“I’m not a well person,” I submit. “I saw those sparkly toenails and was riven with envy. Obviously something inside of you rollicks carefree and fanciful. I’ve completely forgotten what that’s like.”
“Doesn’t it hurt to talk so much?” Emma asks.
“I can’t believe Jay Burns is dead. I can’t fucking believe it. Listen, you wanna go for a ride?”
“Jack, it’s late. You need to rest.”
“Put on some shoes. Hurry up.”
The cops had been there first, followed by persons unknown. I show Emma where the yellow crime tape strung around the dock pilings had been broken, then clumsily reattached. I yank the tape down, roll it into a wad and toss it in a bucket. Then we board the Rio Rio.
Whoever sacked the cabin was smart enough to wait until the detectives had come and gone. The place is in shambles now, but it wasn’t much neater thirty hours ago when I’d arrived to interview Jay Burns. The porn, pizza cartons and music magazines have been restrewn across the floor and the berths. Add to that mess the unlaundered contents of assorted drawers and cabinets, plus several unappetizing containers from the refrigerator.
Emma and I are poised in the narrow companionway, contemplating a path through the ripening debris. I lead the way, stepping cautiously. Exhilarated, Emma keeps a grip on my arm. The first priority is turning on the air conditioner because the cabin smells like piss, beer and old sneakers.
“What are we looking for?” Emma whispers.
“Something the bad guys didn’t find.”
I’m guessing it took more than one man to deal with husky Jay Burns. Later, after the boat was searched, the bald intruder was sent to my place on the chance that I’d conned the mystery stash out of Jay, or stolen it outright.
For forty-five minutes Emma and I root through the cabin and turn up nothing but a Baggie of sodden pot, undoubtedly discarded as worthless by the previous searchers. In fact, every hatch, panel and storage bin appears to have been opened and emptied ahead of us. We step back up to the deck and, employing one of Jay’s flashlights, check the bait well and the engine compartment. On the console above the wheel is a sprout of loose wires where the bad guys removed some of the Contender’s electronics—probably the VHF, depth finder and Loran. This gesture was intended to make it look like a common boatyard burglary, which it most definitely was not. I show Emma the disconnected wires, then flick off the flashlight.
She says, “Now what?”
“Write his obituary, I guess.”
“Jack.”
“I forgot. He doesn’t rate.”
Emma says, “If anything, it’s a brief for Metro.”
Sorry, Jay, but that’s how it goes. No space in the newspaper for dead sidemen.
My skull rings like a gong. Carefully I sit down behind the wheel of Jimmy Stoma’s boat. I’m wondering what violent chain of events I might have set in motion by surprising Jay Burns and quizzing him about Jimmy’s secret sessions. I remember the anxiety in his pig-drunk eyes when he asked me if Billy Preston was still alive, and now I feel like a creep for needling him about outliving Franz Kafka and John Lennon. Maybe he wigged out and did something rash, such as phoning Cleo Rio to warn her I’d been snooping around.
In the shadows, Emma sneezes.
“I’m sorry. I should take you home,” I say.
“Sorry for what? This is… ”
“Fun?”
“Exciting, Jack. I spend all my days stuck in boring meetings, or sitting like a goob in front of a video screen. This is my first crime scene.”
“Didn’t Juan take you to a Marlins game?”
“Go ahead and make fun. Not everyone… ”
“What?”
“Never mind.” Emma points. “Hey, maybe it’s under those scuba tanks.”
I aim the flashlight at the deck in front of the transom, where a dozen white dive tanks are arranged in two upright rows, like jumbo milk bottles. The tanks stand undisturbed, indicating the killers weren’t interested. They must have believed that whatever they were seeking was concealed indoors.
While Emma holds the light, I move the scuba tanks one by one. The deck beneath and between them is empty. I’m amused to hear Emma mutter, “Damn.”