“Mr. Lucas ordered Model 380,” he says.
Smith points to the photo. “And you installed it here?”
“Yeah. His carpenter cut that hole in the bedroom wall that backs into the closet, finished both sides real nice. If you didn’t know, you couldn’t tell there was something there. It was pretty cool.”
Smith approaches, her tight skirt outlining thighs that could crush steel. “So,” she says, “this Model 380 is quite a large safe.”
“Yeah.”
“Heavy?”
“Three-fifty.”
“Is it difficult to move?”
“Two guys can hoist it. I’ve done it alone with a dolly.”
“You are quite a big man,” she says sweetly.
“Six three, two-thirty,” puffing like a peacock on steroids.
“That’s about Mel Lucas’ size,” she says, walking to the defense table, drawing the juror’s attention to her client Joseph-the-twerp Galdino.
Leverage, the Professor had said. ‘… with a lever I will move the whole world.’ I look at Galdino. All due respect, Archimedes, this wisp of a man would have needed one heck of a lever. Although, Galdino had spent his life working construction. He might be hiding some serious muscle up those sleeves.
“This Model 380 was large enough to store quite a bit of money, or jewelry, or whatever.”
“It’s a top seller,” he says. “People who don’t want the government to know everything they got.” He doesn’t say ‘drug dealers’ but down here, US bills without traces of cocaine are as rare as honest politicians. “Lots of people like to keep their money and jewelry close -- South Americans, Russians…”
“Yes, thank you for that,” says the attorney, quickly moving on before the witness alienates half the jury. “In your professional experience,” she does her little half-turn toward the jury. A couple of the gents perk up, “have you ever known anyone to steal this particular model?”
“No, never. Once you install a 380, it stays installed.”
“Except the Lucas safe is gone. Taken by a thief?” playing directly to the jury, “or perhaps by someone who wanted to make it look as if the safe was stolen.”
The prosecutor jumps to his feet. “Objection.”
“Sustained,” says Kossoff.
“Make it seem someone stole the money.”
“Your honor!”
“Ms. Smith,” warns the Judge.
“Sorry, your honor. I have no more questions.”
But Ms. Smith has planted three big old seeds in the juror’s fertile minds.
--Perhaps Mel Lucas isn’t dead.
--Perhaps the police didn’t find his body because he’s still alive and kicking.
--And perhaps he killed his wife then hacked the safe out of his bedroom wall to make it look like an outside job.
In front of me, the Lucas children squirm, poster children for ADD. The daughter leans forward, snarling things in her cousin’s ear. Caprice’s shoulders tighten. I’m overwhelmed by a sudden desire to bash the cousins’ heads together. It’s an oddly wicked thought for a devout pacifist.
By the time the judge calls the lunch break, I’ve written a few pages of doodle-decorated notes. Tonight I’ll type them up so Lucille can read them.
“Going to lunch?” asks Nikki who I suspect hasn’t eaten yet today.
“Sure.”
We walk through the park to Lulu’s Café. The grass is still damp from the morning storm and the park is deserted. I set Bitsy’s lunch on a bench hoping the Professor finds it before the birds and iguanas get to it. In Chicago, squirrels would grab that bag in two seconds but I rarely see squirrels down here. I don’t like to think why. Floridians have odd relationships with animals. Chickens – escapees from Sabbath soups and Santeria sacrifices -- cluck down Miami streets. Dogs – some the size of ponies -- sit on the laps of drivers. Entrepreneurial thugs butcher people’s pet horses for the illegal horsemeat market. Where are the squirrels? The downside about living in a large melting pot is you don’t always know what’s in the mix.
Farley is already in line outside Lulu’s. When he sees us he breaks away. “It’s a zoo in there,” he says. “Reporters, TV crews. Damned tourists. Everyone wants to be in on the end.”
“Like it would kill Lulu to set aside a table for us regulars,” says Nikki.
“Let’s try the Library Café,” he says, leading us across the park to the five-story glass building. I glance back to see if Bitsy’s lunch is still on the bench but my view’s blocked by a mountain of a man following behind us. I know him from someplace. The courthouse? My condo?
