"Max," Scott said, and when I looked up, my partner was staring at the coffee table, where a department-issue black leather holster lay empty.
"I already checked the I.D.," said the security man, reading our eyes. "He's one of yours."
I stood and stepped farther into the room and started to say, "and where's the…," when I saw her in the darkened corner, sitting, her head up against the back of the high Queen Anne chair, her eyes in shadow. I said "Excuse me miss but…," before I realized I was talking to a dead woman. Her hands were crossed over a white pillow that she was holding tight to her chest. Only close up could you see the small hole in the material where the 9 mm had entered.
"They registered as Mr. and Mrs.," the security guy said. "The door was locked from the inside. I had to snap the security chain to get in."
"Yeah, thanks. We'll call it in to homicide," Scott said, ushering the guy back out.
"Phil Broderick," Scott said after closing the door.
"You knew him?"
"Worked the Twenty-second. Hung with Tommy Mason and those guys."
"That his wife?"
Scott stepped across the room. He had stopped taking notes. He looked into the dead woman's face for only a second.
"Yeah," he said, but there was an unusual tone in his voice.
"What?" I said, watching his eyes.
"You know, locker-room shit," he said, turning away. "Guys said he was using her for a punching bag."
"And let me guess. Nobody reported it."
We both went quiet and I stepped back over to the woman. There was a half-burned photo of a couple in their wedding clothes on the floor next to her. The smell of the burned acetate was still in the air.
"Maybe he was trying to make it up to her," Scott said, "with all this."
"Yeah. Make it up," I said.
I crossed the room back over to the body and knelt down into the deep carpet and turned the officer's head and looked into the dead face. At first it looked familiar, the low trim of the long sideburns, the oil in the hair, and then the dream turned on me and I could see the face of my father.
I was startled awake by the feeling of falling and struck my heels hard against the plank floor to keep myself from sliding out of the straight-backed chair. The room was dark and thick with humidity, and I could feel the sheen of sweat on my back and under my thighs. The mix of dream and memory had left me shaking. I moved with habit and got a gallon of fresh water from my makeshift cooler and drank for several seconds from the plastic bottle. As I stood in the night, shaking, the first few drops of rain began to ping against the tin roof and patter in the leaves of the canopy outside, and I knew there would be no more sleep before dawn.
CHAPTER
6
I stopped at a roadside place on the way into town that was popular with truckers and local farmers, and I joined a handful of them with hash browns soaked in gravy, collard greens and strong, black coffee. The middle-aged black waitress looked at me twice, and winked at me when I left her a large tip. It was still before 7:00 A.M.
Once in the city, I parked in the same lot I always used off Clematis Street, near the county courthouse. The old man who ran the lot put me close to a space next to his payment shack and touched the fender of the truck after giving me the ticket.
"I take care of her, Mr. Max."
"I know you will," I said, and walked south. The streets of West Palm Beach were busy with cars, but the sidewalks could never match them the way they did in the big northeast cities. People here parked close to their offices, and newer towers were built with parking inside on the first few floors. You rarely found yourself mobbed up at a crosswalk with other pedestrians unless it was lunch hour or after hours on the more popular restaurant and club strips. The early morning rain had wrung out the clouds and the sky had gone clear and blue with the southeast breeze. The walk was worth it-I was disappointed when I got to Billy's building and had to go inside.
Billy was behind his broad desk with piles of stacked folders and the flat-screen computer monitor holding his attention.
"M-Max," he said in greeting, without looking up. "You are l-looking w-well."
I knew not to break his concentration and crossed the room to the floor-to-ceiling windows that formed the southwest corner. From up here you could see the southern parts of the city of Palm Beach to the east, the line of office buildings and condos along Lake Worth to the south, and the horizon in a cloudy fog to the west. Billy and his views.
"A little last-minute cramming for Mayes," I finally said.
"No. F-For you," he said, tapping something on the keyboard and getting up.
"County c-codes would restrict you from r-rebuilding any part of the original st-structure of the research station even if it was to b- become uninhabitable due to any cause, n-natural or m-man-made."
Billy had not dismissed my news of the fire.
"Despite the ninety-nine-year lease?"
"Categorically."
"Shit."
"My s-sentiments exactly."
Billy's secretary, Allie, came in with coffee and placed the service on a table in front of the couch with a view. She had included two china cups and a large mug. She smiled at me when Billy thanked her.
"So whoever tried to torch the place gets two jumps at once. He either scares me out, or messes the place up enough for the county to close it."
"You said R-Ranger G-Griggs was right there when it started?"
"Yeah."
"C-Convenient."
I took the mug and blew over the rim, rippling the top layer.
"He's there to m-make sure you're awake and g-get out safely and t-to make sure the fire doesn't sp-spread into his forest."
"Why, Billy, I'm stunned at your lack of belief in the sincerity of your fellow man."
"Sh-Shit."
"My sentiments, exactly."
Allies voice on the intercom stopped our speculations.
"Mr. Mayes is here, Mr. Manchester."
Billy crossed back to his desk and answered. Allie ushered in a young man, maybe early twenties, dressed uncomfortably in a suit and looking somewhat sheepish in his surroundings.
"Mr. Mayes," Billy said, grasping the young man's hand. He held Billy's eyes with a practiced politeness despite his obvious jitters. "And this is M-Max Freeman, a p-private investigator who w-works with me."
I took Mayes's hand. Again the polite eyes. He was good-looking, freshly shaved, with short dark hair that probably had some kind of gel in it recently but not this morning. He was Billy's height and shape, lean and anxious. I thought of a college student on his first day of a law internship. Billy motioned for us to sit on the couch, and I watched Mayes take the opportunity to sweep the room, taking in the wall of law books, the spotlit oil paintings and pieces of expensive sculptures and artwork that Billy always surrounded himself with. He sat on the edge of the leather couch and glanced at the view through the tall windows either in admiration, or as a means of escape. He accepted the offer of coffee and Billy began.
"Mr. Freeman has f-field experience in law enforcement," Billy said as a way of introduction. "He has also w-worked before in the d-deep Everglades and w-would know the areas we're talking about much better than I."
Mayes looked at me and held my eyes for a moment. The look came off as respectful, but I could tell he was also reading me. He was not just a kid who accepted words on face value.
"You would go out there, to look for them, I mean, their bodies?" he said to me. "I mean, if they're out there."
Now I was holding his eyes, clear, intelligent, but with an ache that I had seen before, maybe in my own mirror. The look said he was searching for answers in his past that were connected to his future. In that way he was not unlike the young cop I had once been, trying to judge my steps by the way my family had walked them before me. We held the look a few seconds too long, and broke away at the same time. I felt the flush of embarrassment on my throat and ears. He rubbed at his own neck while turning away.