"Photos? You got fucking photos, too! You one sneaky . . . careful dude, man."
"I'll keep the pink sheet for my files, send you the blue and the white. You should put the white copy in an envelope, address it to D.C., then shove it down behind the desk or a crack or something, make sure it stays there—"
"Behind the desk?"
"If the matter ever comes up, the people in Washington are going to want to know where their copy went. Things get rough, you can have them help you look for it. They'll find it right behind the desk, a piece of lost mail. "
"Yeah—sneaky, sneaky. But what about the prints and the negatives? I want those, too."
"I'll send the memo tomorrow, and everything else I have as soon as I get it together. Things are kind of messy around my place."
"How long?"
Ford said, "About as long as it takes you to get that information I need."
He hung up wondering what Bernstein had done during his first two weeks in Masagua that had him so worried.
More improper channels: Ford got the home number of Sally Field, not the actress; the one who worked for the Operations Data Board of National Security Affairs. Sally was thirtyish, lush in a deceptive, secretarial sort of way, a dedicated government employee who had only one passion outside of her work: the bedroom. The bedroom was to her what golf or skiing were to her co-workers. She liked men, all kinds of men, but she was selective and discreet. She told Ford she'd kept a record of every man she had ever been with—in code, of course, because her men often held public office. In the diary, each man was graded in a variety of categories (Ford hadn't asked what categories) so she could look back and have fun remembering when she was old and single. "Because I'm always going to be single," she had told him. "No husband could put up with my hobby." When Ford met her, there were forty-three entries in her book. By the time she confided in him, he was already number forty-four. He had always avoided promiscuous women and probably would have avoided Sally had he known in advance. But the woman was a devotee, and Ford admired dedication wherever he happened to find it.
Sally answered—sounding sleepy, he thought. But no, she wasn't busy; he wasn't interrupting. She hoped he was calling because he was either in D.C. or on his way. "You are one of my favorites, Doc. One of my very, very favorites. I hope you know that."
Ford knew that. He also knew that each of the other forty-three were favorites, too. "I'm in Florida, Sally; calling to ask a favor. A professional favor."
Her tone changed, from sleepy to slightly severe. "Oh, Doc,
I hope you don't. I never mix business with pleasure. Never, ever. I'm very serious about my job, you know."
"I know that. I wouldn't ask under any other circumstances. But this is important." Ford told her about Hollins and the missing boy, adding "All I need you to do, Sally, is run a computer check on a few names for me. I need some background information, that's all. Anything you can come up with."
"That's all you need?" She was relaxed again; relieved. "I can do that on my coffee break; make it as thorough as I can, and that's as thorough as you can get. How many names?"
Ford gave her the spellings of the names and what little other information he had.
She said, "Okay, okay," her voice changing; her dictation voice. "Last name T-o-m-l-i-n-s-o-n; God, I can't even pronounce his first name."
Ford said, "Me neither."
"Jessica M-c capital-C-l-u-r-e; my competition, I suppose?"
"Just a friend."
"You know, Doc, sometimes you're just a little too calculating—running background checks on friends. I don't want to sound critical, but isn't that a little compulsive—"
"Didn't you run my name through the computer, Sal? When we first met?"
"Touche; you win. You're as careful as I am—which is why the files say you were so good at your job, I guess." Then she said, "The first man, Mario DeArmand, sounds familiar. Should he?"
"Maybe. He's from New Jersey. The eastern seaboard area. Now he's a county sheriff in south Florida."
"And the other names?"
"I don't know much about them. That's why I'm calling. It's possible there's something that connects them all. If there is, I need to know what. I also need to know if any of them work for our government—work for it on any level. "
"You're getting into a pretty touchy area there, Doc."
"But with the best of motives."
"Well, I'll do what I can. Shall I call you tomorrow or send the printout Federal Express? No, wait. Tomorrow's Sunday. I won't be in the office until Monday."
