TOURIST SEASON by Carl Hiaasen

“He thought it was a loser,” Garcia said. “He was just trying to expedite things.”

Keyes sat up angrily, looking ragged.

“Expedite things, huh? Well, he expedited his client right into the morgue.”

Garcia shrugged. “You hungry?”

“I thought you were here to arrest me.”

“Naw. Klein’s making noises about pressing charges. Assault with a deadly cocktail fork, something like that. Fortunately for you, nobody at the state attorney’s office likes the little prick, so he’s having trouble getting a warrant. He’d probably forget all about it if you’d pay his hospital bill. Can’t be much—what’s six little sutures on the tongue?”

Keyes smiled for the first time. “I suppose it’s the least I could do.”

“Make him an offer,” Garcia advised. “If you’re lucky, you might not even have to say you’re sorry.”

“What about the Harper case?”

“You read the paper. It’s closed, man. Nothing I can do.”

“But what about Bellamy and the other Fuego letter?”

“Talk to Missing Persons,” Garcia said dryly, “and they’ll call it a probable accidental drowning. And they’ll say, ‘What letter?’ “

The detective lumbered around the office, poking at books and files, flipping through notebooks, taking up time. Keyes could tell that something was bugging him.

“For what it’s worth,” Garcia said finally, “I agree with you. There’s more to the Harper murder than the late great Ernesto Cabal. I bitched and moaned about keeping the case open, but I got outvoted.”

“What’re they afraid of?”

“It’s the start of the season,” Garcia said. “Snowbirds on the wing, tourist dollars, my friend. What’s everyone so afraid of? Empty hotel rooms, that’s what. A gang of homicidal kidnappers is not exactly a PR man’s dream, is it? The boys at the Chamber of Commerce would rather drink Drano than read El Fuego headlines. Not now, Brian, not during the season.”

“So that leaves me the Lone Ranger,” said Keyes.

“I’ll do what I can,” Garcia said, “quietly.”

“Great. Can you get the state to pay my fee?” The detective laughed.

“No, Kemosabe, but I got you a present. An honest-to-God clue. Remember the tag on the Cadillac at Pauly’s Bar?”

“Sure,” Keyes said. “GATOR 2.”

“Well, guess who it comes back to.”

“The legendary Viceroy Wilson!”

“Nope. The Seminole Nation of Florida, Incorporated.”

“Swell,” Keyes said, flopping back on the couch. “That’s some swell clue, Tonto.”

Cab Mulcahy arrived at work early, canceled two appointments, and asked his secretary to please hold all calls, except one. For the next three hours Mulcahy sat in his office and eyed the telephone. He loosened his necktie and pretended to work on some correspondence, but finally he just closed the drapes (to shield himself from the rest of the newsroom) and sat down in a corner chair. Through the window, Biscayne Bay was radiant with a sailboat regatta; Hobies skimmed and sliced fierce circles, leaping each other’s wakes, orange and lemon sails snapping in the warm morning breeze. It was a gorgeous race under an infinite blue sky, but Cab Mulcahy paid no attention. It was one of the darkest days of his career. Ricky Bloodworth’s column had turned out just as half-baked, unfocused, and banal as Mulcahy knew it would be. Yet he had thrown away twenty-two years of integrity and printed it anyway.

Why?

To flush Skip Wiley from his hideout.

It had seemed like a good plan. No sense blaming Keyes.

But what had Mulcahy done? He’d unleashed a monster, that’s what. He glanced again at the phone. Where the hell was Wiley? How could he sit still while a jerk like Bloodworth came after his job?

Mulcahy pondered one plausible explanation: Skip Wiley was dead. That alone would account for this silence. Perhaps a robber had snatched him from his car on the expressway and killed him. It was not a pleasant scenario, but it certainly answered the big question. Mulcahy figured that death was the only thing that would slow Wiley down on a day like today. The more Cab Mulcahy thought about this possibility, the more he was ashamed of his ambivalence.

He could hear the phone ringing every few minutes outside the door, at his secretary’s desk. Readers, he thought, furious readers. How could he tell them, yes, he agreed, Bloodworth’s writing was disgraceful. Yes, it’s a bloody travesty. Yes, he’s a congenital twit and we’ve got no business publishing crap like that.

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