“Then what about Bellamy?” Garcia asked.
Hal’s face was redder than Garcia had ever seen it, and basketball-sized sweat marks showed under the arms of his blue polyester shirt. Obviously Hal had been having a crummy day.
“Bellamy was a drunk. Fell in the ocean and drowned,” Hal said. “Forget about fucking Bellamy.”
“Then what about the Fuego letter?”
Hal folded his hands, a contrived gesture of civility. Harold Keefe was not a man who looked natural with folded hands. He said, “I’m glad you mentioned the letters. We’ve determined that they’re a hoax.”
Garcia raised his eyebrows, but didn’t say a word. He sensed that Hal was building up to something memorable.
“We showed the Fuego letters to Dr. Remond Courtney, the famous psychiatrist. He says the letters are phony, and the boys in the lab agree. Didn’t surprise me at all, since there’s been no ransom demands, no bodies … “
“ ‘Cept for Harper,” Garcia mumbled.
“Forget fucking Harper! I’m talking about Bellamy and the other one.”
“What other one?”
“Here. Turned up this morning.” Hal passed a Xerox copy across the desk.
The letter was identical to the others. “Who’s Mssr. Richaud?” Garcia asked, trying not to sound too interested.
“David Richaud is the male friend of one Renee LeVoux.” Hal pronounced it lay-vox. “Miss LeVoux disappeared three days ago from the parking lot of the Seaquarium. Richaud filed a missing-persons report. Yesterday this letter was delivered to his hotel on Key Biscayne.”
‘What’s the guy’s story?” asked Garcia.
“He says the lady was kidnapped. Claims the perpetrator whacked him on the head and knocked him. out.”
“You don’t sound like you believe him.”
Hal laughed caustically. “This one’s got ‘domestic’ written all over it. They had a fight, she grabs a cab and heads south with the vacation money. Richaud gets furious and figures the best way to find her is to get the cops involved. Pretty obvious, I’d say.”
“Hmmm,” said Al Garcia.
“Which brings us to the letters.” Hal opened a drawer and pulled out a file. Garcia knew that now was a good time to start worrying.
“Had a little talk with the chief this morning,” Hal said. Al Garcia looked unimpressed; Hal was always having little talks with the chief.
He said, “The chief seems to think these letters are being generated from within the police department.”
Garcia snorted. “He thinks El Fuego is a cop?”
“The chief,” Hal said sternly, “is quite serious. He ordered me to start an internal investigation. He thinks someone around here is writing these phony letters in order to keep the Sparky Harper case alive.”
“Why?”
Hal shrugged disingenuously. “Ambition, spite, maybe even professional jealousy. Who knows? In any case, the chiefs theory makes perfect sense. Whoever’s sending these crazy letters obviously is getting the names out of Missing Persons.”
Enough is enough, Garcia thought. “Hal,” he said, “you’re full of shit. And so’s the chief.”
Hal’s face turned the color of grape juice.
“Somebody’s snatching tourists,” Garcia said, “and all you guys want to do is cover up. I got a better idea: why don’t we just go out and catch the goddamn kidnappers? Come on, Hal, it’ll be fun. Just like the old days, back when you were a cop and not a two-bit office politician.”
Ominously Hal opened the file. Inside was a pink memorandum, nothing else. “Detective Garcia,” he said, “as of today you’re on limited duty. It’s indefinite, until our investigation is completed. I.A.D. wants to talk to you, so you might think about getting a lawyer.”
“Beautiful,” Garcia muttered.
Hal slapped the file shut. “You’ll be working the late shift,” he said, “at the motor pool.”
“Oh-oh, the combat zone.”
“It’s not so bad … oh, by the way, there’ll be some officers coming by your house later. Just to look around.”
“Hal, they’ll be wasting their time. I don’t own a typewriter.”
“Just the same, try to cooperate.”
“But, Hal—”
“You may go now,” said Harold Keefe, in his best high-school principal’s voice, “and try to stay out of trouble until this is over. Don’t talk to any more reporters … or private eyes, for that matter.”
Garcia leaned over and loudly planted his knuckles on the desk. “Hal,” he said, “you’re too dumb to see it, but this whole thing’s gonna blow up in your fat Irish face.”