Sanibel Flats

by Randy Wayne White

  Fuming, biting her lips, the woman pulled open a drawer, flipped through files, and pulled out the statement. "I'd prefer a major credit card. It would make it easier for our records."

  Ford said, "I don't use credit cards."

  The woman slammed the drawer closed. "I'm not surprised."

  TEN

  Rafe was in the pickup, riding right there beside him through the heat and traffic, and Ford couldn't resist the urge to open the urn and have a look: some brown and gray stuff, about the same texture as cat litter, but a whole bunch of bone shards, too. Seemed to be way too many bones to be properly called ashes, and then Ford remembered the man on the phone, the man at the crematorium, saying they'd cremated the remains but hadn't pulverized them, and should they put a hold on that?

  Apparently they'd put a hold on the pulverization just to be safe, or had forgotten because the process had been interrupted. Which wasn't great news. Now Harvey was going to have to see his brother's bones spread along with his ashes; bits of fingers, tibia, ribs easily recognized. And Ford had thought the worst was over. . . .

  North Cut was a deep-water pass that separated Sandy Key from the next barrier island. It was narrow, only about a hundred yards wide, and the tidal current ripped through like a river. Ford carried the urn down onto the beach where Harvey and the other men were standing. They were an odd-looking group in their dark suits, standing uneasily in the sun as vacationers strolled by and while, down the shore, teenagers threw a Frisbee for a big Chesapeake Bay retriever.

  Harvey took a breath and said, "Well, I guess we ought to get it done. What you figure, just sort of pour the ashes in the water? Tide's going pretty good; nice outgoing tide. Take my brother right out to sea."

  Ford was holding the urn in his right arm, but he shifted it to the other side, away from Harvey, and removed the lid so that Les Durell and a couple of others could peek in, but Harvey couldn't. Ford said, "We could do that, Harv. Or ... I guess there are a couple of other ways to do it, too. "

  Durell was looking in the urn, then he looked down the beach at the dog. The danger of dumping all those bone shards in the water with a retriever around was obvious, and he said quickly, "Yeah, Harvey, maybe we ought to think of another way."

  Harvey looked perplexed, but a little irritated, too. "What other way? You guys have a better way, just come out and tell me. Damn it, I wish we'd brought that minister. He was a good guy. He'd of known how to do it."

  Bern Horack, who was a couple of years older than Ford but had graduated a year behind him, said, "Maybe you should say a few words, Harv, then we could throw the whole jar in. Like a burial at sea." He was staring at the retriever, giving it an evil look. "Unless you boys want to excuse me for a minute, while I find a club—"

  Ford cut in, saying "How about this, Harvey? We could walk past the urn and each take a turn throwing some of Rafe's . . . ashes . . . into the water. It might be a nice way to say good-bye. And each man could have a moment of silence to think about Rafe, remember him the way he was."

  The look of evil on Horack's face faded. "Reach in there . . . with our hands?"

  Harvey was nodding, oblivious to Horack, relieved. "That's a good idea, Doc. I like that. These are the best friends Rafe ever had. Your way would make it real personal." He looked at Ford for a moment. "You were his best friend. You start. I'd like to just watch for a bit."

  Ford placed the urn at the water's edge and stood in silence for a time. Then he reached into the urn and took a piece of bone with the ashes, hoping to set a precedent. He threw overhanded, far enough out into the pass so the tide wouldn't bring the bone back, pretended not to notice the ashes that blew back in his face, then stepped away so the next man could take his turn. It was a moving thing to see—at first. But there were a lot of bone and ashes, and only ten men. It would take three, maybe four full passes to get rid of everything, and Ford was already beginning to worry the heat and the grimness of the task would destroy what, at best, was a delicate mood. But then he noticed something . . . something in the way the men were throwing. The moments of silence were becoming shorter and the throws longer, each man trying to throw a little farther than the other, but without showing extra effort. They were watching until the shards hit, too, leaning to the right or left, depending on how they curved. Even Ford had to admire how the wind caught the chunks of bone, making them veer like wild curveballs or screwballs. The veil of competition finally burst open when Horack, on the fourth round, took a piece of rib, crow-hopped like an outfielder, and hurled it halfway across the pass, then turned around beaming. "Let's see you bastards beat that!" And then looked at Harvey Hollins in a dawning agony, remembering where he was, what he was doing. "Boy, Harv . . . I'm sorry. I got kinda wrapped up; plus Noel Yarbrough there was hogging all the really big pieces, and ..."