"The sooner the better. You can give me a summary on the phone, and then we can talk about anything else you want, Sally."
She was laughing. "I've already told you too much, Ford. After you left that night—what was it? four years ago?—I kept asking myself why I'd told you about my little diary. I've never told anyone else about it. My God, we hardly knew each other, and I trusted you with information that—"
"Diary? Don't know what you're talking about. As in dear diary?"
"See? My instincts were right. I knew I could trust you. And Ford? I check these names for you under one condition. You have to promise to take me to dinner within the next . . . three months. No excuses."
"By September. I promise."
"And you never break a promise, do you?"
"I've broken several."
"An honest man, I knew that, too. I gave you a very high mark for honesty...."
Ford made six more calls, one to New York, the rest to Everglades County, Sandy Key. He tracked down the funeral home that was to take possession of Rafe's body and found out the body would be cremated, that there was to be no funeral, but there would be a private memorial service. Rafe's older brother, Harvey, had made the arrangements. He would be flying from West Virginia tomorrow, so the service would be Monday, 1 P.M. Flowers should be ordered from Sandy Key Floral Shop.
Unless the coroner worked weekends, it didn't make sense for them to release the body so soon, so Ford called the Everglades County Medical Examiner's office and got a man who said there was no one there right now. Ford said, "You're there." And the man said, "But I'm not the one to talk to."
"I need to know if the autopsy on Rafferty Hollins has been scheduled."
The man said, "Hollins? It's already been done. They did it this morning, right after they brought him in. At least I guess they did—all the paperwork's been finished."
"Can you read me the report? The official proclamation of death."
"You a friend of the family or something? I don't think they give out that sort of information."
Ford said, "It's public record. They have to give it out."
"The guy hung himself, I know that much. Death by asphyxia, I guess. But I don't think you're right there. They don't have to give it out. They never have before."
"Does it say death by asphyxia on the death certificate?"
"Look, buddy, there's no one here right now. The medical examiner plays golf on Saturday. You're gonna have to call back. Or try the funeral home, they might have a copy. "
"If he plays golf, who did the autopsy?"
"How should I know? Doc musta come in early. Call the funeral home you want to know anything else."
Ford called the funeral home again and got the same lady he had spoken with earlier. "No sir, we don't have a copy of the death certificate. We have no reason to keep a copy."
"But you have to have a copy before you cremate the body, right?"
"We don't do cremations on the grounds. Everglades Crematorium provides that service for all the funeral homes in the county. On a contract basis."
"Then why are you taking possession of the remains after cremation? That makes no sense."
The woman said, "I'm afraid it's state law, sir."
"Is that what you told Harvey Hollins, the deceased's brother?"
"Of course I did, sir. It was my obligation."
Ford said, "Lady, there's no state law that says a fu
neral home must be involved in the dispensation of a body. What you told Mr. Hollins was a lie, and you did it so you could get your kickback from the crematorium and your kickback from whatever florist you've cut a deal with on Sandy Key, and so you could carve out a little piece of Mr. Hollins for yourself. I suppose you told Mr. Hollins not to worry about choosing an urn, and that you would be happy to fill out all the insurance forms—if there are forms involved in this case—so you can carve yourself an even bigger piece."
The woman said, "I'm afraid I don't like your tone of voice, sir. In times of bereavement, most decent people consider talk of money to be in very bad taste—"
"Which is exactly why the people of this country pay out more in a year to funeral homes than the government spends on providing them with police or fire protection. Lady, I'm going to make sure Mr. Hollins lets me have a look at your bill. There better not be a charge for embalming and the cremation fee better not be padded, and under no circumstances do I want to see your deluxe model last-for-eternity bronze urn on the list. Keep it fair, lady. ..."
And the line went dead.
With a growing sense of urgency, Ford dialed Everglades Crematorium. The remains of Rafe Hollins were being disposed of much too quickly, and Ford had no idea what he could do to stop it. What he did know was that, with no body, there would be no way to prove Rafe had been murdered—short of a confession. A man answered, and Ford asked when Hollins was scheduled for cremation.