We ride the library escalator to the second level. “I’ll grab a table,” says Nikki as Farley and I join the line trickling into the sunny café. Nikki grabs the last window table, guarding it while Farley and I push trays along the cafeteria rail. I order a tuna sandwich and a cup of hot soup, not sure whether to eat it or stick my frozen hands in it. Farley’s a turkey on rye kind of guy. He pulls a couple of chocolate puddings off the dessert rack. We pay and go back, tag-teaming Nikki.
The man I saw on the path hovers over people finishing lunch at the next table. His sheer mass seems to encourage them to leave. I know him. Grocery store? Gas station? Marina? My sleeping pill/scotch combo these last few months seems to have short-circuited a few billion brain synapses. I’ve cut the pills and booze in half, but still….
I settle into the chair facing the glass wall overlooking the park. Outside, a few of the homeless have started showing up, spreading thick blankets of newspapers on the wet grass under the trees. Nikki returns to the table with a large glass of water, packets of artificial sweetener, lemon wedges from the iced tea station and a fistful of ketchup packets.
“So,” says Farley, “do we think Galdino moved the safe?”
“No doubt,” says Nikki.
“But he’s so slight,” I say.
“I heard about a mother, saw a car hit her toddler,” says Nikki squeezing lemon into her water, stirring in four packets of Splenda. “The mother runs over, grabs hold of the bumper and lifts up the car so other people can pull the kid out.”
“Adrenalin,” says Farley. “You see it all the time at the track. You got these pint-sized jockeys riding a thousand pounds of horseflesh, pushing and shoving for position. Crazy when you stop to think about it. But once that adrenalin gets going, there’s no telling what a person can do.”
“You going to eat those?” asks Nikki, coveting my packages of oyster crackers. I hand them to her.
“Sandwich?” I ask, sliding half the tuna onto a plate. She takes it, forgets to say thanks.
“He’d need a truck,” decides Farley, “to carry something big as that safe.”
“There could be truck rental records,” I say.
“Galdino’s not stupid enough to leave a paper trail,” says Nikki.
“He’s got contacts in construction,” says Farley, “could borrow a truck, use it, give it back.”
I sip the soup, feel it burn a path through the ice. “Wouldn’t someone near the Lucas home remember a truck?” I ask. “A security guard? Neighbors?”
“Nah,” says Farley. “You always got workers coming and going in those developments.”
“Okay,” I say, trying to lay this out. “Galdino kills his sister-in-law—”
“And her husband,” says Nikki.
“We don’t know that.”
They both give me a look.
“All right,” I say, “he kills Brandy and Mel Lucas. Then he hacks the safe out of their bedroom wall and somehow wheels it to the garage where he’s parked a truck. How does he hoist it into the truck?”
“Rear platform lift,” says Farley. “We used them in the shmata business to load bolts of fabrics onto the trucks. Galdino slips a dolly under the safe, wheels it onto the truck’s platform, hits the lift button….” He takes a bite of sandwich, daintily dabbing drops of mayo and mustard from the corners of his mouth. “Once the safe’s in the truck and
Brandy’s in the freezer, and Mel’s -- who the hell knows -- Galdino has all the time in the world to transport the safe wherever he wants.”
A square-built woman pushes past our table and joins mountain man. She’s the woman who burst into the courthouse bathroom that day I gave Caprice the packet of tissues. He’s the man with her in the parking lot, driving the white van. I relax. It’s always a relief when I can actually remember something, like where I’ve seen these people. They must be involved with a case over at the courthouse.
Farley hands Nikki his chips, pickle and one of the puddings. She squirts a couple of packets of catsup onto a napkin and dips the chips, sucking catsup off each one before slipping it into her mouth.
“Just to play devil’s advocate,” I say, “what if Mel did kill his wife? What if he invited his brother-in-law to come down to Florida? Set Galdino up to look like he killed Brandy, like he stole the safe?”
Nikki rolls her eyes at me. “If Mel Lucas stole his own safe, he would have Brandy’s jewelry. So how was it that Galdino brought the stuff to his fence in New Jersey?”