  Harvey, though, was smiling. Then he was laughing; laughing and sniffing at the same time, wiping the tears away. "I know, I know. Did you see that thing break?"

  Relieved, Bern Horack said, "Even when Rafe was pitching regular, he never had better stuff in his life. Like it dropped off a fucking table," then worried about that for a moment, but Harvey was still laughing. So was everyone else.

  Les Durell said, "Why don't you and I take a little walk," looking up at Ford, this broad man with a boyish face but piercing eyes.

  The others were heading toward a bar down the beach, and Ford yelled to Harvey that they'd be there soon, then said to Durell, "Let's go."

  They walked for about a hundred yards in silence before Durell said, "You got me all the way down here. So talk."

  "I remember you as being more cheerful. It was that much trouble to come?"

  "Right; cheerful. I'm normally very cheerful—when I'm not being forced to act like a cop. You're forcing me. Not that I'm sorry I came. It was probably the nicest service I've ever been to; the only one where I've ever laughed, anyway. But I've been going to too many of them lately. That's how you can tell you've reached middle age, by the way: Your friends start dying."

  "Rafe didn't just die."

  "So I've heard."

  "But you're not going to pay any attention to Harvey or me?"

  "In this state, about two thousand people every year take the suicide cure for insomnia. How many times you think the loved ones go running to the police, saying it had to be murder because so-and-so wasn't the type? I'll pay attention when I hear something worth listening to."

  "Just the facts, ma'am, huh?"

  "That's right. I like facts. Numbers are easier to deal with than people. Law enforcement is tough enough without getting emotionally involved."

  Ford said, "Okay, Les, I'll give you the facts. I have information that proves someone—probably one or more people in the Everglades County Sheriff's Department and the medical examiner's office—tampered with, suppressed, or ignored evidence in the investigation of Rafe's death. The information I have also strongly suggests that he was murdered."

  "Yeah? So tell me."

  "That's the catch. If I give you that information, I'll be confessing to a felony. "

  "That's just great; just goddamn great. You and Rafe were smuggling drugs together, weren't you?"

  "I only saw Rafe twice since high school. I wasn't smuggling anything."

  "Right, oh sure. Rafe with his big house and big cars, flying in and out of the country. You think I didn't know? Every morning I woke up, I expected to see his name in the paper, arrested by the feds. I was very damn glad he didn't live in my county. I hate arresting friends. I've done it."

  "Which is a subtle warning to me."

  "I didn't mean it to be subtle."

  "I'll give you the information, but I'd like it to be in confidence."

  "I can't promise that, M.D. I'm sorry."

  "Then I'm going to tell you anyway."

  Durell held up an open palm. "Before you do, let me give you another warning. More facts and figures. Every five hours or so, someone in Florida ends up on the business end of a kn
ife or some cheap handgun and gets murdered. A couple thousand known murders a year, and a fourth of those never even come close to being solved. Never mind about the bodies we don't find that end up scattered across the 'Glades or shoved under some mangrove root someplace. Those poor bastards go into the books under missing persons. You've read how tough it is to pull off the perfect murder? Well, that's pure bullshit. A perfect murder happens every day in this state; every single day. And it's not because the law enforcement agencies aren't competent, or that cops don't work their butts off, or don't care."

  "If you're trying to make a point—"

  Durell stopped, turned, and looked at him. "The point is, your information better be very good. If it's not, you could confess to a felony and get absolutely nothing in return. Murder isn't that easy to prove, and murderers tend to make themselves real hard to find. Think it over before you tell me anything."

