Garcia blocked his path up the drive. “By a client, Mick. Imagine that.”
“I didn’t know the client, Al.”
“Name of Nordstrom, John Nordstrom.” Garcia was working the sodden nub of the Camel the same way he worked the cigars, from one side of his mouth to the other. Stranahan found it extremely distracting.
“According to the wife,” Garcia said, “the assailant returned home unexpectedly and found your brother-in-law, the almost deceased-”
“Thank you, Al.”
“-f ound the almost deceased fondling his wife. Whereupon, the assailant attempted to strike the almost deceased at least three times withpelotas. That’s a jai-alai ball, Mick. The third shot struck your brother-in-law at the base of the skull, rendering him unconscious.”
“The dumb shit. How’s Kate?”
“Puzzled,” Garcia said. “But then, aren’t we all?”
“I want to see her.” Stranahan sidestepped the detective and made for the front door.
His sister was standing by the bay window of the Florida room and staring out at Kipper Garth’s sailboat, the Pain-and-Suffering, which was rocking placidly at the dock behind the house. Stranahan gave Kate a hug and kissed her on the forehead.
She sniffled and said, “Did they tell you?”
“Yes, Kate.”
“That he was groping a client-did they tell you?”
Stranahan said, “That’s the woman’s story.”
Kate gave a bitter chuckle. “And you don’t believe it? Come on, Mick, /believe it. Kipper was a pig, let’s face it. You were right, I was wrong.”
Stranahan didn’t know what to say. “He had some good qualities.” Jesus, how stupid. “Has some good qualities, I mean.”
“The doctors say it’s fifty-fifty, but I’m ready for the worst. Kipper’s not a fighter.”
“ He might surprise you,” Stranahan said without conviction.
“Mick, just so you know-I was aware of what he was up to. Some of the excuses, God, you should have heard them. Late nights, weekends, trips to God knows where. I pretended to believe him because… because I liked this life, Mick. The house… this great yard. I mean, it sounds selfish, but it felt good here. Safe. This is a wonderful neighborhood.”
“Katie, I’m sorry.”
“Neighborhoods like this are hard to find, Mick. You know, we’ve only been burglarized twice in four years. That’s not bad for Miami.”
“Not at all,” Stranahan said.
“See, I had to weigh these things every time I thought about leaving.” Kate put a hand on his arm and said, “You knew about all his fooling around.”
“N ot everything.”
“Thanks for not mentioning it.” She was sincere.
Stranahan felt like a complete shit, which he was. “This is my fault,” he said. “I told Kipper to take this case. I made him takeit.”
“How?” she asked. “And why?”
“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s even worse. I can’t tell you all the details, Kate, because there’s going to be trouble and I want you clear of it. But you ought to know that I’m the one who got Kipper involved.”
“But you’re not the one who played grab-the-tittie with your client. He did.” She turned back to the big window and folded her arms. “It’s so… tacky.”
“Yes,” Stranahan agreed. “Tacky’s the word.”
When he came out of the house, Garcia was waiting.
“Wasn’t that courteous of me, not barging in and making a big Cuban scene in front of your sister?”
“ Al, you’re a fucking prince among men.”
“Know why I’m wearing this trenchcoat? It’s brand-new, by the way. I hadda go to another funeraclass="underline" Bobby Pepsical, the county commissioner. Dropped dead in confession.”
“Good place for it. He was a stone crook.”
“Course he was, Mick. But I got a feeling he didn’t get his penance.”
“Why not?”
“Because there wasn’t a priest in there. Bobby’s confessing to an, empty closet-that’s pretty weird, huh? Anyway, they make a bunch of us go to the fucking funeral, because of who he was. That’s why I’ve got the new coat. It was raining.”
Stranahan said, “How was it? Did they screw him into the ground? That’s about how crooked he was.”
“I know but, Christ, have some respect for the dead.” Garcia rubbed his temples like he was massaging a cramp. “See, this is what’s got me so agitated, Mick. Ever since I got into this thing with you and the doctor, so many people are dying. Dying weird, too. There’s your ex, and Murdock and Salazar-another funeral! Then the business with that goddamn homicidal tree man. So after all that, here I am standing in the rain, watching them plant some scuzzbucket politician who croaks on his knees in an empty confessional, and my frigging beeper goes off. Lieutenant says some big-shot lawyer got beaned by a jai-alai ball and could be a homicide any second. A jai-alai ball! On top of which the big-shot lawyer turns out to be your brother-in-law. It’s like a nightmare of weirdness!”
“It’s been a bad month,” Stranahan conceded.
“Yeah, it sure has. So what about these Nordstroms?”
“ I didn’t know them, I told you.”
Garcia lit up another cigarette and Stranahan made a face. “Know why I’m smoking these things? Because I’m agitated. I get agitated whenever I get jerked around, and I hate to waste a good cigar on agitation.”
Stranahan said, “Can you please not blow it in my face? That’s all I ask.”
The detective took the cigarette out of his mouth and held it behind his back. “There, you happy? Now help me out, Mick. The assailant’s wife, she says Kipper Garth phones her out of the blue and asks if she wants to sue-guess who-Rudy Graveline! Since he’s the quack who gave her the encapsulated whatchamacallits.”
“If that’s what she says, fine.”
“But lawyers aren’t supposed to solicit.”
“ Al, this is Miami.”
Garcia took a quick drag and hid the Camel again. “My theory is you somehow got your sleazy, almost-deceased brother-in-law to sue Graveline, just to bust his balls. Shake things up. Maybe flush the giant Mr. Blondell Tatum out of his fugitive gutter. I don’t expect you to open up your heart, Mick, but just tell me this: Did it work? Because if it did, you’re a fucking genius and I apologize for all the shitty things I’ve been saying about you in my sleep.”
“Didwhat work?”
Garcia grinned venomously. “I thought we were buddies.”
“Al, I’m not going to shut you out,” Stranahan said. “For God’s sake, you saved my life.”
“Aw, shucks, you remembered.”
Stranahan said: “Which one do you want, Al? The freaky hit man or the doctor?”
“Both.”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“Hey, I could arrest your ass right now. Obstruction, tampering, I’d think of something.”
“And I’d be out in an hour.”
Garcia’s jaw tightened for a moment and he turned away, stewing. When he turned back, he seemed more amused than angry.
“The problem is, Mick, you’re too smart. You know the system too damn well. You know there’s only so much I can get away with.”
“Believe me, we’re on the same side.”
“I know, chico, that’s what scares me.”
“So, which of these bastards do you want for yourself-the surgeon or the geek?”
“Don’t rush me, Mick.”
30
Early on the morning of February nineteenth, Reynaldo Flemm, the famous Shock Television journalist, arrived at the Whispering Palms Spa and Surgery Center for the most sensational interview of his sensational career. A sleepy receptionist collected the $15,000 cash and counted it twice; if she was surprised by the size of the surgeon’s fee, she didn’t show it. The receptionist handed Reynaldo Flemm two photocopied consent forms, one for a rhinoplasty and one for a suction-assisted lipectomy. Reynaldo skimmed the paperwork and extravagantly signed as “Johnny LeTigre.”
Then he sat down to wait for his moment. On a buff-colored wall hung a laminated carving of one of Rudy Graveline’s pet sayings: to improve one’s self, improve one’s face. That wasn’t Reynaldo’s favorite Rudyism. His favorite was framed in quilted Norman Rockwell-style letters above the water fountain: