Cinderella (30 page)

    "Cabin number five," Hacker said, and nodded.

    "Where the coke was," Rawles said.

    "Four keys."

    "High-grade shit."

    "I didn't know about that," Matthew said.

    "You just happened to be where a dope deal was going down, huh?" Rawles said.

    "I'll tell you all about how I happened to be there when you take the deposition," Matthew said.

    "Did you know at the time what was in that dispatch case?" Hacker asked.

    "No."

    "Two hundred and forty thousand dollars and change," Hacker said.

    "So I've been told," Matthew said, though he didn't think of five hundred dollars as "change."

    "Did Hollister threaten you with the gun?" Rawles asked.

    "No."

    "And he didn't say anything to you?"

    "Nothing."

    "So why'd you trip him?"

    "It seemed like the right thing to do."

    "Did kicking him in the head seem like the right thing to do?"

    "Yes. Unless I wanted to get shot. Which I didn't."

    "Because he's claiming now
we're
the ones messed him up," Hacker said.

    "Well, that's easily refuted," Matthew said.

    "Didn't say a word to you, huh?" Rawles said.

    "Nothing."

    "Ain't saying a word to us, neither," Hacker said. "Asked for a lawyer right off, started yelling police brutality, and then clammed up."

    "On the face of it," Rawles said, "it looks like he's the one killed the two Miami punks, but we won't know for sure till we get a ballistics report."

    "How about Otto? Are you running a ballistics-"

    "Otto?" Rawles said. "You mean Samalson?"

    "That's what this is all about, isn't it?" Matthew said. "Somebody killing Otto?"

    "Oh, is
that
what it's all about?" Rawles said.

    "That's news to us," Hacker said.

    "What
we
thought it was all about was four keys of high-grade coke and two hundred and forty thousand plus dollars, that's what
we
thought it was all about."

    Matthew looked at him.

    "Detective Rawles," he said, calmly and levelly, "were any bullets recovered in Otto's car?"

    "One in the car," Rawles said, "the other still in his head."

    "Then compare them with a test-firing from Hollister's gun.

    "Why? How do you tie him with Otto?"

    "Otto was asking him questions."

    "About what?"

    "The girl."

    "The one who got cut?"

    "Yes. Have you talked to her yet?"

    "She says she was walking along 41 minding her own business when these two Hispanics pulled up in a red LeBaron convertible, threw her in the car, and drove her to the motel."

    "Uh-huh," Matthew said.

    "Claims they tried to rape her," Hacker said.

    "Uh-huh," Matthew said. "How does she explain the Toyota?"

    "What Toyota?"

    "The white Toyota with the 201-ZHW license plate. A Hertz rental car. Rented to a woman named Jenny Santoro, which may or may not be her real name."

    "How do you know all this?"

    "Otto knew all this. In any case, she
drove
to the motel. I know because I followed her there."

    Rawles looked at him.

    "Maybe we oughta take that deposition this afternoon," he said.

    "Whenever," Matthew said.

    "How's three o'clock?"

    "Fine."

    "The girl doesn't know anything about a dope deal going down," Hacker said. "Leastways that's what she claims."

    "Says she witnessed Hollister killing the two Hispanics, though," Rawles said.

    "Then that nails Hollister, doesn't it?" Matthew said.

    "I got a hunch she's a hooker," Rawles said, shaking his head. "Juries tend not to believe anything a hooker says. I'd much rather have ballistics evidence."

    "When will they be getting back to you?"

    "Sometime today. Maybe before you come in."

    "Will you ask them to run a test on the other bullets?"

    "Sure. But what difference will it make? This is Florida. A homicide committed by a person engaged in robbery is a capital felony."

    "I know," Matthew said.

    "If we can convict Hollister on two counts of homicide…"

    "But it'll make me feel better," Matthew said.

    

    

    Susan called shortly after the police left.

    The call surprised him.

    He said, "Hey, hi, I was just about to call you."

    "Oh?"

    "I thought you might like to have brunch with me."

    "Well, Joanna's here, you know," Susan said.

    "All three of us, I thought."

    There was a silence on the line.

    "Susan?"

    "Yes?"

    "I think we've got to stop pretending we're… I mean, Joanna's too smart for that. Let's just tell her we've been seeing each other, okay? Tell her I've been courting you. Wooing you," he said, smiling. "Tell her we're exploring the possibility of-"

    "That's why I'm calling," Susan said.

    "I'm right, don't you think?"

    "Yes, but…"

    "So let's tell her at brunch."

    "No, I can't have brunch with you," Susan said, "I'm busy."

    "Oh?"

    "Yes, I have other plans."

    "I thought…"

    "I know, but…"

    "Before you left yesterday…"

    "Yes, Matthew, I know but…"

    "We said we'd try to get together today."

    "But something came up."

    There was a sudden silence on the line.

    He waited.

    It was like sitting in a stalled car on the railroad tracks, waiting for the glaring headlight of a train to come zooming out of the night.

    "I'm driving down to Sanibel with Peter," she said.

    The train smashing into the car, a ball of fire exploding.

    He was happy she could not see his face.

    "He asked me to drive down there with him," she said.

    He was shaking his head.

    "Matthew?"

    "Yes, Susan."

    "Matthew, I need to think about this, about us, I need to… sort things out… understand what's… I just don't know what's happening, Matthew."

    He wanted to say "You said you loved me."

    He did not say it.

    He wanted to say "You said you've
always
loved me."

    He did not say it.

    He waited.

