“She was my sister.” Chase said quietly.
“Was?”
“She’s dead.”
“Hey, man, I’m sorry.” The bartender seemed genuinely saddened. “Look I’ve got to take care of customers, but maybe Pat here can help you. Seems to me he got talking with them once in a while. Our friendly local, old Pat is. Hey, Pat, come over here. Got someone I want you to meet.”
“Thanks.”
“Anytime pal. What a waste.” The bartender shook his head in distress.
“Just one more question.” Chase said. “Do you think she and this Myles guy..?”
“Nah. I don’t think she liked him very much. They mostly talked business over lunch. One time though, another guy joined them. Short, balding fella with a loud mouth. Hickman’s getting a divorce and that guy was his lawyer. After your sister left the two of them had a few beers and got real loud. You couldn't avoid hearing his business if you wanted to. Apparently the wife got herself a better lawyer and was cleaning Myles out pretty good. Never met a lawyer that wasn't an asshole.”
The bartender moved off, shaking his head and Chase could hear him telling a waiter how much he had liked the pretty blonde. How she'd had class and always a warm smile for him and a please and thank you. Not like those northern bitches. Chase felt the ache of loss again. He was staring morosely into his beer when a man at the end of the bar stood up, talked with the bartender for a moment while watching Chase and then pulled up a stool beside him, extending his hand. “Pat Coughlin, Mr. Larsen, so sorry to hear about Sophie.”
Chase was surprised. “You know my name?”
“Sophie talked about you all the time. She was very proud of her big brother. I'll help you all I can, I wish I had known. Pat’s expression was sorrowful. “Sophie had a lot of friends and we would have liked to pay our respects." Pat had a soft musical lilt and his ruddy cheeks bespoke many years of companionship with Bushmills. He was short, and round with a fringe of white hair, about sixtyish, a real leprechaun of a man. Chase liked him, which was unusual. Chase had grown up in Brooklyn, a poor, skinny kid, not too tall, constantly having to fight his way through the street toughs to get to school. Since those street toughs had been mostly Irish, he had a long-standing dislike of that ethnic group as a whole.
"The name’s Chase. The bartender said you and Sophie met here regularly. I've been overseas for some time and Sophies' letters were short and lately they were few and far between. I was hoping you could put me in touch with some of her friends.”
“Well, she mostly came here with people from the Center, you've been there of course?”
“Yes. What about this Indian?”
“Ah, Joe Keel. He's a Seminole, used to live on the Hollywood reservation but he's a very bright boy, went to school and became a hydro geologist, so he can help the tribe. You know one of the biggest problems in Florida? Fresh water. He's only half-Indian, his mother was French. Anyway he was doing some work at the turtle center and moved up here. Lives in Jupiter Farms, out near the turnpike.” Pat was warming to his subject. Like most Irishmen, he was garrulous whenever he got the chance. “Must make good money at that job because he's got a big spread out there from what I hear and he drives one of those new Dodge Ram trucks. Red. Of course, it could be family money from his mother's side. For some reason you always equate Indians with poverty don't you? A mistake with the Seminoles. Their chief’s got a better head for business than Donald Trump. He’s made that tribe so much money it’s a pleasure to watch how they have pulled themselves up and now the white man tourist is learning something from the Indian while he hands over his money.” Pat chuckled. He leaned towards Chase confidentially. “You know, one time he brought another Indian with him. Real hostile, stone-faced guy, name of Willie Hatchee. Should of left that one on the reservation. He didn’t like white people one bit, that one. Luckily, Joe got him out of here before the two of them got thrown out.
Chase got right back to the subject. “Were they close?”
Pat looked thoughtful “Joe and Sophie? They always had their heads together, but I don't know if they were lovers if that's what you mean. The two of them had some kind of project they were working on in their spare time. They always changed the subject if I interrupted them talking business. Nice young people. We talked together a lot over a few beers, but nothing personal you know. Last time I saw them Joe was all bent out of shape over the tussle the Indians are having with the government trying to build extra housing off the reservation. There's too many of them now and they're getting overcrowded.” Pat sighed sorrowfully. “It's hard to believe Sophie's gone, what happened?”