"Who wants to know? You with the family or something?"
Why was that always the first question? Ford decided to take a chance. "I'm with the Florida Department of Criminal Law, the governor's office. We're thinking about red-tagging the remains pending an investigation by our office."
"You're shittin' me—whoops. I mean, you don't want us to do it?"
Ford said, "That's exactly what I mean. If we decide to go ahead with the investigation, we can have the papers to you by . . . Tuesday," trying to buy some time so he could . . . what? Contact some newspapers; maybe get a good investigative reporter interested. With luck and the promise of publicity, there was a chance the governor's office might actually be involved by Monday afternoon ... a slim chance.
The man said, "Who's this speaking?"
"Captain Lewis, FDCL."
"Hang on just a minute, Captain Lewis."
Ford sat listening to the silence, thinking. Even if the guy fell for it now, there was no way they'd hold the body through Monday on the strength of a phone call. But that, at least, would give him tomorrow, Sunday, to get something going; an extra day. No one in government worked weekends.
"Captain Lewis?"
Ford said, "Yes."
"I'm real sorry, Captain Lewis, but I'm afraid you're a little late. They just ran him through . . . cremated him, I mean. Came out 'bout ten minutes ago. But look, we did everything we're supposed to do. Called the medical examiner, got approval just like the law says; observed the forty-eight-hour waiting period—"
"Forty-eight hours? They didn't find the body until late yesterday. And the medical examiner wasn't even in this morning. He plays golf."
That set the man back; made him even more nervous. "All I know is, we got a call direct from the sheriff, and around here that's as good as the medical examiner. The sheriff does that sometimes; fills in when Doc Carter is busy or out of the county. He said everything was in order; said for us to go ahead. You got any more questions, maybe you should talk to him."
Ford said,"You're sure the body's gone?"
"I caught them before they put the ashes in the pulverizer but, yeah, it's gone all right."
"Then maybe you can tell me a couple of things. What's the death certificate say about the cause of death?"
"Well . . . wait a minute, we got a copy here someplace. I got the coroner's tag. That good enough? On the tag it says asphyxia due to hanging; be the same on the certificate unless you want me to read it direct—"
"Any notations about whether photographs were taken or fingerprints made?"
"Well . . . no, but they usually do that. They don't have to, but it's normal procedure—"
"Who ordered the cremation?"
"The family, probably . . . wait a minute—they got that written right here on the tag, too. That's kinda weird. Usually the order comes in separate, not on the medical examiner's tag. But it says here cremation by request of Mrs. Helen Burke Hollins. That's the guy's wife, I guess. Maybe his mother. You want us to put a hold on the ashes? Pieces of bone now, mostly. You promise to get the papers to us by Monday morning, we can do that."
Ford said, "No. You can release the ashes. "
He had one more call to make, an anonymous call, but that would have to be from a pay phone. He wanted to contact the FBI; give them what he knew about the boy. Just in case everything else failed. . . .
SIX
Ford idled into the marina to get his evening quart of beer. He was tired of the talk of death; felt like kicking back and taking a good, deep bite of life for a change. Several of the women doctors had returned, looking relaxed in beach clothes, shiny hair combed just so, standing there on the dock talking to Jeth. Ford pretended to study his mooring lines until Nicholes called him over and made introductions. There was one he liked: Dr. Sheri Braun-Richards. Short blond hair, nice athletic body, something solid behind the blue eyes and a smile that didn't strain.
