West Palm: The Complete Novel

by Joss Cordero

  The trajectory of the five young men corrected itself. To compensate for their momentary loss of face, they increased the degree of their swagger as they sauntered off.

  “What if they had guns too,” she asked. “What would you have done?”

  “They did have guns.”

  Don’t rile the rhino, she thought.

  “That duck over there,” he said as if there’d been no interruption, “has chosen to live in the city when he could be living in the Everglades, or anywhere out in the country. Don’t you wonder why?”

  “I think it has something to do with where they’re born. They have no choice.”

  “There’s always a catch.”

  She gazed at the birds that had no choice, and hoped she’d made the right one, staying on in Florida.

  “One thing about John Prince Park,” continued Smoker. “It’s rare for an alligator to wander in. Which means our duck doesn’t have many natural enemies.”

  “Unless those guys with guns decide they want roast duck for supper.”

  “Well, yeah, but aside from that, they’re peaceful ducks. They don’t need to be on edge all the time. And that’s how I want you to feel, like a peaceful duck.”

  “I feel like a sitting duck.”

  “Maybe the ducks were a poor example.”

  “It was a good try.”

  He looked at his watch. “I’m taking you to a lineup at the West Palm Beach police station on Banyan Boulevard.”

  She opened her mouth to protest it was too soon, then reminded herself this was what she was sticking around for. “Fine,” she said.

  He drew a muffin from his pocket. “As we bid good-bye to the ducks and show them our appreciation . . .”

  Before he’d even broken the muffin apart, dozens of ducks were waddling over.

  She watched him evenly distributing the pieces to be sure they all got their share.

  “Ever been bitten by a duck?” he asked. “It doesn’t hurt much, but it’s a shock.”

  The ducks finished eating the last crumbs and waddled back to the water.

  “Tell me what I should know about the lineup,” she said.

  “The suspect’s description matches that of your attacker. And the MO fits.”

  “The MO?”

  He ran a finger across his throat. “Ear to ear.”

  They drove out of the park and north on Congress past a string of health-care facilities, then turned right at a rehab center. Now the park was on both sides.

  “Aggravated battery’s a second-degree felony in Florida,” he explained as he joined the multilane traffic on I-95. “The maximum sentence is fifteen years and a fine of ten grand. Unless an attacker has priors, he doesn’t end up serving much time. But the suspect they’ve arrested is looking at a murder charge. So I hope it’s our guy.”

  “She’s dead then? The woman he cut.”

  “The autopsy’s scheduled for this afternoon.”

  “How did you find out about it?”

  “From a pal of mine. It’s his case. Homicide Detective Ingersoll.”

  They drove for a while without speaking while Smoker’s internal navigation system ticked off the saddest calls he’d made when he was a cop on this beat . . . the child scapegoated by the rest of the family, so starved she was eating her own arm . . . the concentration camp survivor stomped to death for trying to break up a lovers’ quarrel . . . the mother who said, “Why don’t you just cut my heart; out?” one too many times; when Smoker responded to the son’s 911, he was presented at the door with the mother’s heart.

  The cases of a private investigator were less bloody, but even these reverberated as he passed within their gravitational field . . . the adoption agency that milked childless couples and never came up with the promised child . . . the short-term luxury rentals paid for in advance by tourists who arrived with their luggage to find their home away from home was a multistory parking garage . . .

  He took the exit at Okeechobee, and turned left on Tamarind, where there’d recently been a candlelight vigil for a slain young gangbanger. “People shouldn’t be judged for the bad things they do,” declared the boy’s tenderhearted classmates, “but for who they are deep down.” In the course of the vigil, five of them were shot.

  Remembering that he had a passenger who needed cheering up, he pointed to a sign on a park bench by the courthouse: ARRESTED? CALL ATTORNEY A. STINE. “Think I should advertise on a park bench?”

  “The only problem is when somebody sits, your ad disappears.”

  They circled the police station, an angular stucco building with rose-colored pillars and a pocket park shaded by tall trees through which songbirds darted.

  “Clematis Street,” he announced, doing his best to fill up the silence. “This is where the nightspots are. Every Thursday from six to nine there’s live music outside. It’s called Clematis by Night. I entertain on the balalaika.” He glanced at her. “Just kidding.”

  They parked and walked past a secured area whose iron gate was being opened to allow a police cruiser to drive through. In the car’s backseat sat a teenager whose life was about to change track. His expression was both cocky and fatalistic, as if he’d always known it would come to this. “They come off an assembly line,” remarked Smoker. “All day long, the same model.”

  In front of the building’s main entrance was a bronze statue of a policeman bending down and comforting a child. Inside, the desk marked RECORDS was protected by bulletproof glass.

  “Tara Stevens here to see Detective Ingersoll,” said Smoker.

  The woman behind the glass made a call and said, “Take the elevator to the second floor.”

  Tara turned to see if Smoker was coming with her. He shook his head and gave her an encouraging smile.

  The second floor had the same kind of office to report to, with bulletproof glass to protect the woman behind it.

