“Good luck,” Stranahan said. Under the circumstances, it sounded ridiculous.
The guide untied the yellow skiff and hopped in. Before starting the engine, he looked up at Stranahan and said, “I’ll be out here tomorrow, even if the weather’s bad. The next day, too.”
Stranahan nodded; it was good to know. “Thanks, Captain,” he said.
After the skiff was gone, Stranahan returned to the top of the house and took the envelope out of his pocket. He opened it calmly because he knew what it was and who it was from. He’d been waiting for it.
The message said: “We’ve got your girlfriend. No cops!”
And it gave a telephone number.
Mick Stranahan memorized the number, crumpled the paper, and tossed it off the roof into the milky waves. “Somebody’s been watching too much television,” he said.
That afternoon, Mick Stranahan received another disturbing message. It was delivered by Luis Córdova, the young marine patrol officer. He gave Stranahan a lift by boat from Stiltsville to the Crandon Marina, where Stranahan got a cab to his sister Kate’s house in Gables-by-the-sea.
Sergeant Al Garcia was fidgeting on the front terrace. Over his J. C. Penney suit he was wearing what appeared to be an authentic London Fog trenchcoat. Stranahan knew that Garcia was upset because he was smoking those damn Camels again. Even before Stranahan could finish paying the cabbie, Garcia was charging down the driveway, blue smoke streaming from his nostrils like one of those cartoon bulls. “So,” the detective said, “Luis fill you in?” Stranahan said yes, he knew that Kipper Garth had been gravely injured in a domestic dispute.
Garcia blocked his path up the drive. “By a client, Mick. Imagine that.”
“I didn’t know the client, Al.”
“Name of Nordstrom, John Nordstrom.” Garcia was working the sodden nub of the Camel the same way he worked the cigars, from one side of his mouth to the other. Stranahan found it extremely distracting.
“According to the wife,” Garcia said, “the assailant returned home unexpectedly and found your brother-in-law, the almost deceased—”
“Thank you, Al.”
“—found the almost deceased fondling his wife. Whereupon, the assailant attempted to strike the almost deceased at least three times with pelotas. That’s a jai-alai ball, Mick. The third shot struck your brother-in-law at the base of the skull, rendering him unconscious.”
“The dumb shit. How’s Kate?”
“Puzzled,” Garcia said. “But then, aren’t we all?”
“I want to see her.” Stranahan sidestepped the detective and made for the front door.
His sister was standing by the bay window of the Florida room and staring out at Kipper Garth’s sailboat, the Pain-and-Suffering, which was rocking placidly at the dock behind the house. Stranahan gave Kate a hug and kissed her on the forehead.
She sniffled and said, “Did they tell you?”
“Yes, Kate.”
“That he was groping a client—did they tell you?”
Stranahan said, “That’s the woman’s story.”
Kate gave a bitter chuckle. “And you don’t believe it? Come on, Mick, /believe it. Kipper was a pig, let’s face it. You were right, I was wrong.”
Stranahan didn’t know what to say. “He had some good qualities.” Jesus, how stupid. “Has some good qualities, I mean.”
“The doctors say it’s fifty-fifty, but I’m ready for the worst. Kipper’s not a fighter.”
“ He might surprise you,” Stranahan said without conviction.
“Mick, just so you know—I was aware of what he was up to. Some of the excuses, God, you should have heard them. Late nights, weekends, trips to God knows where. I pretended to believe him because … because I liked this life, Mick. The house … this great yard. I mean, it sounds selfish, but it felt good here. Safe. This is a wonderful neighborhood.”
“Katie, I’m sorry.”
“Neighborhoods like this are hard to find, Mick. You know, we’ve only been burglarized twice in four years. That’s not bad for Miami.”
“Not at all,” Stranahan said.
“See, I had to weigh these things every time I thought about leaving.” Kate put a hand on his arm and said, “You knew about all his fooling around.”
“Not everything.”
“Thanks for not mentioning it.” She was sincere.
Stranahan felt like a complete shit, which he was. “This is my fault,” he said. “I told Kipper to take this case. I made him take it.”