A former Sanibel Island resident, Hollins was a star high school athlete. According to newspaper files, he was drafted by the Kansas City Royals in the 16th round following graduation. Hollins played one year at the Royals' Sarasota baseball school before enlisting in the Marines. He was award the Silver Star for valor.
"What?" Ford realized that MacKinley was talking to him. MacKinley was standing at the counter, looking at the paper. "I asked if you knew that man. The one who did himself in on Tequesta Bank. You were just asking Jeth about Tequesta Bank yesterday, weren't you?"
"I knew him. I knew Rafe pretty well." Ford was thinking Suicide? How in the hell did they come up with that?
MacKinley said, "Seems a damn shame. Child involved and all. Did he seem the type?"
"To kill himself, you mean? No. Absolutely not. Rafe wasn't the type."
"You seem very sure." "I am sure."
"Then maybe the newspaper has it wrong. It happens, you know."
"They were quoting the Everglades County Sheriff's Department. An indirect quote."
MacKinley shrugged and went back to his chair. "Can't pay much attention to those Sandy Key officials now, can we?" "Oh?"
"Well, that's what people around here say. Sandy Key is one of those Florida phenomenons, you know. Instant city. About fifteen years ago, just before I arrived, a financial group bought the whole island. And it's a very large island. First thing they did was get rid of the* old fishing shacks. Second thing they did was start spraying for mosquitoes. The damn bugs are the only thing that kept that area from building up a long time ago. The environmentalists were all in an uproar, said they were spraying way too much. But the developers barged on, kept spraying, and platted their own city: churches here, shops there, apartment complexes in one section, residential houses in another. All concrete block, thank you very much, no wooden structures allowed. Within six years, it was the largest city in Everglades County. They petitioned to become the county seat, pulled a few financial strings, and got it. Now all the public services there are a closed shop. Law enforcement, medical examiner, all appointed offices—the development group controls them all. Sea-life Development, that's the name of the group. When elections come around, they let their citizenry know the proper way to vote. They don't always have good people in important positions, but they always have their people."
"Voters stand for that?"
"Places like Sandy Key attract a certain kind of buyer. They like rules. Everything nice and neat and sterile." MacKinley pronounced it stair-ile. "And they are very loyal in return. Their bumper stickers say 'We Live On Sandy Key and Love It.' That type. Maybe your friend didn't fit in. Maybe they don't care enough to check everything out properly. But if they made a mistake, you'll never hear about it."
"The sheriff of Everglades County doesn't admit his department makes mistakes?"
"The sheriff is Mario DeArmand, a New Jersey builder who's a big stockholder in Sealife Development Corporation. He was appointed by the board. The city manager is ... I forget his name. But he's from New York, one of Sealife's major investors, and he was appointed, too. The district attorney is from Long Island, and he's also chairman of the board. The whole city is run like that. Like a bunch of big kids acting out their childhood fantasies, wearing uniforms and playing with sirens. Everyone stays in line, or the corporation gets rid of them. Sandy Key is a bright, sunny, cheerful place with almost no crime. If you don't believe me, just read the Sandy Key Sentinel, the corporate-owned newspaper. Suicide is a nasty business, but murder is so much nastier. The corporation might lose a condo sale or two if word got out there was a murderer on the loose."
Ford said, "Maybe someone needs to do some poking around down there if the medical examiner agrees with the sheriff's department. Stir things up a little," but he was thinking about that name: Mario DeArmand. It was one of the names Ford had found in Rafe's address book.
"You, for instance?" MacKinley was smiling. "Forgive me, Doc, but you really aren't the type. I'm sure you're very good in your field, bookish and studious and exacting and all, but weaving one's way into the heart of a corrupt government is an entirely different job of work. People like DeArmand are little tyrants, and tyrants have the unhappy habit of turning nasty when their competence is questioned. That sort of thing calls for someone shifty and devious; bit of a liar, too, I'm afraid. I really can't see you in that role, Doc. As Jeth says, you're a nice, quiet man; a person who can be trusted. I think you should leave the muckraking to those more suited for it."
Ford was smiling, too. "Maybe I'll just write a letter to the newspaper, tell them what I think."
"There you are. That's an idea. But there's a possibility in all this I think you should consider first."
"What's that?"
"That your friend really did commit suicide. "
Jeth was just docking with his morning charter as Ford stepped outside, still listening for the pay phone. Nicholes looked grim as he tied the lines; the four big men sitting in his skiff looked grimmer. MacKinley poked his head out, saying "Those guys are pissed off about something. Look at them. I knew they'd be trouble before they even got in the boat. I told Jeth that."
Ford walked out onto the dock, hands in the pockets of his khaki fishing shorts, interested. Jeth was saying "You can ga-ga-ga-get out now," stuttering worse than usual, upset.
"Hear that boys? The ca-captain says we're allowed to leave. Always have to do what the ca-captain tells you, even if he's the screw-up that let our tarpon get away." Talking as if he were joking around, this wide-bodied man with a sunburned face twice the size of his hands jumped out, dark hair gray at the temples, early forties, pack of cigarettes in the pocket of the bathrobe he wore over a bikini bathing suit and a huge belly. Probably a little drunk, too, from the way he teetered. "Ca-ca-captain? I owe these men of mine an apology. See, they're the top salesmen in my company, and they worked their asses off to win this Florida trip. I wanted to give them a taste of big-game fishing, but it seems I chose the wrong man for the job. Fellas, I'm sorry. But it's a good lesson. I didn't do enough checking around, and I admit it. Proves even the boss makes an occasional mistake. Did the same thing off the Yucatan, hired this rookie to take me after blue marlin, and I swore I'd never let it happen again. I've fished enough around the world to know within a minute whether a guide knows his ass from a bunker, but I was wrong this time, and I'm sorry. You deserved better. " Making a speech right there on the dock, people in boats listening, Jeth Nicholes turning red as he cleaned up, pretending not to hear.
"It's okay, Mr. Willis. We had a good time anyway." The three subordinates were sticking by the bossman, jockeying for position in the executive pecking order, backing him all the way.
The big man, Willis, said, "Just one of those ba-ba-bum decisions," laughing because he was mature enough to take the good with the bad.
"That's enough! God da-da-damn it." Nicholes slammed down the line he had been coiling and jumped out of the boat, facing the four men. "I ma-ma-missed the ga-ga-gaff on one tarpon. I a-a-a . . . 'mit it. Said I'm sorry, and I ca-ca-can't do no more than that," his stutter so bad he could hardly talk.
Willis took a step toward him, now the cool-headed negotiator. "But you can do more than that, Captain. In my business, we give the client what he wants. We work our butts off to make sure our clients are happy. That's how we built our reputation; ask anyone in Ohio. When a client isn't happy, we give him his money back. That's exactly what you're going to do for us. Give us our money back."