Tersely, Chase gave him the details and noted Pat's reaction, the same as his. Pat had known Sophie well enough to know about her storm phobia. Chase gave Pat his number and asked him to have the Indian give him a call. The two of them chatted for a bit over beers while Chase decided his next move. He was still trying to deal with the isolation of being alone in the world and couldn't shake the melancholy. A change of pace was in order. He'd pick up Jake and take a ride out to the groves, if he could remember the way. Perhaps some of his riding buddies would be at the club.
Eight
Myles Hickman was coldly furious. After meeting Chase, he had turned over his tourist group to one of the young marine biologist interns and driven home to change clothes. He couldn’t stand cigarette smoke in his clothes.
Unexpectedly, Alicia had been home. She had taken malicious enjoyment in showing Myles the paperwork deeding over the turtle center to the control of the state. Then, as an afterthought, in that elegant accent of hers, she informed him that the date for the final hearing for their divorce had been set and she wanted him out of the house.
He had really screwed up this time, Myles thought. Not only was his meal ticket gone, but he was out in the street without a pot to piss in. The bitch had gone too far taking away the Center. He would get even for that. Thank god she didn’t own the lab. He’d have to get Dominick to stall the sale of the Center until his experiments were finished.
Upstairs, Myles was still shaking. Alicia had the capacity to do that to him, get beyond his cool so that it was a physical effort for him not to attack her on the spot. She knew just how far she could go too. It turned her on to wind him up and ever since she caught him putting it to her best friend during one of their parties, she had been winding him up. The gossip was all over the Palm Beach set and Alicia couldn’t tolerate that. He had committed the unpardonable. Damn that little tramp’s ass. She hadn’t even been that good.
Myles ran his hands distractedly through his hair. It was all getting to be too much, and now this Chase character. Jesus. Who’d have thought Sophie had a low life like that for a brother? Usually cool and unemotional at the worst of times, Myles knew he was getting close to the edge. He had been stretched to exhaustion between putting in his time at the Center, keeping up with Alicia’s social schedule and trying to complete his experiments. Then she had started divorce proceedings, but at least now he had an out. His formula could potentially net millions.
He had found himself a greedy attorney - was there one that wasn’t? Dominick was trying to get the divorce finalized as quickly as possible while still appearing to fight tooth and nail. Well, maybe it was just as well. He’d just clear out. Move into the lab and work there full time until it was done. He really hated to make it easy on Alicia though. Myle’s dialed Dominick’s private line, cursing colorfully while he waited for Dominick to answer.
“Dominick Wilding.”
“Dom, its Myles. We need to meet. Can you be at the lab in an hour?”
“Myles, I have a tight schedule today, what the hell is it this time? Did Alicia jerk your dick again? I can’t baby-sit …”
“Dom.” Myles interrupted. “Sophie’s brother came out to the Center to question me today.”
“Shit. I thought he was long gone in the wilds of some godforsake
n jungle somewhere.” There was silence while Dominick thought it over. “Okay. One hour.”
Myles slammed down the phone and went upstairs to pack.
Nine
When Chase arrived home he could hear Jake over at the Marina, busily antagonizing a dog from one of the boats of the summer residents. Chase had bought his house about twenty years ago on the GI bill. He had had no idea what he was doing, hadn't even lived in a house before, so it amused him that he lived on waterfront property in the midst of one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the world.
The house was tucked away on a small road leading to the marina. The frontage was lined with areca palms, which screened the house from view and the backyard looked like a miniature rain forest. He had cultivated this over the years and Sophie had lovingly tended it while he was away. Visitors were always surprised at how isolated and peaceful it seemed in the middle of town.
