Out of the settling darkness a gleaming steel tanker truck appeared. Although it looked like an ordinary oil-company truck, it was not. The driver backed cautiously down the slick boat ramp, and three feet from water’s edge he braked the tanker with a gaseous hiss.
“Nice park job,” the hydrologist said.
The driver hopped out waving a clipboard. “Two thousand fresh basserinos,” he said. “Who signs for these?”
After the barbecue Jim Tile and Al Garcia drove the loaner car back to the lodge, where they got the bad news.
The raid had failed.
The Broward SWAT team had swept with lethal certainty into Room 1412 of the Coral Springs Holiday Inn and brusquely arrested one Mr. Juan Gomez, suspected kidnapper. Unfortunately he turned out to be a genuine Juan Gomez, computer software salesman. Furthermore, the young lady he had been diddling in his motel room turned out not to be the missing Catherine Stuckameyer, but rather the nineteen-year-old daughter of the founder of Floppy World, one of Juan Gomez’s biggest retail clients.
By the time the confusion was sorted out and the SWAT team returned to the Holiday Inn, the other Juan Gomez, the one whose real name was Thomas Curl, had fled his room for parts unknown. Evidence technicians spent hours analyzing the Gaines Burger particles.
Al Garcia had arranged the raid without telling R. J. Decker, who had fiercely rejected the idea of a police rescue attempt. He had insisted on handling Thomas Curl himself because Catherine’s life was at stake, so Jim Tile and Al Garcia had backed off and pretended to go along with it. As soon as Decker left Harney, Garcia got on the phone to his lieutenant in Miami, who got on the phone to the Broward sheriff’s office. There was a delay of several hours in the police bureaucracy, mainly because no Catherine Stuckameyer had officially been reported missing and the authorities suspected it was just another lonely rich wife skipping out. By the time the SWAT team moved, and found the right motel room, it was too late.
“They fucked it up,” Garcia said, slamming down the phone. “Can you believe it, now they’re pissed off at me! Some pinhead gringo captain’s saying I made ’em look bad, says there’s still no evidence of a kidnap. Fucking GI Joes with their greasepaint and their M-16s hit the wrong damn room, it’s not my fault.”
“Meanwhile,” Jim Tile said, “we’ve lost Curl, Decker’s ex, and even Decker himself.”
“So the hotshot gets his way after all. It’s his ball game now.”
Garcia threw down his bass cap and cursed. “What the hell else can we do?”
“Go fishing,” the trooper said. ‘That’s all.”
It was half-past midnight when someone knocked on the door of Dennis Gault’s room. He couldn’t imagine who it might be. He had elected not to stay at the Lunker Lakes Lodge with the others because all the parties would be raucous and distracting, and because the other anglers would ignore him as always. Besides, there was sawdust all over the carpets, and the walls reeked of fresh paint; obviously the place had been slapped together in about two weeks, just for the tournament.
So Gault had taken a suite at the Everglades Hilton, where he always stayed in Fort Lauderdale. Only Lanie, his secretaries, and a few lady friends knew where to find him. Which was why he was puzzled by the midnight visitor.
He listened at the door. From the other side came the sound of a man’s labored breathing and a faint buzzing noise. “Who is it?”
“Me, Mr. Gault.”
He recognized the voice. Angrily Gault opened the door, but what he saw stole his breath away. “Mother of Jesus!”
“Hey, chief,” said Thomas Curl, “nice pajamas.” He swayed in and crashed down into an armchair.
“Uh, Tom—”
“‘What’s the matter, chief?”
Gault stared numbly. What could he say? Curl looked like death on a bad day. His eyes were swollen slits, his face streaked with purple. Sweat glistened on his gray forehead and a chowder-white ooze flecked the corners of his lips.
“What happened to you, Tom?”
“Mrs. Decker’s safe in the trunk, don’t worry.” Curl wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket. “Say, chief, those the shiniest damn pajamas I ever saw.”