"Nope, I avoid cops," Tomlinson said. "I leave all screw-heads and other uniformed types to you. Especially now, you wearing slacks and a black blazer. They'll open right up to Mr. America."
"Thanks so much. What about the other people? Any idea who they are?"
There were more than two dozen men and women standing individually and in groups, most of them using scattered pockets of shade to filter the heat. Mostly adults but a few college-age people, standing tight and dressed of a style. A very large gathering at a cemetery that had so few parking places I'd had to pull off and park on the side of the road.
Right now, I could look through the trees and see my boat strapped tight on its trailer. It was something nice to look at while waiting for the funeral to begin. Like certain fish, the skiff's lines were perfect and functional. It gave me pleasure.
Tomlinson said, "Curiosity seekers, most of them." His eyes began to pan, as if focusing for the first time. "Probably some real freaks scattered in there, too. Jesus. Witchcraft pretenders, some devil-worshipping vermin. Take your pick. Holy shit, check out the kid with the purple spiked hair! Pimply little heathen would chew through your chest to get to your heart."
There were four punker types, all dressed in black T-shirts, all with hair dyed in Easter egg shades. Lots of complicated body piercings, eyebrows and ears. Tomlinson had singled out the tallest male, a big sinewy guy with tattoos and something silver gleaming from his lip.
I said, "You've been smoking, haven't you? That crap you smuggled in from Belize. How many, six bales? The stuff that smells like mold from toadstools."
He sniffed his sleeve. "Dear God, it's that obvious?" Then he said, "Three bales. Not six. I'm prone to exaggerate when I'm sober."
I said, "What's obvious is the paranoia. You become extremely paranoid. But worse, it seems to scramble your judgment. Not a very healthy side effect, old buddy."
"You're serious."
"Oh yeah."
"Paranoia, well… if that's the only problem, rest easy, amigo. Paranoia and me, we've spent so many nights together, the fucker owes me rent. Some security damage, too. I've got Dr. Leary to thank for that."
"Then consider how it messes up your judgment."
"That's something to worry about."
"Yeah."
"If you say it's true, it must be. I know you wouldn't lie."
"I'm not."
He was pursing his lips, thinking about it. "Then I need to start cutting back a tad. That's what I should do. Use my supplies for research purposes only-I'm a scientist, you know."
"I'm aware of that."
He became contemplative. "What I may do is come up with some pleasant-tasting filtering device. Reduce the effects but not the enjoyment. I'm certain someone somewhere has the technology. One of my old classmates from Harvard, perhaps."
"What you better do is trot across the street, wash your face off and get some coffee. You don't sober up-and I mean fast-you're going to make an absolute ass of yourself."
"I will! Rest easy about that, old friend. I've dealt with this circumstance so many times in my life that my brain has adapted."
"Oh, I'm sure."
"I'm very serious." He placed a confidential shoulder against my arm before explaining. "I've developed what I think of as my 'Lifeguard Twin.' Imagine, if you will, a Tomlinson clone locked inside a tiny room in my brain. In an emergency situation, I open the door and the little fellow skips out and rescues my ass. Happens every single time I need him. It doesn't matter what a slobbering, pathetic wreck I've made of myself, he grabs the controls and takes charge."
"Fascinating."
"Oh, the little bastard's unbelievable! He speaks articulately through my mouth. He walks steadily on my legs. He's extremely courteous to law-enforcement types and attentive to attractive women. Unfortunately, the limped-dicked fool hasn't got the hang of intercourse, but we both have high hopes." Tomlinson leaned closer. "Personally, I think my Lifeguard Twin is further proof of evolution."
I said, "Uh-huh, no doubt," as I waved my hand back and forth in front of my nose. His breath smelled of rum and halothane gas and charred cannabis. Awful.
Halothane? Yes, no doubt. Smelled exactly like industrial insecticide.
"Damn it, Tomlinson, you don't learn. You've made some new little doctor friends down on the Keys. Didn't you? Medical types, hipster surgeons with canisters."
He sniffed the air primly. "People on Key Largo aren't like you, Marion. They know how to enjoy life. They're eager to share. Fun's a good thing, that's the way they think."
"You've got a funereal service to perform. You can barely walk."
"Don't chide me, please. You can see into my eyes but you can't see out of them. Lighten up. I feel shaky enough as it is."
"There's a 7-Eleven across the street. Get going. Wash your face and buy some coffee."
"I will, I will! In the meantime, though"-he used his chin to indicate the punk rockers-"don't turn your back on that evil little bastard."
Eight
The reason there were so many people was because, the day before, the Marco Island Eagle had run a front-page story about Dorothy and the artifacts she'd found, as well as a reprint of the story about her suicide. They'd used old file photographs. The Miami Herald had a shorter piece in its Florida section, too. There was also a reporter from the National Enquirer who'd been calling Delia, wanting to do a story.
Delia had refused.
Detective Gary Parrish told me this, as I stood with him and the funeral rep away from the waiting crowd.
Parrish had a wide, West African face, his head shaved clean; skin a lighter brown than his arms and neck. He had the look of a high school power forward who'd let things go, and the demeanor of someone who'd been at his job too long. It was a mixture of reserve and indifference. Sooner or later, all cops put up shields. Sometimes the shields are for protection, sometimes they are a device.
"Grave robbing in Miami, yeah, it happens a dozen times a year, maybe more," he said. "It's almost always the Santeria people, because they need artifacts. The people from down on the islands, all that voodoo shit. Skulls, a piece of bone for their ceremonies. It's like part of their culture, a religious thing. But on Marco? No one expected this."
The way they'd gotten into the grave was, they'd stolen a backhoe that had been parked beside the nearby church. The city was replacing a sewer line in the area. The backhoe had been there only a day or two. "It was one of those random deals," Parrish said. "The idiot workers left the key in the machine. Whoever stole the backhoe probably saw it when they walked by, said to themselves, 'Hey, lookee what we got here.' And right next to the cemetery."
The perpetrators, Parrish said, ran over several stones to get to Dorothy's grave, dug it open wide enough so they could drop down into the hole. "I don't think they expected to find the cement vault down there, though. Those vaults, it's a state law. You look at the cover? First, they use the backhoe to try and crack the thing open, then they got smart and just tilted it up and off."
I said, "All that noise, all these buildings around, and no one heard anything?"
"That's exactly why they got away with it. Everybody heard them. People saw their lights. A backhoe in a cemetery, what are you going to think? That they're digging a grave, getting ready for a funeral. Or maybe the city workers were at it late, trying to get the sewer line done. No one even called the station. When our deputy drove by, he was lucky to notice them. He told me if he'd heard a backhoe, he'd of gone right on by. Same thing: figured they was here working."
Then I listened as the funeral rep told us why he didn't think the casket had been opened. Caldwell looked like a construction worker, not an embalmer, yet he had a delicate tone and a soft voice. He used his stubby hands to talk, but in a way that people who take speech classes are taught to use their hands for effect.