She was rinsing the bloody towel in a sink when the insurance man called. She hurried to the bedroom, where Fred Dove held up a framed photograph that he’d dug from the storm rubble. It was a picture of Tony Torres with a large dead fish. The fish had a mouth the size of a garbage pail.
“That’s Tony on the left,” Edie said with a dry, edgy laugh.
“Nice grouper. Where’d he catch it?”
“The ocean.” Where else? thought Edie.
“And who’s this?” The insurance man retrieved another frame off the floor. The glass was cracked, and the picture was puckered from storm water. It was a color nine-by-twelve^ mounted inside gold filigree: Tony Torres with his arm around the waist of a petite but heavy-breasted Latin woman. Both of them wore loopy champagne smiles.
“His sister Maria,” Edie blurted, sensing the game was about to end.
“She’s in a wedding gown,” Fred Dove remarked, with no trace of sarcasm. “And Mister Torres is wearing a black tuxedo and tails.”
Edie said, “He was the best man.”
“Really? His hand is on her bottom.”
“They’re very close,” said Edie, “for a brother and sister.” The words trailed off in defeat.
Fred Dove’s shoulders stiffened, and his tone chilled. “Do you happen to have some identification? A driver’s license would be good. Anything with a current photograph.”
Edie Marsh said nothing. She feared compounding one felony with another.
“Let me guess,” said the insurance man. “All your personal papers were lost in the hurricane.”
Edie bowed her head, thinking: This can’t be happening again. One of these days I’ve got to catch a break. She said, “Shit.”
“Pardon?”
“I said ‘shit.’ Meaning, I give up.” Edie couldn’t believe it-a fucking wedding picture! Tony and the unfaithful witch he planned to rip off for half the hurricane money. Too bad Snapper bolted, she thought, because this was ten times better than Sally Jessy.
“Who are you?” Fred Dove was stern and official.
“Look, what happens now?”
“I’ll tell you exactly what happens-”
At that moment, the electric generator ran out of gasoline, dying with a feeble series of burps. The light-bulb went dim and the television went black. The house at 15600 Calusa became suddenly as quiet as a chapel. The only sound was a faint jingle from the backyard, where the two dachshunds squirmed to pull free of their leashes.
In the darkness, Fred Dove reached for his flashlight. Edie Marsh intercepted his wrist and held on to it. She decided there was nothing to lose by trying.
“What are you doing?” the insurance man asked.
Edie brought his hand to her mouth. “What’s it worth to you?”
Fred Dove stood as still as a statue.
“Come on,” Edie said, her tongue brushing his knuckles, “what’s it worth?”
The insurance man, in a shaky whisper: “What’s what worth-not calling the police? Is that what you mean?”
Edie was smiling. Fred Dove could tell by the feel of her lips and teeth against his hand.
“What’s this house insured for?” she asked.
“Why?”
“One twenty? One thirty?”
“One forty-one,” said Fred Dove, thinking: Her breath is so unbelievably soft.
Edie switched to her sex-kitten voice, the one that had failed to galvanize the young Palm Beach Kennedy. “One forty-one? You sure, Mister Dove?”
“The structure, yes. Because of the swimming pool.”
“Of course.” She pressed closer, wishing she weren’t wearing a bra but suspecting it didn’t much matter. Poor Freddie’s brakes were already smoking. She feathered her eyelashes against his neck and felt him bury his face in her hair.
The insurance man labored to speak. “What is it you want?”
“A partner,” Edie Marsh replied, sealing the agreement with a long blind kiss.
Sergeant Cain Darby took his weekends with the National Guard as seriously as he took his regular job as a maximum-security-prison guard. Although he would have preferred to remain in Starke with the armed robbers and serial killers, duty called Cain Darby to South Florida on the day after the hurricane struck.
Commanding Darby’s National Guard unit was the night manager of a Days Inn, who sternly instructed the troops not to fire their weapons unless fired upon themselves. From what Cain Darby knew of Miami, this scenario seemed not entirely improbable. Nonetheless, he understood that a Guardsman’s chief mission was to maintain order in the streets, assist needy civilians and prevent looting.