“That could be part of Mel’s plan,” I say. “He could have asked his brother-inlaw to bring Brandy’s jewelry to the fence to sell. Then, when Brandy is found dead, suspicion would fall on Joseph Galdino.”
“I don’t buy it.” Nikki dips the pickle in the catsup and takes a bite. My taste buds pucker. “Galdino’s guilty as hell.”
Farley checks his watch. “We should get back before the fair-weather court watchers grab the good seats.”
I turn to leave. Caprice and a portly young man sit at the table directly behind me. Oh, God. Did she hear us gossiping about her father, how we think he murdered her aunt and uncle? No, she and the young man appear deep in conversation.
Bitsy’s lunch is gone from the bench. The Professor and a couple of hard looking men sit on newspapers under the banyan. He has torn open the lunch bag and spread it like a small tablecloth. He wields a pocketknife, cutting the food into bite-sized portions, setting it out for the others. There is elegance to his movements, to the scene, like a funky riff on Seurat’s Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. The Professor looks up as we pass and, I think, nods before returning to his surgery.
The hand-written sign posted on the courthouse door says:
COURTHOUSE CLOSED UNTIL MONDAY
(Call before coming.)
“Water pipes burst in Judge Kossoff’s chambers,” explains a guard, “rained down into the courtrooms. Acoustic tiles all over the place. You could float the Queen Mary in the lobby. They’re saying we’ll be up and running by Monday but I wouldn’t bet the farm.”
With all the courtrooms emptying at once, traffic out of the parking lot is a zoo. I’m clocking about an inch a minute so I call Lucille and leave a voicemail about the court closing. “And I took notes,” I say. “But Mrs. Galdino still didn’t take the stand.” As I hang up the phone rings.
“Sam Parker’s references check out, darlin’,” says Quincy. “If he likes the way your boat handles, chances are real good he can actually afford to buy it.”
“You’re a saint.”
“Careful. You’ll spoil my hard-ass rep. Let me know when you’re takin’ him out for a trial run. I’ll gas her up, set some ice and soda on board.”
“I’ll give him a call and let you know.”
“Done and done.”
I pull out my wallet and find Parker’s card, dial him up. “I know we talked about going out on the boat Saturday,” I say, “but it turns out I’m free tomorrow.”
“Fine with me.”
“I’m assuming you know how to sail.”
“I was taking apart the motor on my daddy’s bass boat when I was five.”
“Yes, but could you put it back together?”
He laughs and we make a date for nine o’clock tomorrow morning. And, as I hang up, it occurs to me – for no particular reason -that my fingernails are jagged, my untrimmed toenails could pierce steel-toed boots and my hands have the texture of coarse sandpaper. When I finally break free of court traffic, I head south on Federal. In Florida, where impeccably manicured nails are de rigueur, the nearest salon is never more than a hangnail away.
11
Sleep comes in fits and starts.
I need to do this thing. And I need to do this thing alone. And I need to do it before I take Sam Parker out on the boat. It’s still dark when I roll out of bed and dress, leaving a note for Bitsy to let her know her where I’ve gone.
The Seaview Marina is dead quiet, not another car in the pre-dawn lot. My deck shoes pad down to the locked gate that protects docked boats from intruders. I punch in the security code and push. The screech of metal hinges rips the silence. Somewhere, a gull screams complaint then goes quiet. I walk quickly along the pier to the Go Bears.
-I can’t do this.
-Yes you can.
She’s uncovered, her canvas neatly stowed. Quincy has tied her bright cushions to the chaises and chairs, made her ready for Parker’s trial run later this morning. Quincy is helping me all he can, even though he wishes I would keep the boat.
“You look yar,” I say, Michael’s word for the boat, me, our daughter Stacey, all the women he loved most in his life.
-I can’t do this.
-Yes you can.
Morning stiffness swells my fingers and I struggle to cast off the lines and pull in the fenders. Another car pulls into the lot, its headlights sweeping the harbor, flaring on my boat, blinding me a few seconds before going dark. Fishermen most likely, out for an early run of beer and bass. The Go Bears purrs as I motor slowly south along the Intracoastal then head east through the Haulover Inlet to the ocean.