  A man came out and introduced himself as Detective Ingersoll. He wasn’t as big as Smoker, but he was very black and solid as cast iron. I’ve got a pair of rhinoceroses on my side, she thought.

  He unlocked the door with his ID and led her in. “I hear you had a rough time,” he said gently.

  “I guess you see worse.”

  “I see only worse.”

  He felt her effort to stay calm and sensed she would be a good witness. Win or lose, she’d bring clarity to the job. His days were made of disappointments and chaos, but maybe today he’d be lucky, and get two for the price of one. “You’ll be looking at photos,” he explained. “We don’t do live lineups anymore.”

  Thank God, she thought. I won’t have to look into those living eyes with their mad mixed messages.

  He took her past a grid of cubicles into an interview room along the wall.

  “Ground rules first.” He gave her a form to sign that said she was aware that the person who committed the crime might not be in the lineup, that she shouldn’t ask for guidance, that the suspects in the photos would all have similar features and hair but hairstyles could change . . .

  Now he handed her the lineup, a sheet of paper with six faces on it.

  Blood rushed to her head.

  She dropped the paper as if it were on fire.

  All of them were him.

  “Take your time,” said Ingersoll. “They’re not going anywhere.”

  She forced herself to look closely at each shaven head, each surly face, and at last said, “He’s not here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m sure.”

  “You reacted as if—”

  “That’s because I keep seeing him everywhere. But I was mistaken. He isn’t any of these men.”

  She signed a statement saying she was unable to identify the subject, then studied the six faces again, wondering which one
had cut the woman’s throat.

  “Second thoughts?” asked Ingersoll hopefully.

  “The murderer you’ve caught is one of these guys, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I’d love to help you convict him.”

  “It doesn’t work that way. You either recognize him or you don’t.”

  “I don’t.”

  “We’ve got another witness. Don’t concern yourself. I’m just sorry we couldn’t resolve your situation.” Ingersoll pushed back his chair. “So it’s over to Smoker.”

  “He said you were buddies.”

  “I’ve known Smoker since he was on the force.”

  “Why did he leave the force?”

  “Lotta cops take early retirement.”

  “You didn’t,” she said. They were walking together toward the elevator.

  “Smoker left because the coffee machine went up in price.”

  She looked at him.

  “You get cream, sugar, and an extra helping of red tape.”

  “It’s the same thing in the military.”

  “Smoker told me you did eight years in the Coast Guard.”

  “Chasing after some of the worst people on the planet, and all I got was wet. A month into civilian life and I manage to get my throat cut.”

  “Like they say, fate loves a jest.”

  Downstairs, Smoker was waiting. He read the bad news on her face, but asked anyway, “How’d it go with the six-pack?”

  “He wasn’t on it.”

  “So I still have a job.”

  He led her out of the building past the statue of the cop comforting the child. She wondered if that’s all Smoker would be able to do, comfort her.

  She stopped at the gated area where the arrested boy had been driven in. Among the black-and-white patrol cars was a truck with a large globe on back for quarantining and exploding bombs. “Maybe,” she said, “I should move into that until you catch the guy.”

  They walked on toward the parking garage. He liked the way she moved beside him, like an athlete. He liked the way she looked, liked it better all the time. He knew he should be sharing her disappointment, but all he felt was a quiet glow because his time with her wasn’t over. Not good, Smoker.

  “There’s something I want to say.” She turned to him. “And it’s hard. Can we go sit on that bench with your name on it?”

  “A. Stine. Just the man we need.” They sat down.

  “All the guys in the lineup looked like my attacker.”

  “That’s the point of a lineup.”

  “I don’t mean the shaven heads and age and that kind of thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I always saw him as a mirage. A ghost. Looking at the lineup was like looking through a telescope. Suddenly he came into focus.”

  “And how does that change the situation?”

  “He was the one focusing, on me.”

  The angel’s frustratingly hazy image fills the screen of Zach’s laptop.

  If only he could get her picture sharp and large at the same time. But of course he can’t. It was taken from far away at night in poor light.

  Their time together was too short. He can’t recall what her flesh was like. He needs to feel her, smell her, see her, hear her, taste her.

  The medical tape he’s wrapped around his rib feels like an embrace. He has no experience of embraces, but he decides this is the embrace of an angel.

  His sense of longing is so strong the pain is physical. In comparison, the rib itself hardly hurts unless he coughs or makes a sudden movement. So he sits perfectly erect, and tries to dull the pain of his longing by clicking to pictures of his previous loves. Sharp, clear photos taken at leisure: the pale radiance of death, the beautiful bloodless lips, the sublime stillness.

  He sings to himself as he studies his work.

  In solemn delight I survey

  A corpse when the spirit is fled

  In love with the beautiful clay . . .

  But his previous loves can’t blunt his present pain. The perfect moment has blessed him in the past, and he needs it to sweep over him again.

  He needs it so badly.

  “What type of vehicle do you want?” asked Mickey Zaratzian as he escorted her into the Honda dealership on West Blue Heron Drive.

