Back in the car, John Murdock had not displayed the crude and cocky ebullience that usually followed the taking of a hefty bribe; rather, his mood had been taciturn and apprehensive. It had stayed that way for two days.
Now, with the boat stuck fast on the bonefish flat, Murdock sulked alone in the stem, glaring at the slow crawl of the incoming tide. Joe Salazar lit a Camel and settled in for a long, tense afternoon. He didn’t feel so well himself, but at least he knew why. This was the biggest job they’d ever done, and the dirtiest.
By a mile.
In fact, the tides would not have mattered if either of the two detectives had known how to read a marine chart. Even at dead low, there was plenty of water from Cape Florida all the way to Old Rhodes Key. All you had to do was follow the channels, which were plainly marked on Luis Córdova’s map.
Mick Stranahan knew that Murdock and Salazar would run the boat aground. He also knew that it would be nighttime before they could float free, and that they would make the rest of the trip at a snail’s pace, fearful of repeating the mishap.
He and Luis Córdova had talked this part out. Together they had calculated that the two detectives would reach the island between nine and midnight, provided they didn’t hit the shoal off Boca Chita and shear the prop off the Evinrude. Luis had offered to tail the Aquasport at a discreet distance, but Stranahan told him no. He didn’t want the marine patrolman anywhere near Old Rhodes Key when it happened. If Luis was there, he’d want to do it by the book. Wait for the assholes to make their move, then try to arrest them. Stranahan knew it would never work that way—they’d try to kill Luis, too. And even if Luis was as sharp as Stranahan thought, it would be a mess for him afterwards. An automatic suspension, a grand jury, his name all over the newspapers. No way, Stranahan told him, no hero stuff. Just give them the map and get lost.
Besides, Stranahan already had his hands full with Christina Marks on the island.
“I don’t want to go for a walk,” she said. “Grandmothers and widows go for walks. I’m staying here with you.”
“So you can take notes, or what?” He handed her a Coleman lantern. The jumpy white light made their shadows clash on the cinderblock walls. Stranahan said, “You’re not a reporter anymore, you’re a goddamn witness.”
She said, “Is this your idea of pillow talk? Half an hour ago we were making love, and now I’m a ‘goddamn witness.’ You ever thought of writing poetry, Mick?”
He was down on one knee, pulling items from one of the duffel bags. Without looking up, he said, “You said you couldn’t be a part of this, I’m trying to accommodate you. As for the afterglow, you want to waltz in the moonlight, we’ll do that later. Right now there’s a pair of bad cops on their way out here to shoot me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Stranahan said. “They’re probably just collecting Toys for Tots. Now go.”
He stood up. In the lantern light, Christina saw that his arms were full: binoculars, a poplin windbreaker, a pair of corduroys, an Orioles cap, a fishing knife, and a round spool of some kind.
She said, “It’s not for the damn TV show that I want to stay. I’m scared for you. I don’t know why—since you’re being such a prick—but I’m worried about you, I admit it.”
When Stranahan spoke again, the acid was gone from his voice. “Look, if you stay … if you were to see something, they’d make you testify. Forget reporter’s privilege and First Amendment—doesn’t count for a damn thing in a situation like this. If you witness a crime, Chris, they put you under oath. You don’t want that.”
“Neither do you.”
He smiled drily. She had him on that one. It was true: He didn’t want any witnesses. “You’ve had enough excitement,” he told her. “Twice I’ve nearly gotten you killed. If I were you, I’d take that as a hint.”