"You plan to say anything to the Mayes kid about all this?"
Billy shook his head.
"N-Not him. N-Not PalmCo's people," he said. "We keep it to ourselves and see wh-what we come up with. This way we keep it out of the p-press. No one knows what we're after or where we're l-looking."
I thought of getting my truck swept again by Ramon and his crew. I thought about the look of satisfaction on Nate Brown's face when he'd ditched us into the mangroves and lost the helicopter tail.
"You're optimistic," I said.
"I'm a lawyer," he responded. "It's w-what I do."
I used his phone to page Richards and then rolled up a copy of our treasure map.
"I'll let you know when Brown gets in touch with me," I said.
"Good h-hunting."
I was in the truck trying to think of a good place to take a nap when Richards answered the page.
"Hey. What's up?"
"Dinner tonight?"
"You beat me to it, Freeman. Can we just have something at my place? I've got someone staying with me and it might help to have you there, you know, to give your perspective on things?"
"Sounds like your friend in denial," I said. "She too scared to go home now?"
"You're quite the detective, Freeman. Can't talk now though, I'm in the shop. How about six thirty or seven?"
"I'm there."
"Good."
My brain was feeling clunky from lack of sleep, too much alcohol and too much grinding. I drove south on A1A until I got to the entrance of a beachside county park, paid the seven dollars to get in and then found a quiet parking spot in the shade of a line of Australian pines. I rolled both windows down for a cross-breeze and then put my seat back. Within five minutes I was asleep.
The squawk of a bird woke me, or maybe the yelp of a child, or the clatter of beach chairs being loaded into a car. It took me a moment to realize where I was, but then I banged my knee on the steering wheel and the quick shot of pain cleared my head. I checked my watch. It had been two hours. I climbed out of the truck and took a few minutes to stretch out the kinks in my back and the tightness in my hamstrings. Behind me the western sky was smeared in soft washes of burnt orange and purple. To the east, through the trees, the surf was slushing up onto the beach. I walked to the park rest room and stood at the sink splashing cold water into my face and finger-combing my hair. You'll be quite the date tonight, Freeman.
I took A1A down to Lauderdale, stopped at a doughnut shop, just for the coffee. I passed the spot where the Galt Ocean Hotel once stood, where Joe Namath made his outlandish promise at poolside that he would beat the Colts in Super Bowl III and then went out and did it. I made a special pass by the Elbo Room, the corner bar where spring break was immortalized in the 1960s. It was a cool and lazy evening, and I was in an unusually buoyant mood until I parked in front of Richards's place and heard a harsh, guttural yell coming from the garden entrance at the side of the house. There were two unfamiliar cars in the driveway, a two-door Toyota and a black Trans Am with a spoiler on the back and an air-scooped hood. I was running the possibilities through my head when the man's barking sounded again.
"Goddamnit, Kathleen. I need to talk with you now! I know you're in there!"
I started up the driveway, shifting into cop mode, feeling the trace of adrenaline trickling into my bloodstream. Signal 38. Domestic disturbance. Worst and most unpredictable call a patrolman gets.
I came around the corner and his back was to me. He was dressed in civilian clothes, jeans and a tank-top T-shirt. He had one arm over the top of the wooden fence gate to Richards's backyard, searching, I assumed, for the lift latch that would unlock it.
"Come on, Richards," he said, taking his voice down a notch in volume but not in anger. "I know what the fuck you're doing. Stay out of it and let her come out and talk, just talk." He lowered his voice further and whispered, "you fucking bitch."
I took a few more quiet steps, set my feet and said, "Nice talk about a superior officer, McCrary."
His head twisted around like he'd been bitten in the ass and when he recognized me he slowly came off the fence and squared up.
"This ain't your business, P.I.," he said, and I could see the muscles in his jaws flex. Here was something male to put his anger on, something he could understand.
"I believe you're trespassing, officer. Not a pretty charge to show up on a report to your sergeant," I said, measuring the distance between us and moving just slightly to my right away from his dominant hand. I had spent too many years at Frankie O'Hara's father's gym in South Philly, first as just a kid in the neighborhood fascinated by what went on inside, and later as a sparring partner for the professionals who worked there. You never forget the fundamentals or the moves after they'd been punched into you by professionals.
"And you're just the kind of prick who'd write one up on another cop, aren't you, P.I.?" I watched his hands flex at his sides and then curl into fists.
"It might be a good time for you to relax a bit, McCrary, and take a walk. I think-"
He swung with the right hand I was expecting, throwing his weight behind it and throwing himself off balance. The distance I'd kept made him reach and I slid behind the punch and chucked him with two hands in the shoulder to keep his momentum going. In the ring I would have fired an overhand hook into the back of his ear as he passed. But I just stepped back as his elbow went down on the hood of Richards's car and he regained his balance.
"You want to stick 'assault on a civilian' into the report, too, McCrary? You're a real bright guy."
This time his hands came up in a real fighter's pose and there was a calculated rage in his eyes. But like most amateurs, he carried his right fist too low, and a combination of calculated punches was already clicking in my muscles when I heard a metallic snap and the groan of hinges behind me. I saw McCrary's eyes change.
"You're a solid asshole, McCrary. Back off! Now!"
I took a step back out of his range and cut my eyes over to the sight of Richards, her 9 mm extended in both hands, the bead on McCrary's chest.
He opened his hands first, and then his mouth as he stepped back.
"OK. OK. Shit. OK," he stammered, and I watched the emotion flush out of his face.
"You're out of fucking control, Officer," Richards barked, and McCrary nodded his head and showed her his palms. He was breathing hard. We were all breathing hard.
"OK. OK. Look, I'm sorry," he said, visibly gathering himself. But Richards did not lower her gun.
"None of that sorry shit, McCrary," she snapped back at him. "That doesn't wash with me. You've assaulted two of my guests on my private property. I have already cut you way too much of a break by not calling this in and having you cuffed in the street. You will back off and leave the premises right now, and you'd better have a long, hard talk with your sergeant tonight, McCrary. Understand?"
"OK. OK. Fine. Look. Just put the weapon down, OK? Look…"
"Now!" snapped Richards, cutting him off.
McCrary may not have had a full appreciation for Richards's limits, but I had witnessed her pull a trigger, and I had seen the result.
"OK. OK," he said, and this time he began to step back. I watched him nodding his head in acquiescence, but I also picked up a flicker of sharp light in his eyes. Richards lowered her gun but did not move as we watched him get into the Trans Am, back out and, maybe to his credit, or maybe not, pull away slowly and disappear down the street.
Richards was now looking down at the ground, the gun hanging from her fingers.
"How you doin'?" I said, and she looked up at me.
"Just swell. You?"
"A little wired," I said. "You know, a little macho interruptus."
"Can't let you boys have all the fun," she said, but the joke was forced.
"You think it was a good idea not to just have patrol come pick him up?" I said.