  “A bulletproof Popemobile.”

  “What’s your second choice?”

  “Low mileage and good on gas.”

  They found a Honda Civic with 2,300 miles on the speedometer.

  “Repossessed,” explained the salesman, leading them into his office. “The lady lost her job. Totally unexpected. Not something we were prepared for. I take a very personal interest in my customers, especially during hard times like these.” His countenance brightened. “But there it is. Her loss is your gain. This is a remarkable bargain. Leather upholstery, sunroof, navigation—”

  “It’s the car of the year,” said Zaratzian. “Let’s cut to the chase. Cash. No financing. Go get the paperwork.”

  The salesman hurried from his office, sensitive to the fact that further performance art would not be necessary.

  “I don’t want it registered in my name,” she told Zaratzian. “I don’t want him to be able to trace me by my car.”

  “It’s in my company’s name. You’re just a nameless employee. Which is true because I’m paying you a retainer. Use the car till you’re sick of it, then we’ll buy you another one.”

  He took off his captain’s cap and gazed thoughtfully out the window. “I knew a guy was knifed in an elevator. Now he always has to live on the ground floor. But everything has its compensations. Ground-floor rent is cheaper.”

  She followed his gaze toward the street beyond the lot. The scar on her neck began to throb. Her lungs began to burn. Acrid sweat rolled down her sides. Her attacker was standing there. “It’s him.”

  Zaratzian slammed on his cap, leapt to his feet, and charged out through the doors as if he were six foot five instead of five foot three—a very forceful five foot three, with legs like little tree stumps and arms inherited from peasant ancestors who must’ve pushed a lot of plows.

  She ran after him but didn’t get there in time to stop him from reaching up and grabbing the guy by the neck of his T-shirt.

  “It’s not him.” Her shout came out as a croak, and then her injured throat shut down completely.

  The young man, zoned out on oxycodone or some other horse pill, was slow to react, slow enough for Tara to pry Zaratzian off.

  “Mickey, I made a mistake.”

  “You’re sure it’s not him?”

  She looked at the young man’s shaved head, his high cheekbones, his tanned and wiry arms, and understood how she’d been misled. It was a type that was going to set her off every time she saw it. Unless she got hold of herself, all of Florida was going to be a police lineup. “I’m sure.”

  Zaratzian pulled some bills from his money clip and made it right with the mellow young man, who held up two fingers and wished them, “Peace and love.”

  The salesman was hurrying toward them, clutching the paperwork that he was ready to insert into the middle of a street brawl, mugging, or consensual sex in order to complete the sale.

  “A case of mistaken identity,” Zaratzian explained.

  Tara slipped her arm through his and guided him back onto the lot. “My hero.”

  “You’re wound up too tight, Tara. When you’re always in fight and flight mood, it stresses a gland. I forget which one.”

  “I’ve got to change my shirt.”

  “What?”

  “I stressed my sweat glands.”

  “It’s another gland I’m talking about. A more important one.”

  They stopped at his vintage Cadillac and he opened the big trunk. She rummaged in her luggage
to find another tank top. “I’ll put it on in the ladies’ room . . .”

  The salesman was hovering at the door, wearing a look of anxiety. “Relax,” said Zaratzian. “It’s just a wardrobe change to go with the new car.”

  In the ladies’ room, Tara washed her armpits, pulled on the clean shirt, and stuck the damp one in the pocket of her cargo pants.

  Zaratzian was waiting in the office. “You sure you don’t want to go to Syros so you don’t have to go around changing shirts all day?”

  “My friend’s expecting me.”

  “So bring your friend to Syros. No? No.” He peeled off a few hundred from his money clip. “This is for shirts.”

  “Mickey, none of this is necessary.”

  “If you sued me I would’ve known where I stood. That’s familiar territory. An employee gets a hangnail and she sues for a hundred thousand. But you, you’ve got class.”

  “Nobody’s accused me of that before.”

  “What d’ya mean? You get your throat cut on my boat and you pick a secondhand Honda Civic? That’s class.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. “Speed dial number two is Smoker. Number three is me. Call Hawaii, call Singapore, call wherever your Coast Guard buddies are stationed around the world.” With his little rat’s paw he made a gesture that encircled the globe. “The bill comes to my company.”

  She was examining the phone when the salesman brought them a pair of keys to the car of the year.

  Mickey Zaratzian reached into another pocket and fished out a silver key ring with a silver rat hanging from it by its tail.

  “Mickey’s a rat,” he said, fitting the key onto the ring and pressing it into her hand.

  The cobbled entranceway into Seafarers Landing was supposed to make you think you were entering a village with its row of quaint little shops behind flowering trees. But instead of the envisioned bistros, cafés, and bakeries, the storefronts were dusty stretches of glass plastered with FOR RENT signs. The only working stores belonged to the harbormaster and the realty manager, but the harbormaster’s door was locked, which left only the realty office, where Courtney sat, surrounded by empty desks.