“Don’t tell me he’s finally gonna pop somebody in this case.”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Stranahan. He just wanted to refresh his memory before he went on TV. The Reynaldo Flemm show.”
Stranahan whistled. Reynaldo Flemm was a television journalist who specialized in sensational crime cases. He was nationally famous for getting beaten up on camera, usually by the very hoodlums he was trying to interview. No matter what kind of elaborate disguise Reynaldo Flemm would devise, he was always too vain to cover his face. Naturally the crooks would recognize him instantly and bash the living shit out of him. For pure action footage, it was hard to beat; Reynaldo Flemm’s specials were among the highest-rated programs on television.
“So Gerry’s hit the big time,” Stranahan said.
“Yep,” the clerk said.
“What did he say about this case?”
“Mr. Eckert?”
“Yeah, what he did he tell this TV guy?”
The clerk said, “Well, I wasn’t there for the taping. But from what I heard, Mr. Eckert said the whole thing is still a mystery.”
“Well, that’s true enough.”
“And Mr. Eckert told Mr. Flemm that he wouldn’t be one bit surprised if someday it turns out that Victoria Barletta ran away. Just took one look at her face and ran away. Otherwise, why haven’t they found a body?”
Stranahan thought: Eckert hasn’t changed a bit, still dumb as a bull gator.
“I can’t wait to see the show,” Stranahan remarked.
“It’s scheduled to be on March twelfth at nine p.m.” The clerk held up a piece of paper. “We got a memo from Mr. Eckert today.”
The man from New Jersey did not call Dr. Rudy Graveline again for four days. Then, on the afternoon of January eighth, Rudy got a message on his beeper. The beeper went off at a bad moment, when Rudy happened to be screwing the young wife of a Miami Dolphins wide receiver. The woman had come to Whispering Palms for a simple consult—a tiny pink scar along her jawline, could it be fixed?—and the next thing she knew, the doctor had her talking about all kinds of personal things, including how lonely it got at home during the football season when Jake’s mind was on the game and nothing else. Well, the next thing she knew, the doctor was taking her to lunch in his black Jaguar sedan with the great Dolby sound system, and the football player’s wife found herself thinking how the rich smell of leather upholstery made her hot, really hot, and then—as if he could read her mind—the doctor suddenly pulled off the Julia Tuttle Causeway, parked the Jag in some pepper trees, and started to gnaw her panties off. He even made cute little squirrel noises as he nuzzled between her legs.
Before long the doctor was merrily pounding away while the football player’s wife gazed up at him through the spokes of the walnut steering wheel, under which her head had become uncomfortably wedged.
When the beeper went off on Dr. Graveline’s belt, he scarcely missed a beat. He glanced down at the phone number (glowing in bright green numerals) and snatched the car phone from its cradle in the glove box. With one hand he managed to dial the long-distance number even as he finished with the football player’s wife, who by this time was silently counting down, hoping he’d hurry it up. She’d had about all she could take of the smell of new leather.
Dr. Graveline pulled away just as the phone started ringing somewhere in New Jersey.
The man answered on the fourth ring. “Yeah, what?”
“It’s me. Rudy.”
“You been jogging or what?”
“Something like that.”
“Sounds like you’re gonna have a fuckin’ heart attack.”
Dr. Graveline said: “Give me a second to catch my breath.”
The football player’s wife was squirming back into her slacks. The look on her face suggested disappointment at her partner’s performance, but Rudy Graveline did not notice.
“About the deal,” he said. “I don’t think so.”
Curly Eyebrows in New Jersey said: “Your problem musta gone away.”
“Not really.”
“Then what?”
“I’m going to get somebody local.”
The man in New Jersey started to laugh. He laughed and laughed until he began to wheeze.