“And warn your brother,” Garcia said. “Just in case the guy shows up.”
“You betcha,” said George Graveline.
Back in the unmarked county car, parked a half-mile down the boulevard at the Key Biscayne fire station, Mick Stranahan said: “So how’d it go?”
“Just like we figured,” Garcia replied. “Nada.”
“What do you think of Timmy’s theory? About how they got rid of the body?”
“If the doctor really killed her then, yeah, it’s possible. That’s quite a machine brother George has got himself.”
Stranahan said, “Too bad brother George won’t flip.”
Garcia rolled up the windows and turned on the air-conditioning to cool off. He knew what Stranahan was thinking and he was right: Brother George could blow the whole thing wide open. If Maggie were dead or gone, the videotape alone would not be enough for an indictment. They would definitely need George Graveline to talk about Vicky Barletta.
“I’m going for some fresh air,” Stranahan said. “Why don’t you meet me back here in about an hour?”
Garcia said, “Where the hell you off to?”
Stranahan got out of the car. “For a walk, do you mind? Go get some coffee or flan or something.”
“Mick, don’t do anything stupid. It’s too nice a day for being stupid.”
“Hey, it’s a lovely day.” Stranahan slammed the car door and crossed the boulevard at a trot.
“Shit,” Garcia muttered. “Mierda!”
He drove down to the Oasis restaurant and ordered a cup of overpowering Cuban coffee. Then he ordered another.
George Graveline was still alone when Mick Stranahan got there. He was leaning against the truck fender, staring at his logger boots. He looked up at Stranahan, straightened, and said, “You put that damn cop on my ass.”
“Good morning, George,” said Stranahan. “It’s certainly nice to see you again.”
“Fuck you, hear?”
“Are we having a bad day? What is it—cramps?”
George Graveline was one of those big, slow guys who squint when they get angry. He was squinting now. Methodically he clenched and unclenched his fists, as if he were practicing isometrics.
Stranahan said, “George, I’ve still got that problem I told you about last time. Your brother’s still got some goon trying to murder me. I’m really at the end of my rope.”
“You got that right.”
“My guess,” continued Stranahan, “is that you and Rudy had a brotherly talk after last time. My guess is that you know exactly where I can locate this goony hit man.”
“Screw you,” said George Graveline. He kicked the switch on the wood chipper and the motor growled to life.
Stranahan said, “Aw, what’d you do that for? How’m I supposed to hear you over all that damn racket?”
George Graveline lunged with both arms raised stiff in fury, a Frankenstein monster with Elvis jowls. He was clawing for Stranahan’s neck. Stranahan ducked the grab and punched George Graveline hard under the heart. When the tree trimmer didn’t fall, Stranahan punched him twice in the testicles. This time George went down.
Stranahan placed his right foot on the husky man’s neck and applied the pressure slowly, shifting his weight from heel to toe. By reflex George’s hands were riveted to his swollen scrotum. He was helpless to fight back. He made a noise like a tractor tire going flat.
“I can’t believe you did that,” Stranahan muttered. “Isn’t it possible to have a civilized conversation in this town without somebody trying to kill you?”
It was a rhetorical question but George Graveline couldn’t hear it over the wood chipper, anyway. Stranahan leaned over and shouted: “Where’s the goon?”
George did not answer promptly, so Stranahan added more weight on the Adam’s apple. George was not squinting anymore; both eyes were quite large.
“Where is he?” Stranahan repeated.
When George’s lips started moving, Stranahan let up. The voice that came out of the tree trimmer’s mouth had a fuzzy electronic quality. Stranahan knelt to hear it.
“Works on the beach,” said George Graveline.
“Can we be more specific?”
“At a club.”
“What club, George? There’s lots of nightclubs on Miami Beach.”
George blinked and said, “Gay Bidet.” Now it was done, he thought. His brother Rudy was a goner.
“Thank you, George,” said Stranahan. He removed his shoe from the tree trimmer’s throat. “This is a good start. I’m very encouraged. Now let’s talk about Vicky Barletta.”