Ford listened politely until he had established she wasn't one of the neurotic nonstop talkers or one of the man-haters who had girded herself in the flag of feminism, then struck up a conversation. She was a gynecologist from Davenport, Iowa. Had a confident manner and a quick sense of humor. Ford laughed at her stories because they were funny. And did he live all alone on the gray house out there, the one built on stilts? Must be nice hearing water lap all night long. She had always been interested in marine biology, but knew nothing about it, living in Iowa all her life. Ford could see the evening taking shape; could see it in Dr. Braun-Richards's blue eyes. Nothing overt, but not coy; aware that a subliminal process of selection was going on; aware that, because she was on vacation, there was no time for the normal presexual proprieties. Ford liked that awareness. And he had gone long enough without a woman.
"I think someone's calling you." She was pointing at the marina office, amused that he hadn't heard MacKinley banging on the window.
MacKinley was holding up the phone. Ford said, "Don't go away."
"We might be down on that big blue sailboat." Not committing herself to stand there and wait, but making sure he knew where she would be. That was good.
"I'll probably be going back out to the stilt house in a little bit. You and your friends could stop out, look around, maybe have a beer."
She knew what that meant but played right along. "Sounds interesting. But I think I'd have to leave my friends here. They met some people on the sailboat last night." Getting better and better. Why hadn't he thought to take a shower after work?
She drifted back into the circle of conversation, a pretty woman in white knit shirt, cut-off shorts, with the good legs of a tennis player. Ford headed for the office.
It was Jessica on the phone. She'd gotten his new home number from information; tried and tried but it was busy all afternoon. Then it wasn't busy, but he didn't answer and she was wondering why he hadn't tried to call her. "Doc, I hope it's not because you're mad at me for abandoning you last night."
Ford said don't be silly, he wasn't mad—looking out the window, watching Dr. Braun-Richards.
"Well, I wouldn't blame you if you were. Benny came on like such an ass. Doing his Mr. Macho routine. Working in the art world, living in Manhattan, he has a thing about proving he's not gay."
Ford said he hadn't noticed, Benny had seemed like a very nice guy—enjoying the clean lines of Dr. Braun-Richards's body as he spoke on the phone; the soft facial contours, the way she laughed ... a little bit of the college girl left in those cut-off jeans.
"Then maybe I can take you up on your offer t
o have dinner. A little late, but my treat."
"Dinner?" Ford had a redfish fillet and a mackerel in the refrigerator. He'd planned on cooking. "Dinner would be nice, sure. But I was going to hang around the marina tonight. Jeth said he might need a little help . . . with some things."
MacKinley looked up from his magazine, his eyebrows raised. He knew that Jeth didn't need any help.
Jessica's voice dropped, softened. "I'd like to see you, Doc. Just for a little while if I can. Please? There's something I'd like to talk with you about."
Ford watched Dr. Braun-Richards step onto the blue sailboat with the others, accept a drink from the owner. Ford said, "Well . . . sure. For a little while. You want me to come out now?"
"The sooner the better."
Ford said, "Now . . . ah . . . well, sure. For a little bit. I can tell Jeth to wait."
"Don't sound so anxious!"
Ford freed the lines of his skiff, aware that Dr. Braun-Richards was watching. Jeth was on the sailboat with the others, and Ford called, "I'll be back in about an hour."
Nicholes, who didn't know why he should care, called back, " Bout an hour . . . right."
The sailboat owner had his hand on Dr. Braun-Richards's shoulder, trying to show her something, and she turned away as Ford said, "I'll probably go straight to the stilt house when I get back ... if you want to stop by."
Nicholes said, "In ba-ba-'bout an hour . . . right."
Jessica's house: ceiling fans, throw rugs on pine floors, rattan furniture, hatch-cover coffee table near the fireplace, two cats lounging on the Bahama couch, another atop the stereo, un-framed paintings stacked in every corner, the odor of an old beach house mingling with the smell of paint supplies, incense, and cats.
When Ford pulled up to the dock, Jessica stood beneath the porch light leaning against the door frame, hip thrown out, hand behind her head, looking like a bus-stop blonde in a 1930s movie. But the hair was long auburn, and she didn't linger, meeting Ford at the steps, falling into his arms, hugging him.
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