He might have been home for Christmas.
Ever since its independence the Bahamas has been telling the world community what a prosperous advanced nation it has become. Well, it's time to start acting like one. It's time this little country, which so loves rich foreigners, took an equal interest in the fate of its own people—especially the poor and feckless.
Cab Mulcahy nearly gnawed through his upper lip as he read Ricky's rewrite.
"I thought Skip was being a little too sentimental," Bloodworth explained. "I think he really missed the big picture."
"Yes," Mulcahy said pensively. "You've turned a sentimental anecdote about a missing fisherman into a blistering indictment of a friendly foreign government."
"Exactly," Bloodworth said proudly. "The column's got some guts to it now."
"Guts."
"Cab, isn't that what you wanted?"
"Oh yes. This is perfect."
"You know," Bloodworth said, "normally I'd ask for a byline on the column, since I rewrote it and all. But under the circumstances, I think I'd like to leave my name off. Just keep it our secret."
"Smart move," Mulcahy said.
"Otherwise Skip might get the wrong idea."
"I understand."
"Because if he gets upset—"
"I told you, I'll handle it. Don't worry."
"Thanks, Cab."
Forty minutes after Richard L. Bloodworth left, Mulcahy had not moved from his desk. He looked rumpled and dispirited.
The city editor strolled in and said, "I hear Ricky's polished up Wiley's column."
Listlessly Mulcahy handed it to him.
The city editor didn't know what to say. He was the one who'd always said Bloodworth showed promise. Consequently, he felt duty-bound to offer something positive. "Well," the city editor said, not taking his eyes off the page, "Ricky certainly doesn't pull any punches, does he?"
"He's an insensitive cretin. A menace."
"He's a pretty good police reporter, Cab."
"I never said he wasn't."
"So what do you want me to do?"
"Smooth the wrinkles and run it Monday."
"But that's Christmas Eve," the city editor said. "I thought we were using it Christmas Day."
"I refuse to do that to our readers," Mulcahy said. "Not on Christmas."
"But what'll I run in Wiley's slot Christmas Day?"
"I don't know," Mulcahy said. "A prayer would be nice."
The Shivers family lived in a beautiful old home next to a golf course in Coral Gables. It was a two-story house, white Florida stucco with a red barrel-tile roof. An ancient ficus tree cloaked the front lawn. In the driveway were a BMW, a Lincoln, and a new Volkswagen. Brian Keyes parked behind the VW.
A short man with a fresh tan and a pointy chin answered the door. He was trim, almost youthful, and dressed stem-to-stern in L. L. Bean. He definitely belonged to the BMW.
"Reed Shivers," he said with a collegiate handshake. "Come in, Mr. Keyes."
They sat in an elegant living room with plenty of soft camel furniture. In one corner stood a tall, woodsy-smelling Christmas tree; some of its ornaments were made of blown glass.
"Pumpkin!" Reed Shivers called. "Come here!"
At first Brian Keyes thought Shivers might be shouting to a pet beagle.
"My daughter," Shivers said. "She'll be down in a minute, I'm. sure. Would you like coffee?"
'Thanks," Keyes said. "No sugar."
"Not in this house," Shivers said. "We watch our diets. You'll see for yourself."
Shivers poured the coffee from a silver pot.
"So you're a private detective."
"Yes," Keyes said restlessly.
"I'm a tax lawyer, myself."
"So I heard."
Shivers waited, thinking the private eye would ask about what it's like to be an important tax attorney in Miami. Keyes sipped at his coffee and said nothing.
"I'm just curious," Shivers said. "How much money do private investigators make?"
"At least a million a year," Keyes said. "Sometimes two million. I lose track."
Reed Shivers whistled. "Wow! You've got good shelters, I presume."
"The best."
"Oil, right?"
"Concrete."
"Hmmm-mmm," said Reed Shivers.
Keyes wondered how this clown ever made it through Yale Law.
"Pumpkin pie!" Shivers hollered again. "I don't know what's keeping her, Mr. Keyes."
"Before your daughter gets here, I'd like to offer some advice."
"Certainly."
"Don't let her ride that float in the Orange Bowl Parade."
"You're joking."
"Not at all," Keyes said. "The people who've made this threat are very violent. And ingenious. No one knows what they might do."
"Sergeant Garcia said it was a kidnapping plot."
'It's a bit more complicated than that."
"You think they might try to harm Kara Lynn?"
"It's very possible," Keyes said.
"But there'll be cops all over the place!"
Keyes put down his coffee cup, aiming for a linen doily. "Mr. Shivers, I just want you to be aware of the risks. The risks are substantial."
Reed Shivers looked annoyed. "Some risk. An Injun, a Cuban, and a washed-up spade ballplayer. Don't tell me a hundred well-armed policemen can't stop a bunch of losers like that!"
"Mr. Shivers, losers get lucky. If one nut can shoot the damn President in Dealey Plaza, a whole gang of nuts can sure as hell snatch your precious little Pumpkin off Biscayne Boulevard."
"Shhhh."
Kara Lynn Shivers stood at the French doors.
"Sugar doll! Come here and meet Mr. Keyes."
Reed Shivers whispered: "Isn't she spectacular?"
She was. She wore tight jeans, white sneakers, and a gray Miami Hurricanes sweatshirt. Kara Lynn Shivers greeted Brian Keyes with an expert smile. It was one of the best smiles he'd seen in a long time.
"So you're my bodyguard," she said.
"It wasn't my idea," Keyes said.
"I can think of worse assignments," Reed Shivers said with a locker-room wink.
Keyes said, "Kara Lynn, I'm going to tell you what I told your dad: I think you ought to drop out of the parade next week. I think you're in serious danger."
Kara Lynn looked at her father.
"I already told him," Shivers said. "It's out of the question."
"Do I get a choice?"
"Of course, buttercup."
"Then I want to hear what Mr. Keyes has to say."
Kara Lynn Shivers was quite beautiful, which wasn't surprising; one did not get to be Orange Bowl queen by looking like a wood-chuck. What did surprise Brian Keyes was the wit in Kara Lynn's gray-green eyes and the steel in her voice. He had expected a chronic case of airheadedness but found just the opposite. Kara Lynn seemed very self-assured for nineteen, and canny—light-years ahead of her old man. Still, Keyes was wary. He had stopped falling in love with beauty queens when he was twenty-six.
"One reason Sergeant Garcia asked me to keep an eye on you," Keyes said, "is because I'm the only person who's seen the terrorists face-to-face. At least, I'm the only one still alive. They're treacherous and unpredictable. And clever—I can't overemphasize that. These guys are damn clever. Now, your father's right: there will be scores of plainclothes police all up and down the parade route. You won't see them, and neither will the folks watching on TV, but they'll be there, with guns. Let's hope Las Nochesknow it; then maybe they'll think twice before trying anything."
"Dad, suppose something happens," Kara Lynn said.
"We pay the ransom, of course. I've already called Lloyd's about a kidnap policy and arranged the very best—the same one all the top multinationals have on their executives."
"That's not what I meant," Kara Lynn said sharply. "Suppose there's a shoot-out during the parade, with all those little kids in the crowd. Somebody might get killed."