Lennie Goldberg, a detective from Intelligence, came up and said, “So, what do you think, Al? Think it was Cubans?”
“No, Lennie, I think it was the Shining Path. Or maybe the freaking Red Brigade.” It took Lennie Goldberg a couple of beats to catch on. Irritably Garcia said, “Would you stop this shit about the Cubans? This was a routine car bomb, okay? No politics, no Castro, no CIA. No fucking Cubans, got it?”
“Jeez, Al, I was just asking.” Lennie thought Garcia was getting very touchy on the subject.
“Use your head, Lennie.” Garcia pointed at the wreck. “This look like an act of international terrorism? Or does it look like some dirtball in a junker went nuts?”
Lennie said, “Could be either, Al. With bombings, sometimes you got to look closely for the symbolism. Maybe there’s a message in this. Aren’t Jaguars manufactured in Britain? Maybe this is the IRA.”
Garcia groaned. A message, for Christ’s sake. And symbolism! This is what happens when you put a moron in the intelligence unit: he gets even dumber.
A uniformed cop handed Rudy Graveline a copy of the police report. The doctor folded it carefully with three creases, like a letter, and placed it in the inside pocket of his jacket.
Al Garcia turned his back on Lennie Goldberg and said to Rudy, “Don’t worry, we’ll find the guy.”
“You will?”
“No sweat,” said Garcia, noticing how uncomfortable Rudy seemed. “We’ll run the V.I.N. number on the Chrysler and come up with our Haitian dwarf, or whatever.”
“Probably a stolen vehicle,” Rudy remarked.
“Probably not,” said Al Garcia. Vehicle? Now the guy was doing Jack Webb. Garcia said: “No, sir, this definitely was a premeditated act, the act of a violent and unstable perpetrator. We’ll do our best to solve it, Doctor, you’ve got my word.”
“Really, it’s not that big a deal.”
“Oh, it is to us,” Garcia said. “It is indeed a big deal.”
“Well, I know you’re awfully busy.”
“Oh, not too busy for something like this,” Garcia said in the heartiest of tones. “The firebombing of a prominent physician—are you kidding? Starting now, Dr. Graveline, your case is priority one.”
Garcia was having a ball, acting so damn gung ho; the doctor looked wan and dyspeptic.
The detective said, “You’ll be hearing back from me real soon.”
“I will?” said Rudy Graveline.
Reynaldo Flemm had been in a dark funk since his clandestine visit to Whispering Palms. Dr. Graveline had lanced his ego; this, without knowing Reynaldo’s true identity or the magnitude of his fame. Three days had passed, and Flemm had scarcely been able to peek out the door of his Key Biscayne hotel room. He had virtually stopped eating most solid food, resorting to a diet of protein cereal and lemon Gatorade. Every time Christina Marks knocked, Reynaldo would call out that he was in the bathroom, sick to his stomach, which was almost true. He couldn’t tear himself away from the mirror. The surgeon’s dire assessment of Reynaldo’s nose—”two sizes too large for your face”—was savage by itself, but the casual criticism of his weight was paralyzing.
Flemm was examining himself naked in the mirror when Christina came to the door again.
“I’m sick,” he called out.
“Ray, this is stupid,” Christina scolded from the hallway. She didn’t know about his trip to the clinic. “We’ve got to talk about Maggie,” she said.
There was the sound of drawers being opened and closed, and maybe a closet. For a moment Christina thought he might be getting ready to emerge.
“Ray?”
“What about Maggie?” he said. Now it sounded like he was inches from the door. “Didn’t you straighten out that shit about 20/20?”
Christina said, “That’s what we have to talk about. Fifteen thousand is ludicrous. Let me in, Ray.”
“I’m not well.”
“Open the damn door or I’m calling New York.”
“No, Chris, I’m not at my best.”
“Ray, I’ve seen you at your best, and it’s not all that great. Let me in, or I start kicking.” And she did. Reynaldo Flemm couldn’t believe it, the damn door was jumping off its hinges.
“Hey, stop!” he cried, and opened it just a crack.