    "Can you give me a little more time, Matthew?"

    He almost said "We have all the time in the world," but that was both a cliche and a lie.

    He said nothing.

    "Matthew… please," she said.

    "Sure," he said.

    "Just until I can-"

    "Sure," he said.

    "We'll see," she said.

    "Yes, Susan."

    "How it works out."

    "Yes."

    "I want to kiss you right this minute," she said, and hung up.

    

    

    It never works out the way you expect it to, he thought.

    You get your chance, you get a chance finally to make a killing, and something goes wrong to fuck it up.

    What possibly could have gotten
into
those two men?

    Why on earth had they suddenly
turned
on Jenny?

    
Cutting
her that way! Were they insane?

    The lawyer he could understand.

    Amaros again.

    First the private investigator and then the lawyer.

    Fucking big dope dealer with all kinds of money to buy all kinds of legitimate pursuit, but oh just wait till he knew for certain he had the right customers, oh just wait. In would come the gorillas, my dear, to take back the dope and cut off your cock, you do not mess with
Senor
Armadillo,
amigos,
oh no.

    Because Amaros had
seen
him.

    Amaros knew what he
looked
like.

    That night in the Kasbah lounge when he came in every four or five minutes in the gray chauffeur's uniform…

    Miss Carmody? Are you going to wait any longer? Or should we start for the party?

    Miss Carmody?

    Miss Carmody, shall I bring the car around?

    So here's a little bald-headed guy standing outside the condo door with a picture of Jenny in his hand, ice-blue gown with the fake sapphire-and-diamond pin on her abundant chest, and he's asking questions and of course he's from Amaros, Amaros is closing in.

    Gives his name.

    Otto Samalson.

    Samalson Investigations.

    Downtown Calusa.

    Yes, Mr. Samalson. Mr. Samalson, you have signed your own death warrant because there is no way
this
person is going to allow you to report back to Amaros, you are too fucking
close,
Mr. Samalson, you have to
go,
Mr. Samalson!

    They'd been so damn cautious, too.

    She'd flown up, rented a car at the airport, took a room at the Sheraton where he was waiting for her. He'd driven up with the coke in the trunk of the blue Ford, no roadblocks between Miami and here, no danger of who the hell
knew
what if she'd carried the coke in a suitcase on the plane. Met at the Sheraton. Different rooms. She'd stayed on there after he'd taken the summer rental at Camelot Towers-well, of course, the whore princess, you couldn't expect her to rent a
condominium,
could you?

    And now a man with her picture in his hand.

    Well, yes, it is simple to
find
you, Mr. Samalson, given your address in downtown Calusa, and yes, it is simple to steal a car, Mr. Samalson, and yes, it is simple to
follow
you and to pump two bullets into your car and into your head, bam, bam, good-bye, Mr. Samalson, it was nice knowing you, and goodbye Luis Amaros, too.

    The fucking
lawyer!

    Should have finished him last night, but that would have meant either shooting on the run and risking a miss, or else stopping, taking aim, no no my dear. Better to get on with it, move on with it, get away from her, away from the lawyer, grab the dope in the suitcase in the other cabin, mustn't leave all that sweet dust behind, now must we? Dump the dope and the money in the Ford and off we go into the wild blue yonder, riding high into the sun and Hong
Kong,
mister, heaven at last, heaven.

    But it never works out the way you think it will.

    You sit instead in a six-by-eight cubicle with bars as thick as your cock, and on the wall, prisoners past have written stupid little sayings and there's a toilet you can sit on with everyone looking through the bars at you, and it never works out the way you think it will.

    You can never trust women.

    

    

    Daniel Nettington called Matthew at home at two-thirty that Sunday afternoon, just as he was leaving for the Public Safety Building downtown. Carta Nettington was on the extension.

    "Mr. Hope," Nettington said, "sorry to be breaking in on you at home."

    Matthew said, "Not at all."

    "Daniel and I have had a long talk," Carla said.

    "A very long talk," Daniel said.

    "What we'd like you to do for us," Carla said, "is draw up a paper saying that in the event of a divorce we will each share everything we own fifty-fifty."

    "Uh-huh," Matthew said.

    "Not that we're planning on a divorce," Nettington said.

    "But this will give us leeway, do you understand?" Carla said.

    "Without having to hire private detectives to follow us, eh?" Nettington said.

    "A free and open marriage," Carla said.

    "So what time can you see us tomorrow?" Nettington said.

    "I can't," Matthew said, and hung up.

    

    

    She had let herself in with her own key.

    What she planned to do here at the condo was steal Vincent blind.

    Ta, darling.

    While she's bleeding on the bed.

    He had plenty of jewelry, he wore more jewelry than most women did. She planned to take all his jewelry, carry it back with her to the Sheraton where she would take Larkin's Rolex from the safety-deposit box and then get out of town.

    Never mind testifying against Vincent if and when it came to that.

    That was something she'd told the cops in anger.

    She didn't care
what
happened to Vincent, she only cared what happened to herself.

    Ta, darling.

    Six stitches in the cut over her eye.

    Another four stitches in the cut on the inside of her thigh.

    That was what she was afraid of.

    That Amaros would keep sending people after her again and again and again because she'd stolen his coke.

    She had to get out.

    Fast.

    Out of Florida, out of America, out of the life.

    Take everything Vincent owned that wasn't nailed down, and make her way to Paris, play it by ear from there. Try to make a new start. Find a job in a little theater someplace, out in the country someplace, trees everywhere, rivers, she was still young, still beautiful…