  Ford had already thought it over. It took about ten minutes to give Durell the entire story. He spent most of that time describing how determined Rafe was to get his son back from the Masaguan kidnappers. The only thing he left out was what he'd found in the tree trunk. Durell's expression went from pained to suspicious to thoughtful. He was silent for a time, then said, "Tell me again why you thought it might not be Hollins. At first, I mean. You went too quick over that part."

  "Just small things. The watch was on the left wrist, with suntan marks to match. There was identification in the wallet, but nothing current. "

  "So? Lots of left-handers wear their watches on their left wrist, and he'd spent so much time out of the country maybe he had no current I.D."

  "I know, Les, I know. I was just trying to tell you step by step how my mind was working when I found him. The point is, if he was alive, he'd have gotten in touch with me by now."

  Durell was quiet again, receding into the cop mind; big-shouldered man in a suit, out of place in the heat of a Florida beach. He said, "I come up with four or five different scenarios; reasons for you to make up a story like this. But none of them seem to fit what I know about you."

  "It's because I'm telling the truth."

  Durell was nodding, still thinking. "The jerks who run Everglades County, this little island kingdom, have been riding toward a fall for a long, long time. Maybe this is it. But why would they want a murder to go in the books as a suicide?"

  "Bad publicity."

  "It's possible, but I don't buy it."

  "Rafe used to work for Sealife Development; put them down as employer when he bought his last house. I have a copy of the computer records back at my place."

  "What'd Rafe do for them?"

  Ford said, "I don't know; some kind of flying, probably. But one of the last things he said to me on the phone was that he had to meet some guys from Sandy Key. Maybe he had something on them and was trying to leverage it into cash. Or maybe he tried to sell them something and they decided to just take it."

  "Some guys from Sandy Key?" Durell said. "That doesn't narrow it down much."

  "Les, I worked on that body for twenty minutes and it seemed a hell of a lot longer. I tied the feet and hands so there would be no mistaking it for suicide. But they called it suicide anyway and, less than twenty-four hours later, cremated the body. Somebody is trying to cover up something."

  Durell was nodding, thinking, saying "Okay, okay. ..."

  Ford said, "Then you're convinced?"

  "I'm convinced you tampered with evidence and that DeArmand's bunch got a little too cute trying to smooth it over."

  "Rafe was murdered and you know it."

  "What I know is, there's almost zero chance of proving it now. But the governor's office might like to hear about DeArmand and the Everglades County Medical Examiner's office. Dereliction of duty, criminal negligence, failing to hold a body forty-eight hours. You drop the right bomb and sometimes all kind of creatures start crawling out. Even killers. "

  "I've collected some data on DeArmand. None of it is incriminating by itself, but, taken as a whole, it shows he's crooked and slippery . . . and dangerous. I've got stuff on Sealife Development Corporation, too. And the registration numbers from the boat I found on the island that day. I'll put it all in a letter and send it to your office."

  Les Durell was looking at him, not reacting, a steady look of appraisal. "You know what I'm worried about? I'm worried about you. Some guy who thinks he's clever enough to bang around playing detective, manipulating people, making way too much noise. If DeArmand suspects someone is interested, he's going to cover his tracks so quick that even the governor's office won't be able to seal his records or get subpoenas out fast enough. And I don't want to spend a lot of time, do a lot of work, knowing someone is going to screw it all up making amateur mistakes. "

  Ford shrugged. "I guess you'll have to take it on faith that I won't."

  "I take God and the Democratic Party on faith, not you. Within an hour of you calling me, I'd done computer checks through the Federal Crime Information Center, the FBI, and a couple of others. Missed my tee-off time, and you know what I got for my trouble? Almost nothing. Bare bones stuff. You did your military training at Naval Special Warfare Center in Coronado, California. So I take that to mean you were a navy SEAL. You got a couple of college degrees while in uniform, so I take that to mean the navy invested extra money in you for a reason. You scored real high on your Civil Service exam and left the navy for no apparent reason. And that's it, buddy boy. I've run checks on priests that gave me more."

  "I've lived a quiet life."

  Durell said, "You think if I hadn't figured out what kind of quiet life, I'd be wasting my time talking to you right now? I don't know why Sanibel Island attracts so many retired CIA agents. You guys have meetings, put on dances? And there's another thing. "

  "Oh?"

