“Guts.”
“Cab, isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Oh yes. This is perfect.”
“You know,” Bloodworth said, “normally I’d ask for a byline on the column, since I rewrote it and all. But under the circumstances, I think I’d like to leave my name off. Just keep it our secret.”
“Smart move,” Mulcahy said.
“Otherwise Skip might get the wrong idea.”
“I understand.”
“Because if he gets upset—”
“I told you, I’ll handle it. Don’t worry.”
“Thanks, Cab.”
Forty minutes after Richard L. Bloodworth left, Mulcahy had not moved from his desk. He looked rumpled and dispirited.
The city editor strolled in and said, “I hear Ricky’s polished up Wiley’s column.”
Listlessly Mulcahy handed it to him.
The city editor didn’t know what to say. He was the one who’d always said Bloodworth showed promise. Consequently, he felt duty-bound to offer something positive. “Well,” the city editor said, not taking his eyes off the page, “Ricky certainly doesn’t pull any punches, does he?”
“He’s an insensitive cretin. A menace.”
“He’s a pretty good police reporter, Cab.”
“I never said he wasn’t.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Smooth the wrinkles and run it Monday.”
“But that’s Christmas Eve,” the city editor said. “I thought we were using it Christmas Day.”
“I refuse to do that to our readers,” Mulcahy said. “Not on Christmas.”
“But what’ll I run in Wiley’s slot Christmas Day?”
“I don’t know,” Mulcahy said. “A prayer would be nice.”
20
The Shivers family lived in a beautiful old home next to a golf course in Coral Gables. It was a two-story house, white Florida stucco with a red barrel-tile roof. An ancient ficus tree cloaked the front lawn. In the driveway were a BMW, a Lincoln, and a new Volkswagen. Brian Keyes parked behind the VW.
A short man with a fresh tan and a pointy chin answered the door. He was trim, almost youthful, and dressed stem-to-stern in L. L. Bean. He definitely belonged to the BMW.
“Reed Shivers,” he said with a collegiate handshake. “Come in, Mr. Keyes.”
They sat in an elegant living room with plenty of soft camel furniture. In one corner stood a tall, woodsy-smelling Christmas tree; some of its ornaments were made of blown glass.
“Pumpkin!” Reed Shivers called. “Come here!”
At first Brian Keyes thought Shivers might be shouting to a pet beagle.
“My daughter,” Shivers said. “She’ll be down in a minute, I’m. sure. Would you like coffee?”
‘Thanks,” Keyes said. “No sugar.”
“Not in this house,” Shivers said. “We watch our diets. You’ll see for yourself.”
Shivers poured the coffee from a silver pot.
“So you’re a private detective.”
“Yes,” Keyes said restlessly.
“I’m a tax lawyer, myself.”
“So I heard.”
Shivers waited, thinking the private eye would ask about what it’s like to be an important tax attorney in Miami. Keyes sipped at his coffee and said nothing.
“I’m just curious,” Shivers said. “How much money do private investigators make?”
“At least a million a year,” Keyes said. “Sometimes two million. I lose track.”
Reed Shivers whistled. “Wow! You’ve got good shelters, I presume.”
“The best.”
“Oil, right?”
“Concrete.”
“Hmmm-mmm,” said Reed Shivers.
Keyes wondered how this clown ever made it through Yale Law.
“Pumpkin pie!” Shivers hollered again. “I don’t know what’s keeping her, Mr. Keyes.”
“Before your daughter gets here, I’d like to offer some advice.”
“Certainly.”
“Don’t let her ride that float in the Orange Bowl Parade.”
“You’re joking.”
“Not at all,” Keyes said. “The people who’ve made this threat are very violent. And ingenious. No one knows what they might do.”
“Sergeant Garcia said it was a kidnapping plot.”
‘It’s a bit more complicated than that.”
“You think they might try to harm Kara Lynn?”
“It’s very possible,” Keyes said.
“But there’ll be cops all over the place!”
Keyes put down his coffee cup, aiming for a linen doily. “Mr. Shivers, I just want you to be aware of the risks. The risks are substantial.”
Reed Shivers looked annoyed. “Some risk. An Injun, a Cuban, and a washed-up spade ballplayer. Don’t tell me a hundred well-armed policemen can’t stop a bunch of losers like that!”
“Mr. Shivers, losers get lucky. If one nut can shoot the damn President in Dealey Plaza, a whole gang of nuts can sure as hell snatch your precious little Pumpkin off Biscayne Boulevard.”