"
"A distraction," I said. "Makes it look like motiveless crimes tied together by the Compu-Mate membership. Then frame a drunk who can't remember half of what he says or does."
A spotted eagle ray flashed off the bow and beat its wing-like pectoral fins, scurrying through the warm, shallow water. Charlie watched it and scowled. " Aetobatus narinari. " He dug out a fresh shrimp. "So brutal."
"A ray? Unless it whips you with a poison spine, it's-"
"Not the ray. Your scenario. So brutal and risky, allowing the time lapse between Marsha's murder and Priscilla's. What if Priscilla became suspicious, started thinking her husband had killed Marsha?"
"But she wouldn't, Charlie. That's the point. There was nothing to tie Nick in, and once Mary Rosedahl was killed, everyone would think it was just some lunatic with a computer. Just like the royal family slaughtering four other women to cover up the killing of Mary Jane Kelly."
"Then why kill Priscilla at all? Marsha was silenced, and if Priscilla wasn't suspicious…"
"That's what I couldn't figure out. Whatever Priscilla knew, she's known for a long time, and she's been the good wife, silent and true. So I asked myself what's changed, and of course, it's so obvious."
Charlie picked up his rod and thought about it. "Nick left her. No reason to be loyal once he dumped her."
"Exactly. Priscilla put up a good front. Even fixed Nick up with Marsha, hoped it would be a quick fling. She had Marsha over for tea and slumber parties. One night Marsha finds the log. Probably she already looked up the clippings about Fox's war record, so she notices the discrepancy. She starts asking Fox about the war, but very casually. She's a little smarter than she seems. He doesn't figure it out at first, gives her the standard bit about the firefight in the village and the chase along the dike. Now she knows there's a story there. Maybe a very big story, bring down the state attorney, win a prize. Maybe she contacts survivors from the platoon, and one of them tips off Nick. And she may have told Priscilla, or Nick thought she did. He had a divorce in the works, plus a bright political future on the line. He couldn't afford to have somebody saying the medals are made of tin."
Charlie was quiet a moment. Then he spotted something, raised the rod, and cast. The excitement must have pumped up his backswing and I felt the rod buzz by my ear. The shrimp plopped thirty feet from where he wanted it, and the fish swam lazily the other way.
"Too big for a bonefish, anyway," Charlie said without regret. "Might be a cobia."
"Theory number two," I said. "Nick's got nothing to do with it. Alex Rodriguez is some kind of freak. Seduces 'em and strangles 'em."
"But you have no proof to support either theory."
"Give me a chance. Now, how about some fishing?"
Charlie was eyeing a sandy spot near a wad of seagrass. The first problem with bonefishing is spotting the little devils. I stood on the platform, watching for their tails. On the flats you sometimes see them waving like flags above the waterline, the fish digging in the sand for shrimp or crabs. Other times you see the mud churned up as they root around. More often you see nothing.
"You might try some chum," Charlie said.
Real purists may disagree, but I see nothing wrong with salting the water. We didn't have all day.
I unlimbered myself, untied the skiff, and poled toward the sandy spot. I opened a bag of live shrimp and started chopping them into shrimpettes. When I had a mess of bite-sized morsels, I tossed them over the side, leaving a trail of hors d'oeuvres for Mister Bonefish. Squinting into the late-morning sun, I poled back a comfortable distance, stuck us into the bottom, and sat back down on the hard platform.
Are we having fun yet? Charlie was watching the water, and I was thinking about the kinks in my back, when he said, "Hullo."
I opened my eyes and saw one of those spooky little devils, maybe eight pounds and all muscle and fight. It was skittish, scoping the territory, wondering why somebody dumped dinner in its living room. The second problem with bonefish is getting them to bite. They're high-strung as thoroughbreds. Drop the bait too far away, they won't notice it. Too close, they'll leave town.
Charlie let fly and landed his shrimp six feet in front of its snout. The fish didn't care. It was feeding on the chum or some microscopic flecks of fish food. Then it waggled over, sniffed around, and bit. And zip! It ran-hell, it flew-the reel singing a metallic song. The fish broke the Olympic record for the hundred meter, then decided to do it again. Charlie let it run out. He didn't have a choice. If your drag isn't perfect, the bonefish will snap your line and be in Mexico before you get your engine started.
When the fish stopped its run, Charlie decided to see what it was made of.
Dynamite.
Charlie started pumping, pulling the rod back, letting up, and reeling in. The fish took about ten seconds of this, said the hell with it, bent the rod double, and ran again. They fought for a while, the fish running, Charlie giving ground, reeling in, letting out. Then the line snagged on something-it could have been a chunk of coral or an old tire-and it broke cleanly, the fish bolting free.
"A fine specimen," Charlie said. He considered something for a moment, then added, "You might try some chum."
"I just did."
"Not here, Jake. For Fox and Rodriguez. See if they bite." Oh.
"If Rodriguez is a psychotic killer," Charlie said, "he'll kill again. If Fox thinks someone else knows enough to ruin him, he'll silence that person. So, Jake, start chumming."
The rains came in the afternoon, but we were dry inside Charlie's old Ford pickup, fighting the endless traffic up the highway from the Keys. He wouldn't let me drive, something about third gear not being up and to the right. The skiff was lashed to a rickety trailer behind us, and we bounced and splashed over the Card Sound Bridge on the way to Miami.
"You should have kept that ten-pounder," I said. "Could have mounted it."
Charlie snorted. "I never mounted a corpse in the morgue. Why would I do it to a poor fish?"
"That poor fish damn near broke your pole in two. Never saw so much fight in something so small."
" Deceptio visus," Charlie said, and not for the first time.
"I've been thinking about the bait," I said.
Charlie kept his eyes on the road and his mouth shut. He liked me to figure out things for myself.
"I need to know more about Biggus Dickus."
"His modus operandi?"
"Right. How he relates to the Compu-Mate women, what he looks for."
Charlie hit the defroster. Our body heat had steamed up the windows. Outside, a storm from the east slashed torrents of rain across the pavement. Lightning had knocked out the traffic lights and darkened the neon sign at the Green Turtle Inn. "You're casting for Rodriguez first."
"If he goes after another woman, it would clear Fox, wouldn't it? Rodriguez would be just another crazed killer, except he wears a badge. If he doesn't bite, then I let Fox know the Vietnam War isn't over yet."
"And if neither leaps at the bait? If your theories prove to be a floccinaucinihilipilification."