“Was the groceries still in the trunk when she brought her car in?”
“No,” Hunt replied.
“Do you remember what she was wearing that day?”
Hunt hesitated. “Tennis clothes, sunglasses. Uh, it looked like she’d just played. I remember because I’d never seen her come in like that. In the past she was always in street clothes. I also remember her tennis racket and a few other things were in the trunk because she took these things out when we started shampooing. I remember she wiped them off and placed them in the backseat.”
Marino pulled a datebook out of his breast pocket. Opening it and flipping back several pages, he said, “Is it possible this was the second week of July? Friday the twelth?”
“It could have been.”
“Do you remember anything else? Did she say anything else?”
“She was almost friendly,” Hunt answered. “I remember that well. I assume it was because I was helping her out, making sure we took care of her trunk when I really didn’t have to. I could have told her she’d have to take her car to the detail shop and pay thirty dollars for a shampoo. But I wanted to help her. And I was hanging around while the guys worked when I happened to notice the passenger’s side of her car. The door was messed up. It was weird. It looked as if someone had taken his key and gouged a heart and some letters on the door right below the handle. When I asked her how it happened, she went around to the door and inspected the damage. She just stood there staring. I swear, she turned white as a sheet. Apparently she hadn’t noticed the damage until I pointed it out. I tried to calm her down, told her I didn’t blame her for being upset. The Honda’s brand new, not a scratch on it, about a twenty-thousand-dollar car. Then some jerk does something like that. Probably some kid with nothing better to do.”
“What else did she say, Al?” Marino asked. “Did she have any explanation for the damage?”
“No, sir. She didn’t say much of anything. It’s like she got scared, was looking around, really upset.
Then she asked me where the nearest phone was and I told her there was a pay phone inside. By the time she came back out, the car was finished and she left–”
Marino stopped the tape and popped it out of the VCR. Remembering coffee, I went into the kitchen and fixed two cups.
“Looks like that answers one of our questions,” I said when I returned.
“Oh, yeah,” Marino said, reaching for the cream and sugar. “The way I’m picturing it, Beryl probably used the pay phone to call her bank or maybe the airlines to make a reservation. Finding that little Valentine scratched in her door was the last straw. She freaked. From the car wash she heads straight to her bank. I’ve checked out where she had her account. On July twelfth at twelve-fifty P.M., she withdrew almost ten thousand dollars cash, cleaning out her account. Was a top-drawer customer. Didn’t get an argument.”
“Did she get traveler’s checks?”
“No, if you can believe it,” he said. “Tells me she was more scared of someone finding her than she was of being robbed. She pays cash for everything down there in the Keys. No one has to know her name if she’s not using credit cards or traveler’s checks.”
“She must have been terrified,’ I said quietly. “I can’t imagine carrying that much cash. I’d have to be crazy or frightened to the point of utter desperation.”
He lit a cigarette. I did the same.
Shaking out the match, I asked, “Do you think it’s possible the heart was scratched on her car while it was being washed?”
“I asked Hunt the same question to see how he reacted,” Marino replied. “He swore it couldn’t have been done at the car wash, said someone would have seen it, seen the person doing it. I’m not so sure. Hell, you leave fifty cents in your change box at those joints and it’s gone when you get your ride back. People steal like bandits. Change, umbrellas, checkbooks, you name it, and no one saw a thing when you ask. Hunt could have done it, for all I know.”