Chase had a beautiful view of the marina and could stroll round for a cocktail on the balcony at Luigi’s before dinner. He often did this in one of his grubbiest Harley shirts, thus ensuring peace and quiet while he had his drink and watched the sunset. Throughout all his travels, Chase had never seen sunsets such as these, here in his own backyard. The restaurant's patrons, almost all of them wealthy snowbirds during the season, evidently thought Chase was a close relation of Charles Manson. The regulars and the staff enjoyed this little entertainment in their day and took pains to treat Chase like visiting royalty, further disrupting the snobbish customers who now wondered if he was an eccentric millionaire or some kind of local Jimmy Buffet.
Knowing this full well, Chase would often strike up offbeat conversations with some poor unsuspecting soul whose life was full of designer clothes and the stock market. The poor unfortunates would look around to see who was watching them talking with this weirdo, but would invariably leave with a laugh on their lips and a lift to their soul. Chase had that reaction on people. Life had its little enjoyments. Sophie had always teased him, asking him if there was any such thing as a Viking leprechaun, or what was the Norwegian word for Puck.
By the time Chase filled a cooler and stowed it in the truck, Jake had realized he was about to miss a trip and was sitting on the front stoop, leash in mouth, ready to go. Chase stowed his tools too. Sophie had refused to learn how to drive the old Ford and Chase had not had much time to tinker with it since his return, but the old flathead engine started right up. A cursory inspection had not shown up any glaring problems, dents or rust. The paint seemed to be holding up pretty well for having sat out in the salty weather for a while.
Like Chase himself, the old gray Ford always attracted attention. He had discovered that a 1950 Ford pickup truck gave a body a high profile in an area where there was such a proliferation of limousines, Ferraris, Jaguars and anything else that cost more than a house, that they all went by unnoticed. In fact it sometimes seemed that only luxury automobiles and Jeep Cherokees were allowed in Palm Beach Gardens.
In fifteen minutes Chase had changed worlds again. The old truck took the dirt roads of the acreage with ease. The landscape got scrubbier and the houses got smaller. Chase was startled at the number of new homes, mostly of the big, ‘new money’ variety that had sprung up out here. Next thing you knew, there'd be stores and restaurants and homeowners associations.
He kept driving west. The old doublewide clubhouse was out in the orange groves of Loxahatchee. Here, he finally was in the country again, but just barely. It wasn't that long ago it was totally isolated out here. If you were still drinking about 4:00 a.m. and the weather conditions were right, you'd find a thick fog outside and could hear the animals from the safari park to the south. Its back fence bordered on the clubhouse property. It had sobered up many a drunk because the effect was so startling, they thought they'd stepped into darkest Africa by mistake.
Sure enough, the club was open, a few bikes were parked outside. Jake ran off to see what he could hunt while Chase walked inside. Most of the faces were new but a couple of regulars stirred themselves enough to thump him on the back and welcome him home again.
It was a weekend, so the wives and girlfriends were there too, along with the kids. No one had seen Sophie in recent months and Chase couldn’t stand too much of the sympathy pouring from the women. They had all loved Sophie and there was hardly a dry eye. Chase retreated to the bar and the safety of the brothers where the conversation turned to bikes and guy stuff.
Jake had already returned from the hunt and was enjoying being the center of attention of the junior crowd. He was too smart to be running around in this heat when he could be collecting treats from the kids. Chase felt like he’d never left. He relaxed and caught up with local happenings, talked bikes with the boys, flirted with the wives and teased the kids.
A couple of beers later, the throaty growl of approaching Harleys signaled some new arrivals and in loped Tank, who let out a roar of delight then grabbed Chase in a bear hug pulling him outside to meet the rest of the group. Chase endured more back slappings and hugs while out of the corner of his eye he watched a leather clad rider who had been hanging on behind Tank, pull off her helmet and release a cloud of thick red-gold hair that fell in fiery waves halfway down her back.
This vision in black leather pulled off her goggles and peeled off her jacket to reveal the most stunning woman Chase had ever seen. Chase had brought a large oil painting back from Jordan. It was a portrait of a woman with a cloud of red-gold hair. Chase didn't know why he was so taken with the picture but he had paid far too much for it and then he was nearly shot at the airport because he had stuffed the picture down a metal tube to protect it. The customs people thought it was a pipe bomb. The woman in front of him could have sat for that portrait.
