Rereading the file four years later, Mick Stranahan began to feel frustrated all over again. It was the damnedest thing: Vicky had told no one-not her parents, her boyfriend, nobody-about the cosmetic surgery; apparently it was meant to be a surprise. Stranahan and Timmy Gavigan had spent a total of fifteen hours interviewing Vicky’s boyfriend and wound up believing him. The kid had cried pathetically; he used to tease Vicky about her shnoz. “My little anteater,” he used to call her. The boyfriend had been shattered by what happened, and blamed himself: His birthday was March twentieth. Obviously, he sobbed, the new nose was Vicky’s present to him.
From a homicide investigator’s point of view, the secrecy with which Victoria Barletta planned her doctor’s visit meant something else: It limited the suspects to somebody who just happened to be passing by, a random psychopath.
A killer who was never caught.
A victim who was never found.
That was how Mick Stranahan remembered it. He scribbled a few names and numbers on a pad, stuffed everything into the file, then carried it back to a pock-faced clerk.
“Tell me something,” Stranahan said, “how’d you happen to have this one downtown?”
The clerk said, “What do you mean?”
“I mean, this place didn’t used to be so efficient. Used to take two weeks to dig out an old case like this.”
“You just got lucky,” the clerk said. “We pulled the file from the warehouse a week ago.”
“This file here?” Stranahan tapped the green folder. “Same one?”
“Mr. Eckert wanted to see it.”
Gerry Eckert was the State Attorney. He hadn’t personally gone to court in at least sixteen years, so Stranahan doubted if he even remembered how to read a file.
“So how’s old Gerry doing?”
“Just dandy,” said the clerk, as if Eckert were his closest, dearest pal in the world. “He’s doing real good.”
“Don’t tell me he’s finally gonna pop somebody in this case.”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Stranahan. He just wanted to refresh his memory before he went on TV. The Reynaldo Flemm show.”
Stranahan whistled. Reynaldo Flemm was a television journalist who specialized in sensational crime cases. He was nationally famous for getting beaten up on camera, usually by the very hoodlums he was trying to interview. No matter what kind of elaborate disguise Reynaldo Flemm would devise, he was always too vain to cover his face. Naturally the crooks would recognize him instantly and bash the living shit out of him. For pure action footage, it was hard to beat; Reynaldo Flemm’s specials were among the highest-rated programs on television.
“So Gerry’s hit the big time,” Stranahan said.
“Yep,” the clerk said.
“What did he say about this case?”
“Mr. Eckert?”
“Yeah, what he did he tell this TV guy?”
The clerk said, “Well, I wasn’t there for the taping. But from what I heard, Mr. Eckert said the whole thing is still a mystery.”
“Well, that’s true enough.”
“And Mr. Eckert told Mr. Flemm that he wouldn’t be one bit surprised if someday it turns out that Victoria Barletta ran away. Just took one look at her face and ran away. Otherwise, why haven’t they found a body?”
Stranahan thought: Eckert hasn’t changed a bit, still dumb as a bull gator.
“I can’t wait to see the show,” Stranahan remarked.
“It’s scheduled to be on March twelfth at nine p.m.” The clerk held up a piece of paper. “We got a memo from Mr. Eckert today.”
The man from New Jersey did not call Dr. Rudy Graveline again for four days. Then, on the afternoon of January eighth, Rudy got a message on his beeper. The beeper went off at a bad moment, when Rudy happened to be screwing the young wife of a Miami Dolphins wide receiver. The woman had come to Whispering Palms for a simple consult-a tiny pink scar along her jawline, could it be fixed?-and the next thing she knew, the doctor had her talking about all kinds of personal things, including how lonely it got at home during the football season when Jake’s mind was on the game and nothing else. Well, the next thing she knew, the doctor was taking her to lunch in his black Jaguar sedan with the great Dolby sound system, and the football player’s wife found herself thinking how the rich smell of leather upholstery made her hot, really hot, and then-as if he could read her mind-the doctor suddenly pulled off the Julia Tuttle Causeway, parked the Jag in some pepper trees, and started to gnaw her panties off. He even made cute little squirrel noises as he nuzzled between her legs.
Before long the doctor was merrily pounding away while the football player’s wife gazed up at him through the spokes of the walnut steering wheel, under which her head had become uncomfortably wedged.
When the beeper went off on Dr. Graveline’s belt, he scarcely missed a beat. He glanced down at the phone number (glowing in bright green numerals) and snatched the car phone from its cradle in the glove box. With one hand he managed to dial the long-distance number even as he finished with the football player’s wife, who by this time was silently counting down, hoping he’d hurry it up. She’d had about all she could take of the smell of new leather.
Dr. Graveline pulled away just as the phone started ringing somewhere in New Jersey.
The man answered on the fourth ring. “Yeah, what?”
“It’s me. Rudy.”
“You been jogging or what?”
“Something like that.”
“Sounds like you’re gonna have a fuckin’ heart attack.”
Dr. Graveline said: “Give me a second to catch my breath.”
The football player’s wife was squirming back into her slacks. The look on her face suggested disappointment at her partner’s performance, but Rudy Graveline did not notice.
“About the deal,” he said. “I don’t think so.”
Curly Eyebrows in New Jersey said: “Your problem musta gone away.”
“Not really.”
“Then what?”
“I’m going to get somebody local.”
The man in New Jersey started to laugh. He laughed and laughed until he began to wheeze.
“Doc, this is a big mistake. Local is no good.”
“I ’ve got a guy in mind,” Dr. Graveline said.
“A Cuban, right? Crazy fuckin’ Cuban, I knew it.”
“No, he’s not a Cuban.”
“One of my people?”
“No,” Rudy said. “He’s by himself.”
Again Curly Eyebrows laughed. “Nobody isby himself, Doc. Nobody in this business.”
“This one is different,” Rudy said. Different wasn’t the word for it. “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know, so you wouldn’t send anybody else.”
“Suit yourself.”
“And I’m sorry about the other fellow.”
“Don’t bring up that shit, hear? You’re on one of those cellular phones, I can tell. I hate them things, Doc, they ain’t safe. They give off all kinds of fucked-up microwaves, anybody can listen in.”
Dr. Graveline said, “I don’t think so.”
“Yeah, well, I read where people can listen on their blenders and hair dryers and shit. Pick up everything you say.”
The football player’s wife was brushing on fresh makeup, using the vanity mirror on the back of the sun visor.
The man in Jersey said: “Your luck, some broad’s pickin’ us up on her electric dildo. Every word.”
“Talk to you later,” Rudy said.
“One piece of advice,” said Curly Eyebrows. “This guy you lined up for the job, don’t tell him your life story. I mean it, Doc. Give him the name, the address, the dough, and that’s it.”
“Oh, I can trust him,” Dr. Graveline said.
“L ike hell,” laughed the man in New Jersey, and hung up.
The football player’s wife flipped the sun visor up, closed her compact, and said, “Business?”
“Yes, I dabble in real estate.” Rudy zipped up his pants. “I’ve decided to go with a Miami broker.”
The woman shrugged. She noticed her pink bikini panties on the floormat, and quickly put them in her purse. They were ruined; the doctor had chewed a hole in them.
“Can I drive your car back to the office?” she asked.
“No,” said Rudy Graveline. He got out and walked around to the driver’s side. The football player’s wife slid across the seat, and Rudy got in.