As soon as I clear the markers, I open the engines full throttle, pushing her hard toward the east where dawn’s first hint of purples and reds rage against the black. Far to the south, a scatter of fishing boats bob on the water. I head northeast into the blackness, out and out and out, waiting until the boat and I are far and wee before cutting the engines. Then, steeling myself for what waits below, I force myself down the steps.
Michael’s nautical charts still cover the table alongside his yellow legal pads filled with endless notes and computations. He’d been sitting right here, planning and charting a leisurely summer cruise. “We’ll take the whole summer,” he’d said, showing me the map, “explore every highway and byway up the east coast.” I trail a finger along his jottings. For some reason, I think of the newspaper photo showing Mel and Brandy Lucas on their boat. How happy they’d seemed, the way Michael had been happy here.
I’m sniffing now, brushing back tears as I pack and stow his charts and notes. I should probably toss them. But, at the moment, it’s enough that I’ve come onboard for the first time since his death. One small step for widow-kind….
In the back of a cabinet, I find the bag of sage bundles made by a Tucson friend when we bought the boat. Hands trembling, I carefully light the tightly bound packet of dried leaves over the sink, quickly tamping out the flame. Then, waving the smoldering bundle in the air, I purify the quarters below then go topside and purify the deck. I’m not the crying type but I welcome these tears of passage, opening myself to the sage’s fragrant healing, cleansing the boat for the man I hope will become the next owner.
12
Quincy’s waiting at the slip as I pull in. “Hey, darlin’.”
“Hey.”
“Wondered where you were.”
“Farewell cruise,” I say, tossing him a line. The combination of sea air and recherché du temps perdu knocked me out and I spent the last couple of hours blissfully sleeping on a deck chair. I’ve come back rested and ready. If I can set foot on the boat, I can climb Mt. Everest. Small steps.
“I saw Parker pulling into the lot,” says Quincy, carrying a bag of ice and cans of soda on board. “I’ll send him down.”
I go below, stow the ice and drinks, risk looking in the mirror. A face puffy as a blowfish looks back. Wha
t of it? Today is about trying to sell the boat, not prepping for a date. Up on deck, I watch Parker lope along the dock pulling a large ice chest on wheels. He smiles and waves.
“My mama taught me to never show up with a hand full of gimme and a mouth full of much obliged,” he says. I look around for his horse. He swings on board. “Might as well picnic while we’re out. I’ll stow this stuff in the galley.” He goes below.
Picnic? This was supposed to be a short run to let him test the boat. I’m not sure how I feel about a day that includes lunch. I cast off, let him take the wheel. The sooner he can imagine this as his boat, the faster he’s likely to buy.
We sail out of the marina. “Ever sail her up north?” he asks.
“We were planning to. Michael was charting a trip up the eastern seaboard to New Jersey.”
“New Jersey? You have family there?”
“No.”
“Friends?”
“No. It was just a trip Michael was planning.”
We reach the ocean. “Any place special you’d like to go?” he asks.
Talk of New Jersey gets me thinking about the Galdino trial and its rich cast of characters. Curiosity stirs. “How about Palm Beach?” I say, wherein the Dandy Brandy docks. “Quincy mentioned a marina up there. It might be a nice place to stop and picnic.”
The Tradewinds Marina is a watery ghost town of near-deserted slips. At the first whiff of Summer, the über-rich boarded their multi-million dollar yachts, migrating like Wildebeests ahead of Florida’s brutal summer heat and killer hurricanes. A scatter of lesser boats holds down the fort. We pull into the Guest Slips at the far end of the marina and, while Parker ties us up, I grab a bottle of Jack Daniels from the galley and hop off. “The harbormaster’s a friend of Quincy’s,” I say. “I’ll go check us in.”
“I’ll have lunch ready.”
A few minutes later I’m walking into Deke Hawkins’ office. It looks like the aftermath of an explosion – papers everywhere, boat parts on the desk and floor, rolls of charts, stacks of maps, serious fishing poles leaning in one corner, a wall filled with photos of owners standing on their yachts, people posing next to enormous dead fish. A large friendly-looking dog wearing a blue and white cowboy neckerchief has nosed his way into most of the photos.
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