All at once the noise died away. George Graveline opened his eyes. He could hear his foreman talking to an unfamiliar voice behind the truck. George stuck his head out the window and saw a stocky Cuban guy in a brown suit. The Cuban guy had a thick mustache and a fat unlit cigar in one corner of his mouth.
“What can I do for you?” George Graveline asked.
The Cuban guy reached in his coat and pulled out a gold police badge. As he walked up to the truck, he could see George Graveline’s Adam’s apple sliding up and down.
Al Garcia introduced himself and said he wanted to ask a few questions.
George Graveline said, “You got a warrant?”
The detective smiled. “I don’t need a warrant, chico.”
“You don’t?”
Garcia shook his head. “Nope. Here, take a look at this.” He showed George Graveline the police composite of Blondell Wayne Tatum, the man known as Chemo. “Ever see this bird before?”
“No, sir,” said the tree trimmer, but his expression gave it away. He looked away too quickly from the drawing; anyone else would have stared.
Garcia said, “This is a friend of your brother’s.”
“I don’t think so.”
“No?” Garcia shifted the cigar to the other side of his mouth. “Well, that’s good to know. Because this man’s a killer, and I can’t think of one good reason why he’d be hanging out with a famous plastic surgeon.”
George Graveline said, “Me neither.” He turned on the radio and twirled the tuner knob back and forth, pretending to look for his favorite country station. Garcia could sense the guy was about to wet his pants.
The detective said, “I’m not the first homicide man you ever met, am I?”
“Sure. What do you mean?”
“Hell, it was four years ago,” Garcia said. “You probably don’t even remember. It was outside your brother’s office, the place he had before he moved over to the beach.”
With a fat brown finger George Graveline scratched his neck. He scrunched his eyebrows, as if trying to recall.
Garcia said: “Detective’s name was Timmy Gavigan. Skinny Irish guy, red hair, about so big. He stopped to chat with you for a couple minutes.”
“No, I surely don’t remember,” George said, guardedly.
“I’ll tell you exactly when it was—it was right after that college girl disappeared,” Garcia said. “Victoria Barletta was her name. Surely you remember. There must’ve been cops all over the place.”
“Oh yeah.” Slowly it was coming back to George; that’s what he wanted the cop to think.
“She was one of your brother’s patients, the Barletta girl.”
“Right,” said George Graveline, nodding. “I remember how upset Rudolph was.”
“But you don’t remember talking to Detective Gavigan?”
“I talked to lots of people.”
Garcia said, “The reason I mention it, Timmy remembered you.”
“Yeah, so?”
“You know, he never solved that damn case. The Barletta girl, after all these years. And now he’s dead, Timmy is.” Garcia stepped to the rear of the truck. Casually he put one foot on the bumper, near the hitch of the wood chipper. George Graveline opened the door of the truck and leaned out to keep an eye on the Cuban detective.
The two men were alone. George’s workers had wandered off to find a cool place to eat lunch and smoke some weed; it was hard to unwind with a cop hanging around.
Curiously Al Garcia bent over the wood chipper and peered at a decal on the engine mount. The decal was in the cartoon likeness of a friendly raccoon. “Brush Bandit—is that the name of this mother?”
“That’s right,” said George Graveline.
“How does it work exactly?”
George motioned sullenly. “You throw the wood into that hole and it comes out here, in the back of the truck. All grinded up.”
Garcia whistled over his cigar. “Must be some nasty blade.”
“It’s a big one, yessir.”
Garcia took his foot off the truck bumper. He held up the drawing of Chemo one more time. “You see this guy, I want you to call us right away.”
“Surely,” said George Graveline. The detective gave him a business card. The tree trimmer glanced at it, decided it was authentic, slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans.