TOURIST SEASON by Carl Hiaasen

“No. He left in a hurry. It had been a strenuous session for both of us.”

Mulcahy said, “So what’s the verdict?”

“Verdict?”

“What the hell is wrong with him?”

“Stress, fatigue, anxiety, paranoia. It’s all job-related. I suggest you give him a year off.”

“I can’t do that, doctor. He’s a very popular writer and the newspaper needs him.”

“Suit yourself. He’s a nut case.”

A nut case who sells newspapers, Mulcahy thought ruefully. Next he tried Jenna.

“I still haven’t seen him, Cab. I’m getting a little worried, too. I’ve got a spinach pie in the oven.”

Jenna had the most delicious voice of any woman Cab Mulcahy had ever met; pure gossamer. Even spinach pie came out like Let’s do it! The day Skip Wiley moved in with Jenna was the day Cab Mulcahy decided there was no God.

“Does he usually call?” Mulcahy asked.

“He doesn’t do anything in a usual way, you know that, Cab.” A silky laugh.

Mulcahy sighed. In a way it was his fault. Hadn’t he introduced them to each other, Jenna and Skip, one night at the Royal Palm Club?

Jenna said, “Skip makes contact two or three times a day, in various ways. Today—nothing, after noon.”

“What did he say,” Mulcahy ventured, “when he … made contact?”

“Not much. Hold on, I gotta turn down the stove … okay, let me try to remember … I know! He said he was on his way to get a new muffler for the car, and he also said he murdered the psychiatrist. Is that part true?”

“Of course not,” Mulcahy said.

“I’m glad. He’s got such a crummy temper.”

“Jenna, did Skip mention when he might be making contact again?”

“No, he never does. He likes to surprise me, says it keeps the romance fresh. Sometimes I wonder if he’s just testing me. Trust is a two-way street, y’know.”

“But he comes home for dinner?”

“Almost always,” Jenna said.

“If he comes home tonight,” Mulcahy said, by now eager to escape the conversation, “please have him call the newsroom. It’s important.”

“I’m getting worried, Cab,” Jenna said again. “This spinach is starting to clot.”

What an actress, Mulcahy thought, she’s just terrific. When Skip Wiley first seduced Jenna, he’d thought he was getting himself a gorgeous blond melon-breasted bimbo. That’s how he had described her to Mulcahy, who knew better. He had warned Wiley, too, warned him to proceed with extreme caution. Mulcahy had seen Jenna in action once before; she was magnetic and purposeful far beyond Skip Wiley’s ragged powers of comprehension. But Wiley hadn’t listened to Mulcahy’s warning, and chased Jenna shamelessly until she’d let herself get caught.

Mulcahy’s speculation about Wiley’s weirdness included the possibility that Jenna was the key.

Mulcahy swept the clutter from the desk into his briefcase, put on his jacket, and threaded his way through the newsroom toward the elevators.

“Cab, just a second.” It was the city editor, looking febrile.

“If Wiley doesn’t show, run a feature story in his slot,” Mulcahy instructed, still walking.

“A parade story, something mild like that. And at the bottom run a small box in italics. Say Wiley’s out sick. Say the column will resume shortly.”

The city editor didn’t skulk off the way Mulcahy expected him to. Mulcahy stopped short of the elevators and asked, “What’s the matter?”

“The highway patrol just called,” the city editor said uneasily. “They found Wiley’s car, the old Pontiac.”

“Where?’

“In the middle of Interstate 95. At rush hour.”

“No Wiley?”

The city editor shook his head grimly. “Engine was running, and Clapton was blasting on the tape deck. The car was just sitting there empty in traffic. They’re towing it to Miami police headquarters. I’ve sent Bloodworth over to see what he can find out. Want me to call you later at home?”

“Sure,” said Cab Mulcahy, more puzzled than before.

“About the column, Cab … “

“Yeah?”

“Sure you won’t give Ricky a shot?”

Mulcahy rarely frowned or raised his voice, but he was on the verge of doing both. “You got a parade story for tomorrow? Don’t tell me you don’t. There’s always a parade in this goddamn town.”

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