I turned to see a black Humvee, doors open, men in dark suits ducking out. The oldest of them leaving the driver's seat was a very tall, gray-haired man with the bearing of someone used to giving orders and staring over the heads of lesser men while his orders were being carried out.
I watched three younger men wait for him. One of the three had a pumpkin-sized head and the body mass of a competitive weight lifter. I watched them listen to the older man intendy, all eyes focused. Then they followed him toward us, into the cemetery.
"Ivan Bauerstock, one of the biggest men in Florida. Bauer-stock as in Bauerstock Industries. Bauerstock as in catde and citrus. Man, he got his own road construction business, condo projects, you name it. Now I hear he's heavy into computer software and the Internet, all that shit. You never heard of the man?"
I said, "I've heard of him. His companies, anyway. What's he have to do with this?"
" 'Cause he owns half of Marco, one thing. Another, his son and that dead girl used to be friends. Now Mr. Bauerstock wants his growed-up little boy to be a state senator. So they've come back to say goodbye. Show how much they care, with the press all around to see. Maybe get his son's picture in the paper saying how he's putting pressure on the sheriff's department to arrest the bad guys."
I said, "That sounds like more than a guess."
There was a cautionary edge to Parrish's voice, the black dialectic emphasized, as he replied, "No, that just a wild guess, man! I got nothin' better to do then sit around diss'in people can get me fired"-he snapped his fingers in my face-"that quick. Mr. Bauerstock, he the one friends with the President a few years back. Slept in the Lincoln Bedroom, flew Air Force One all the way to China or some damn place. You know how much cash something like that cost? So what the chances him callin' my boss and telling us exactly what he want done?
Him and the sheriff, it just a coincidence they in the same party, man."
I decided that maybe Parrish wasn't a weak link after all. "Someone as powerful as Bauerstock would order the sheriff to put his best man on the job."
Parrish touched a finger to his own chest in mock surprise. "Me? Aw-w-w-w, now I'm embarrassed. Thing is, Mr. Bauerstock's son, Teddy, he's actually a pretty good guy. Couple days ago, he shook my hand and listened to what I had to say about some stuff."
"That's what politicians do. Or so I hear."
Parrish was nodding. "I know, I know, but I got the feeling this one, he might be different. Seems to care about people, not just the ones with money. See that man with him? That's B.J. Buster; played linebacker for the Bucs but kept endin' up in jail, till Bauerstock hired him as his bodyguard."
"A politician with a heart of gold."
"Oh man, you wouldn't believe the people Mr. Bauer-stock's hired to take care of his future President son. Just the way he sees it, too. Teddy, they say he's got that glow, the one you can't see till he's on the television screen. Excuse me, I mean Theodore. That the name they using now. He got the glow."
I wondered vaguely and bitterly if the linebacker knew the steroid freak who was in Mexico with Kathleen.
"So now Mr. Buster is a model citizen. All thanks to the man running for office."
Parrish chuckled. "I wouldn't trust B. J. Buster far as I could throw him. Once a con, always a con. Which Teddy Bauerstock can't see and why the fool won't be getting my vote."
Nope, this was not a weak link. I said, "In that case, I'd like to start fresh. Here's what we do: first I apologize, then I explain why I'm here. I'm the friend of a friend. The little girl's mother needs some outside help. Which is why I pissed you off making suggestions."
Parrish's voice returned to normal as he said, "I feel bad for the woman, don't get me wrong. It was a hell of a nasty thing to do, dig her little girl up. But it's not a top priority. There's lots more serious crap goin' on out there. But know what?" He allowed me the slightest of smiles. "A couple of your ideas, they weren't that bad. You got pretty good instincts."
I said, "If you want any help, the private citizen type, contact Delia. She'll know how to get in touch."
Caldwell had been listening, keeping up. "One thing Mr. Ford suggested, I can talk to our receptionist, see if anyone was asking about Miss Copeland."
"There you go," said Parrish. He turned to me. "You want to check out the casket, see what's missing? I don't think they got in there. I think our man scared 'em off. But you take a look and keep the mamma happy. Then we put that little girl back in the ground again."
Nine
I opened the top half of the coffin lid by myself, pressing its weight with both hands, while Tomlinson stood beside me, whispering some kind of rhythmic chant.
I'd removed my sports coat. We were both wearing white gauze masks.
There was an odor, not strong or offensive. It was as if an old trunk had been opened. Caldwell had already told me what to expect, explaining that the child had received a superb job of embalming. The casket was vault-dry, he said, and promised that I would be shocked at how little change there'd been in the body since burial.
"People not in the industry," he said, "don't realize how good we are at what we do. We're the best in the world, the best of all time. I guess the reason people don't know is obvious."
Yet, despite the briefing, I was not prepared for how near to life the girl appeared. Time had stopped for her. It was an unexpected and moving realization.
I'm not a demonstrative person. Tomlinson reminds me of that almost daily. I have spent enough time among the dead and dying to view both clinically. Yet, when I lifted the lid and looked down through glittering columns of dust and sunlight, I felt a jolt of emotion that caused my breathing to spasm.
I was looking into the face of a sleeping child. Dorothy Copeland didn't look like a teenager. Innocence dissipates years. She looked younger, ageless, without fear or flaw.
She wore a yellow dress with a collar of white lace. There was a thread of gold chain around her neck and a locket in the shape of a smiling full moon. Her hair was the color of Kansas wheat. It was fanned out halolike on the crepe pillow beneath her head. She wore white gloves with fingers interlaced, long and delicate as JoAnn had described them. It was as if the girl had dressed for church, but, instead, found a cozy meadow place to doze.
There was something about the delicate facial structure that was heart-wrenching. Our bodies are composed mosdy of water. The water was gone from hers. The soft angularity of nose and chin was emphasized beneath skin that was white and fragile as parchment, yet her cheeks were blushed with embalmer's makeup like some China doll. The color added definition to lashes resting long over eyes that, it seemed, might flutter open in reaction to the offending sunlight. From what I heard, this was a tomboy girl who liked to explore and dig in the dirt. She'd been described as having an "extraordinary gift" for finding things. She'd been described as an old soul.
But this was also a child; a child who'd sometimes worn lace and crinoline. This was a child who, playing dress-up, had been forever frozen, as if caught asleep on a frosted field.
Seeing her produced in me sadness and a sense of loss far out of proportion to what I'd expected. I had not known this child. I'd never heard her voice. Now, though, I felt as if there were some inexplicable connection. She was here, right in front of me, yet she wasn't. It touched me in a way that squeezed the heart.
On Dorothy's right cheek was a splotch of pollen-colored mold. I was tempted to brush it away. Instead, I touched a gloved index finger to the collar of her dress. The lace disintegrated at my touch, revealing the area of skin beneath her chin. The scar there was a band of discoloration, gray on white.
Yes, there had been a rope. It had been knotted tightly enough around her neck to leave the skin forever marked. The scar was the residue of an unthinkable act, violence that was incongruous with the peaceful scene and angelic child before me.