"It was good of you to come on short notice. Mind if I close the door?"
"Not at all, Cab." Keyes had been surprised to get the message on his beeper; he'd been wondering about it all afternoon. A new job offer—that was his best guess. But why would the Sunwant him back? The place was crawling with raw talent, kids who were plenty tough enough.
"Cab, are you going to ask me to come back to work?"
Mulcahy smiled kindly and shifted in his chair. "To be honest, Brian, I hadn't thought about it. But if you're interested, I'm sure we can—"
"No. No, I'm not." Keyes wondered why he didn't feel more relieved. "I was just curious."
"I called you," Mulcahy said, "because I want to hire you as a private investigator. We have a very sensitive case. You're the only one who can handle it."
Keyes was well-versed in the rudimentary techniques of bullshitting that the Suntaught all its top editors. The phrase "You're the only one who can do it" generally translated to "No one else will touch it." But this time Mulcahy did not appear to be shoveling anything. He appeared to be genuinely upset.
"Brian, Skip Wiley has disappeared."
Keyes did not move a muscle. He just looked at Mulcahy; a look of disappointment, if not betrayal. Cab Mulcahy had been afraid this might happen. He had dreaded it, but there was no other way.
"I'm sorry, Brian. I'd never ask unless we were desperate."
"Disappeared?"
"Vanished. They found his car yesterday in the middle of 1-95. He didn't show up at home last night."
Home.Keyes chuckled: Come on, Cab, just say it, I'm not going to break down in tears. Wiley didn't show up at Jenna'slast night. God, the old man was funny sometimes, Keyes thought. Trying to spare me a little pain. It was two years ago that Jenna had dumped him for Wiley—Wiley, of all people! Why couldn't it have been an artist, or a concert musician, or some anorexic-looking poet from the Grove? Anyone but Skip Wiley—and right in the bitter worst of the Callie Davenport business. What a couple: Jenna, who adored Godunov and Bergman; and Wiley, who once launched a write-in campaign to get Marilyn Chambers an Oscar.
"Did you call the cops?" Keyes asked.
Mulcahy shook his head and reached for the coffee. "We decided not to. I've pretty much ruled out foul play." He told Keyes about Wiley's eccentric behavior, and about his visit to the psychiatrist the day before.
"So you think he's hiding out?"
"I do. So does Dr. Courtney."
Remond Courtney's opinions didn't carry much weight with Brian Keyes, who knew something of the doctor's meager talent. In the aftermath of the terrible 727 crash, when Keyes was being fingered by imaginary severed limbs, Dr. Courtney had advised him, by way of therapy, to get a job as an air-traffic controller.
"Forget that idiot shrink," Keyes said. "What about Jenna? What does she think?"
Mulcahy said, "She's pretty worried. She thinks Skip might do something crazy."
"Would that surprise you, Cab? Wiley may be talented, prolific, tough as hell—all the things you people put a premium on—but he's also a card-carrying flake. He could be anywhere. Vegas, Nassau, Juarez, who knows? Why don't you just wait a few days? He'll get so miserable not seeing his byline in the paper that he'll rush right back with a stack of fresh columns."
"I don't think so," Mulcahy said. "I hope you're right but I just don't think so. I need him back now, here—where we can keep an eye on him."
So that's it, Keyes thought. Mulcahy was worried less about Wiley's well-being than about all the trouble a man like that could create. Wiley presented an explosive public-relations problem for the Miami Sun;no newspaper can afford to have its star columnist turn up as the proverbial sniper in the schoolyard.
And in Skip Wiley's case, another factor loomed large: he had an enormous public following. If his column didn't appear for a few days running, lots of readers would stop buying the Sun.If the days turned into weeks, the attrition would show up in the next ABC audits. And if that happened, Cab Mulcahy would have to answer to the highest possible authority; good journalism is fine, but circulation is sacred. No wonder Mulcahy was nervous.
"You know him better than any of us," Mulcahy said. "You sat next to him in the newsroom for three years. You recognize his moods, how he thinks, if hethinks ... "
"I haven't seen him since I left the paper."
Mulcahy leaned forward. "He hasn't changed that much, Brian. True, his behavior is a bit more extreme, and his writing is certainly more irresponsible, but he's still the same Skip Wiley."
"Cab, you're talking to the worst possible person. You ought to know that: I can't take this case. I'm not ready to deal with him." Keyes stood up to leave. "Why, Cab? Why would you do this to me?"
"Because Jenna asked for you."
Keyes sat down hard. His heart was skipping along nicely now. All he could think was: Cab better not be lying.
"I told her I didn't think it was fair," Mulcahy said with a sigh. "But she's very worried about him. She said it would be a great favor if I asked you to look into it, and not some stranger."
Keyes knew it wouldn't do any good to lecture himself about Jenna, and it was pointless to act like he was going to waltz out of Mulcahy's office and forget the whole thing. The old man was right—it wasn't fair.
Mulcahy was careful not to go on too much about Jenna. "Please, Brian, will you try to find Wiley? We'll pay you five hundred a day, plus expenses."
"Jesus, you guys are really scared of what he might do!"
Mulcahy nodded glumly. "He's got a considerable temper, as you know. Watching him these last few months has been unsettling, to say the least. I'm sure you read the infamous hurricane column, or maybe some of the others. 'Rats as Big as Bulldogs Stalk Condo.' 'Snakes Infest Bathroom Plumbing at Posh Resort.' 'Mystery Disease Sweeps Shuffle-board Tourney.' Wiley was very shrewd about it. One day he'd write a rousing Good Samaritan column, then a funny man-on-the-street piece, then a tearjerker about some little kid with cancer ... and then he'd quietly slip in one of those gems. He became single-minded about it. He became...perverse." The editor lowered his voice. "I think this disappearance is part of a plan. I think he intends to embarrass the newspaper in some extraordinary way."
"You don't think he's playing games just to get a raise?"
Mulcahy shook his head firmly.
"What about the possibility that something really happened? Maybe Skip got kidnapped."
"Maybe that's what he wants us to think," Mulcahy said, "but I don't buy it, Brian. No, if I know Wiley, he's out there,"—Mulcahy waved a manicured hand toward the bay window—"biding his time, enjoying the hell out of this. And I want him found."
"Suppose I do," Keyes said.
"Call me immediately. Don't do a thing. I'm not asking you to confront him, I'd never do that. Just find him, tell me where he is. Leave the rest up to us."
"You and Jenna?"
"He listens to her," Mulcahy said apologetically.
"He worships her," Keyes said. "It's not the same thing."
"You'll take the case?"
Keyes didn't answer right away, but he knew what he'd say. Of course he'd take the case. Part of it was the money, part of it was Jenna, and part of it was that goddamn brilliant Wiley. A long time ago it would have been pure fun, tracking down an old comrade lost on a binge. But that was before Jenna. Fun was now out of the question.
Keyes told himself: This will be a test, that's all. To see how thick is the scar.
"Let's wait twenty-four hours, Cab. In the meantime, why don't you run one of Ricky Bloodworth's columns in Skip's slot tomorrow? Run the kid's picture, too. If that doesn't make Wiley surface, then maybe you're right. Maybe it's something serious this time."