“Good,” Decker said. “You feel like taking a drive to the beach?”
Jim Tile chuckled. “My Coppertone’s already packed.”
Crescent Beach is a few miles south of St. Augustine. The broad expanse of sand is sugary white, but packed so hard you could drive a truck to the water’s edge without fear of getting stuck. For a long time Crescent Beach and adjacent communities existed in a rare and splendid quiet. To the south, Daytona got all the publicity and the crowds to go with it; to the north, the beach at Jacksonville was still clean enough to keep the city folks home on weekends. As the condo market boomed in the seventies, though, developers scouted and scoured all of the state’s oceanfront possibilities, and spied lovely Crescent Beach as a promoter’s wet dream—the perfect escape. See Florida as it used to be! Enjoy the solitude of long romantic walks, the Atlantic nipping at your toes! Lie down among the dunes! The dunes became a crucial selling point for North Florida’s long-ignored beaches, because the people in South Florida didn’t know what a dune was—the developers had flattened them all back in the fifties. True, by Northern standards Florida dunes weren’t much to write home about—stubbled little hillocks, really—but the condo salesmen made the most of them and customers thought they were quaint. Once the building boom took hold south of Jacksonville and the beachfront became clogged with exclusive resorts and high-rises and golf communities, the state was forced to start buying up the remaining dunes, making parks, and nailing boardwalks every which-way to keep the dunes from getting leveled. Mysteriously, tourists would drive for miles and pay admission just to see a three-foot crest of sand with a few strands of sea oats—a genuine touch of wilderness among the cabanas.
Lanie Gault had not chosen Crescent Beach for its dunes. She hadn’t chosen it at all; a lover had bought the condo and given it to her for Valentine’s Day in 1982. He was a wonderful and basically harmless man, had his own insurance company, and Lanie didn’t mind that he was married. He wasn’t the sort of guy you, wanted to have around all the time anyway. Every other weekend was just fine. It lasted for about two years until his wife found out—somebody called her up with the juicy details. The insurance man couldn’t figure out who would do such a thing, but Lanie knew. It was her brother. Dennis never admitted to making the phone call, but Lanie had no doubt he was the one. Dennis couldn’t stand the insurance man (nothing new) and for months had been telling her to clear the deed and dump the guy, he’s bad news. He isn’t bad news, Lanie had argued, thinking: He’s just slightly boring. When the wife found out, Lanie was angry with her brother but also a little relieved. A few days later the insurance man came to the condo and told her he was moving back to St. Louis and kissed her good-bye. Lanie cried and said she understood and asked if he wanted her to give the condo back. The insurance man said heavens no, it’s all yours, just don’t tell anyone where you got it. A week later Lanie put in brand-new wine carpeting and decided maybe her heart wasn’t truly broken after all.
Lanie’s condominium was on the east wing of the ninth floor, and featured a scallop-shaped balcony with an ocean view. One of the things she liked about the building was the security—not only a gatehouse at the entrance, but an armed guard in the lobby and a closed-circuit TV bank. Nobody got upstairs without clearance, and the security people had strict instructions to phone ahead, no matter what. Given such procedures, Lanie was understandably alarmed to be awakened by someone knocking on the door. She squirmed across the king-size bed and snatched the phone off the nightstand and called the desk. The guard said, “It’s the police, Miss Gault, we had to let them up.”
When she opened the door, she saw the problem. Jim Tile was wearing his state trooper’s uniform.
“Can I help you?” Lanie asked.
“Not me,” Jim Tile said, “my friend.”