“Good for Mick,” Christina said. Naturally she had assumed that Stranahan had killed the man.
“Asshole got six years and did fifteen months. He’s out already.” Stranahan laughed acidly.
“That I didn’t know,” Cartwright said thoughtfully.
“Don’t worry, he won’t ever come back to this place.”
“You don’t think so?”
“No, Cartwright, I promise he won’t. I had a long talk with the man. I believe he moved to California.”
“Very fine,” Cartwright said with obvious relief.
House was a charitable description for where the old fisherman lived: bare cinderblock walls on a concrete foundation; no doors in the doorways, no glass in the windows; a roof woven from dried palm fronds.
“Dry as a bone,” Cartwright said to Christina. “I know it don’t look like much, but you be dry inside here.”
Gamely she said, “I’ll be fine.”
Stranahan winked at Cartwright. “City girl,” he said.
Christina jabbed Stranahan in the ribs. “And you’re Daniel Boone, I suppose. Well, fuck you both. I can handle myself.”
Cartwright’s eyes grew wide.
“Sorry,” Christina said.
“Don’t be,” Cartwright said with a booming laugh. “I love it. I love the sound of a womanly voice out here.”
For lunch he fixed fresh lobster in a conch salad. Afterwards he gathered some clothes in a plastic garbage bag, told Mick good-bye and headed slowly down to the dock.
Christina said, “Where’s he going?”
“To the mainland,” Stranahan replied. “He’s got a grandson in Florida City he hasn’t seen in a while.”
From where they sat, they could see Cartwright’s wooden skiff motoring westward across the bay; the old man had one hand on the stem of the throttle, the other shielding his eyes from the low winter sun.
Christina turned to Stranahan. “You arranged it this way.”
“He’s a nice guy. He doesn’t deserve any trouble.”
“You really think they’ll find us all the way out here?”
“Yep,” Stranahan said. He was counting on it.
21
The clerical staff of Kipper Garth’s law office was abuzz: Clients—real live clients—were coming in for a meeting. Most of the secretaries had never seen any of Kipper Garth’s clients because he generally did not allow them to visit. Normally all contact took place over the telephone, since Kipper Garth’s practice was built exclusively on referrals to other lawyers. The rumor this day (and an incredible one, at that) was that Kipper Garth was going to handle a malpractice case all by himself; one of the senior paralegals had been vaguely instructed to prepare a complaint for civil court. The women who worked Kipper Garth’s phone bank figured that it must be a spectacularly egregious case if their boss would tackle it solo, for his fear of going to court was well known. Kipper Garth’s staff couldn’t wait to get a look at the new clients.
They arrived at eleven sharp, a man and a woman. The clerks, secretaries, and paralegals were startled: It was an unremarkable couple in their mid-thirties. The man was medium-build and ordinary looking, the woman had long ash-blond hair and a nice figure. Neither displayed any obvious scars, mutilations, or crippling deformities. Kipper Garth’s staff was baffled—the hushed wagering shifted back and forth between psychiatric aberration and sexual dysfunction.
Both guesses were wrong. The problem of John and Marie Nordstrom was far more peculiar.
Kipper Garth greeted them crisply at the door and led them to two high-backed easy chairs positioned in front of his desk. The lawyer was extremely nervous and hoped it didn’t show. He hoped he would ask the right questions.
“Mr. Nordstrom,” he began, “I’d like to review some of the material in the state files.”
Nordstrom looked around the elegant office and said: “Are we the only ones?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are we the only ones to sue? Over the phone you said a whole bunch of his patients were suing.”
Kipper Garth tugged restlessly at the sleeves of his coat. “Well, we’ve been talking to several others with strong cases. I’m sure they’ll come around. Meanwhile you and your wife expressed an interest—”
“But not alone,” John Nordstrom said. “We don’t want to be the only ones.”
His wife reached across and touched his arm. “Let’s listen to him,” she said. “It can’t hurt.”