  "Yeah. Maybe you didn't think of it, but if DeArmand's bunch was involved in the murder, they're going to be wondering who got to the body first and messed up their nice suicide. They're going to be wondering who called it in. They might even be looking for the guy."

  Ford said, "I didn't work for the CIA."

  "You're better off me thinking you did. Being an admitted felon and all."

  "The next time we have a dance," Ford replied, "I'll make sure you and your wife are invited."

  Ford stopped at the beach bar and had a beer with Harvey Hollins, Durell, and the rest of the guys, then left them there, old teammates hooting it up and replaying lost games. It was the way all funerals should end. Across the asphalt parking lot, his truck shimmered, saturated with midday sunlight; the door and steering wheel hot enough to cauterize flesh. He rolled down both windows and shifted to speed, his soaked shirt cooling in the wind off the road. He had Rafe's address book out. There were a couple of places Ford wanted to see.

  The main street was Ocean View Drive, a slow business district four-lane: True Value Hardware, Burger King, Island Doctors Clinic, Cobb Cinema; everything built of concrete block, low to the ground. Sealife Development Corporation offices were just beyond, not quite to Sandy Key Mall, a one-story building behind a two-story fagade: broad lawn, a fountain with American and Canadian flags, a parking lot dividing the main building from two model homes, DELUXE VALUE AT MIDDLE CLASS PRICE. Billboard signs with open-house banners. There was a car in the lot, so Ford pulled in and a salesman in one of the model homes told him the corporate office was closed, being Monday—Sunday was their big day—but if Ford wanted a deal on a house or condo, now was the time to buy. Was he interested? Ford said he was—wishing there was some way to get inside the corporate building to see what kind of bric-a-brac the corporate elite used to decorate their offices.

  The salesman wanted to know if he was interested in a beach condo. They had one or two new units, a very few used units. Or, if Ford wanted something a little higher priced, they'd just listed a split-level executive house on the seventh green of the country club. "Our Thomas Jefferson model," the salesman said. "Rarely available." Ford asked if he had a photo o
f the house—he'd be willing to follow him into the corporate building, if the salesman wanted to unlock. The salesman said no, he might have one back in the files and, when he went to check, Ford lifted the Realtors Only listing book and glanced through it. In the few minutes the salesman was away, Ford counted more than a dozen Thomas Jefferson executive models for sale. Every other listing was a beach condo.

  Real estate sales seemed a little stagnant on Sandy Key, and Ford wondered if Sealife Development was having financial trouble.

  He tried a few more ploys to get into the main building; none worked. If he wanted to check the office shelves for pre-Columbian art, he'd have to come another day.

  Just off the main street, he found the Everglades County Sheriff's Department: three floors of brown stucco with mirrored windows and a chain-link lock-up out back where several white-and-green squad cars glittered in the sun. At the desk, he asked the stern woman in uniform and holster harness if Sheriff DeArmand was in. If he had been, Ford had already decided he would ask about employment. He wasn't.

  What Ford was trying to do was get a feel for the place, a sense of the organization. He had fifteen single-spaced typed pages on Sealife Development back at his lab, but he wanted to flesh out the impression. He wanted a physical understanding of what he was up against. He bought a city map at a 7-Eleven and, using Rafe's address book, found DeArmand's home: a huge split-level version of the Thomas Jefferson executive model built on a sodded half-acre plot that butted up against a line of gray melaleuca trees that separated it from the golf course.

  Ford slowed. Three cars in the drive: a new station wagon, a red Corvette, and a white, unmarked Ford squad car. DeArmand and wife seemed to be home. Ford considered stopping; thought about asking directions—"I'm looking for a Jefferson model on the seventh green"—but decided that was just a little too cute, too risky. He turned at the circular dead end, then headed back out to Ocean View. At a pay phone, he found the address for H. B. Hollins—it wasn't in Rafe's book—and drove to the other end of the island looking for 127 Del Prado Place: a white ranch house with two palm trees, an overgrown lawn, and a faded Honda Accord in the drive.