She was petite and slender with legs that went up to her chin, hair that went down to her ass and the face of a wood nymph. She had delicate features, creamy, perfect skin without a hint of freckles, a laughing, generous Bardot mouth, a small straight nose and huge, clear eyes, that arresting dark gray that's the color of wood smoke. She conjured up an image of a skittish wild creature who ran with foxes in the forest. The combination of the red hair, pale skin and those electric eyes was stunning, and he was not the only one stunned. Every man in the place was staring with disbelief except for Tank, who wore a shit-eating grin while, almost bursting with pride, he made the introductions.
Her name was Shanna McLain. She was a friend of Linda, Tank’s wife, and she seemed totally oblivious of the stir her entry had created. There was an air of, not exactly arrogance, but more “I don’t give a damn about anything” about her. If she was faking it, she did it very well. This was the first time she had ever ridden a Harley or been around bikers and while she didn't show it, Chase knew she had to be intimidated in such an out of the way place. His experience with women this good looking was that they were either so caught up in their own looks that there was nothing else underneath the veneer, or they were bimbo manipulators of the worst kind. Ogling with the rest of them, Chase wondered which category she fell into. Might as well find out while the rest of the men worked on getting their mouths closed again. It had been a long time since Chase had been close to a woman. The women in the Middle East were strictly off limits, and there was more than one reason his road name was Chase.
Chase thumped Tank on the back and hugged Linda. “Hello Shanna. I’m Chase. These guys you’re riding with are old friends of mine and good people. If you're riding with them you must be okay.” Chase unleashed his most devastating smile.“Can I get you a drink while they’re busy with the bikes?”
Shanna glanced at Tank as if requesting permission. When he nodded, smiling hugely, she turned back to Chase. “Yes. Thank you.”
Chase escorted Shanna to the bar. She smelled expensive and walked with haughty feline grace. Chase closed in, confident of a kill. Two beers later he had discovered that she lived locally, worked as a paralegal for a divorce lawyer, w
as as intelligent as she was gorgeous and had a temper to match the hair. Apparently Linda and Tank had been teasing her that she was too mainstream and much too much the Pollyanna to go out riding with them. Chase was enjoying himself immensely when Shanna handed him the death blow.
“I seem to be taking up a lot of your time,” she began. “You don’t seem like a man who wastes his money and his time for no return and judging by the way Tank and Linda are staring foolishly at us, I think there’s something you should know.”
Uh Oh. Here it is, thought Chase. This one is a bimbo after all. She isn't going to go out with someone who doesn’t wear loafers without socks.
Shanna continued. “I’m not in the market for a relationship, not even for a date. I came out here because Linda dared me to and for the experience of a ride. That’s all. I’m a girl who can take care of herself and I don’t want to play the field or hire a bodyguard. Unfortunately I’m on my own right now and Linda can't stand that. She’s a wonderful person but she is always trying to get me a man I don’t want.”
Chase was tempted to walk away right then and there. Who did she think she was, the only woman left on earth? At least she wasn’t the dumb broad type who wanted to try a biker out for kicks. Stung, Chase backpedaled. “Are you always this sure men are coming on to you?” Chase leaned back and smiled lazily pretending an indifference to the put down. “You obviously know that you are a very attractive lady, but you plainly don’t know bikers very well and should be more careful until you do.” Chase deliberately ran his eyes up and down Shanna, his meaning clear. “I happen to be a nice guy who is not, at this point in time, interested in your body,” (God will get me for that one, Chase thought,) “but there are others here who are not as civilized and just for information’s sake, good manners are not confined to yuppies. Actually, I’ve found that particular segment of society sadly lacking in that regard and legal beagles in particular.”
Shanna clearly had not expected to be told off. She stared at Chase silently for a moment with those huge gray eyes showing signs of gathering storm clouds.
Yokche:The Nature of Murder Page 3