“How?” she asked. “And why?”
“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s even worse. I can’t tell you all the details, Kate, because there’s going to be trouble and I want you clear of it. But you ought to know that I’m the one who got Kipper involved.”
“But you’re not the one who played grab-the-tittie with your client. He did.” She turned back to the big window and folded her arms. “It’s so … tacky.”
“Yes,” Stranahan agreed. “Tacky’s the word.”
When he came out of the house, Garcia was waiting.
“Wasn’t that courteous of me, not barging in and making a big Cuban scene in front of your sister?”
“Al, you’re a fucking prince among men.”
“Know why I’m wearing this trenchcoat? It’s brand-new, by the way. I hadda go to another funeral: Bobby Pepsical, the county commissioner. Dropped dead in confession.”
“Good place for it. He was a stone crook.”
“Course he was, Mick. But I got a feeling he didn’t get his penance.”
“Why not?”
“Because there wasn’t a priest in there. Bobby’s confessing to an, empty closet—that’s pretty weird, huh? Anyway, they make a bunch of us go to the fucking funeral, because of who he was. That’s why I’ve got the new coat. It was raining.”
Stranahan said, “How was it? Did they screw him into the ground? That’s about how crooked he was.”
“I know but, Christ, have some respect for the dead.” Garcia rubbed his temples like he was massaging a cramp. “See, this is what’s got me so agitated, Mick. Ever since I got into this thing with you and the doctor, so many people are dying. Dying weird, too. There’s your ex, and Murdock and Salazar—another funeral! Then the business with that goddamn homicidal tree man. So after all that, here I am standing in the rain, watching them plant some scuzzbucket politician who croaks on his knees in an empty confessional, and my frigging beeper goes off. Lieutenant says some big-shot lawyer got beaned by a jai-alai ball and could be a homicide any second. A jai-alai ball! On top of which the big-shot lawyer turns out to be your brother-in-law. It’s like a nightmare of weirdness!”
“It’s been a bad month,” Stranahan conceded.
“Yeah, it sure has. So what about these Nordstroms?”
“I didn’t know them, I told you.”
Garcia lit up another cigarette and Stranahan made a face. “Know why I’m smoking these things? Because I’m agitated. I get agitated whenever I get jerked around, and I hate to waste a good cigar on agitation.”
Stranahan said, “Can you please not blow it in my face? That’s all I ask.”
The detective took the cigarette out of his mouth and held it behind his back. “There, you happy? Now help me out, Mick. The assailant’s wife, she says Kipper Garth phones her out of the blue and asks if she wants to sue—guess who—Rudy Graveline! Since he’s the quack who gave her the encapsulated whatchamacallits.”
“If that’s what she says, fine.”
“But lawyers aren’t supposed to solicit.”
“Al, this is Miami.”
Garcia took a quick drag and hid the Camel again. “My theory is you somehow got your sleazy, almost-deceased brother-in-law to sue Graveline, just to bust his balls. Shake things up. Maybe flush the giant Mr. Blondell Tatum out of his fugitive gutter. I don’t expect you to open up your heart, Mick, but just tell me this: Did it work? Because if it did, you’re a fucking genius and I apologize for all the shitty things I’ve been saying about you in my sleep.”
“Did what work?”
Garcia grinned venomously. “I thought we were buddies.”
“Al, I’m not going to shut you out,” Stranahan said. “For God’s sake, you saved my life.”
“Aw, shucks, you remembered.”
Stranahan said: “Which one do you want, Al? The freaky hit man or the doctor?”
“Both.”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“Hey, I could arrest your ass right now. Obstruction, tampering, I’d think of something.”
“And I’d be out in an hour.”
Garcia’s jaw tightened for a moment and he turned away, stewing. When he turned back, he seemed more amused than angry.
“The problem is, Mick, you’re too smart. You know the system too damn well. You know there’s only so much I can get away with.”