Stormy Weather (42 page)

“Don’t you move,” said the woman.

“Did I hit him?”

“Sit still.”

“Ma’am, help me up. Please.”

He was shuffling for his car when the fire truck arrived. The paramedics made him lie down while they stripped off his shirt and the vest. They told him he was going to have an extremely nasty bruise. They told him he was a very lucky man.

By the time the paramedics were done, the parking lot of the Paradise Palms was clogged with curious locals, wandering tourists and motel guests, a fleet of Monroe County deputies, two TV news vans and three gleaming, undented Highway Patrol cruisers belonging to Jim Tile’s supervisors. They gathered under black umbrellas to fill out their reports.

Meanwhile the shooter was speeding up Highway One with the governor and the newlywed.

A lieutenant told Jim Tile not to worry, they’d never make it out of the Keys.

“Sir, I’d like to be part of the pursuit. I feel fine.”

“You’re not going anywhere.” The lieutenant softened the command with a fraternal chuckle. “Hell, Jimbo, we’re just gettin’ started.”

He handed the trooper a stack of forms and a pen.

The body of Tony Torres inevitably became a subject of interest to a newspaper reporter working on hurricane-related casualties. The autopsy report did not use the term “crucifixion,” but the silhouette diagram of puncture wounds told the whole grisly story. To avert embarrassing publicity, the police made a hasty effort to reignite the
investigation, dormant since the aborted phone call from a woman claiming to be the dead man’s widow. Within a day, a veteran homicide detective named Brickhouse was able to turn up a recent address for the murdered Tony Torres. This was done by tracing the victim’s Cartier wristwatch to a Bal Harbour jeweler, who remembered Tony as an overbearing jerk, and kept detailed receipts of the transaction in anticipation of future disputes. The jeweler was not crestfallen at the news of Señor Torres’s demise, and graciously gave the detective the address he sought. While the police department’s Public Information division stalled the newspaper reporter, Brickhouse drove down to the address in Turtle Meadow.

There he found an abandoned hurricane house with a late-model Chevrolet and a clunker Oldsmobile parked in front. The Chevy’s license plate had been removed, but the VIN number came back to Antonio Rodrigo Guevara-Torres, the victim. The tag on the rusty Olds was registered to one Lester Maddox Parsons. Brickhouse radioed for a criminal history, which might or might not be ready when he got back to the office in the morning; the hurricane had unleashed electronic gremlins inside the computers.

The detective’s natural impulse was to enter the house, which would have been fairly easy in the absence of doors. The problem wasn’t so much that Brickhouse didn’t have a warrant; it was the old man next door, watching curiously from the timber shell of his front porch. He would be the defense lawyer’s first witness at a suppression hearing, if an unlawful search of the victim’s residence turned up evidence.

So Brickhouse stayed in the yard, peeking through broken windows and busted doorways. He noted a gas-powered generator in the garage, wine and flowers in the dining room, a woman’s purse, half-melted candles, an Igloo cooler positioned next to a BarcaLounger—definitive signs of post-hurricane habitation. Everything else was standard storm debris. Brickhouse saw no obvious bloodstains, which fit his original theory that the mobile-home salesman had been taken elsewhere to be crucified.

The detective strolled over to chat with the snoopy neighbor, who gave his name as Leonel Varga. He told a jumbled but colorful yarn about sinister-looking visitors, mysterious leggy women and insufferable barking dogs. Brickhouse took notes courteously. Varga said Mr. and Mrs. Torres were separated, although she’d recently phoned to say she was coming home.

“But it’s a secret,” he added.

“You bet,” Brickhouse said. Before knocking off for the evening, he tacked his card to the doorjamb at 15600 Calusa.

That’s where Neria Torres found it at dawn.

Matthew’s pickup truck had followed her all the way from Fort Drum to the house at Turtle Meadow. The seven Tennesseeans swarmed the battered building in orgiastic wonderment at the employment opportunity that God had wrought. Matthew dramatically announced they should commence repairs immediately.

Neria said, “Not just yet. You help me find my husband, then I’ll let you do some work on the house.”

“I guess, sure. Where’s he at?”

“First I’ve got to make some calls.”

“Sure,” Matthew said. “Meantime we should get a jump on things.” He asked Neria’s permission to borrow some tools from the garage.

“Just hold on,” she told him.

But they were already ascending the roof and rafters, like a troop of hairless chimpanzees. Neria let it go. The sight of the place disturbed her more than she had anticipated. She’d seen the hurricane destruction on CNN, but standing ankle-deep in it was different; overwhelming, if the debris once was your home. The sight of her mildewed wedding pictures in the wreckage brought a sentimental pang, but it was quickly deadened by the discovery of flowers and a bottle of wine in the dining room. Neria Torres assumed Tony had bought them for a bimbo.

She fingered the detective’s card. She hoped it meant that the cops had tossed her asshole husband in jail, leaving her a clear path toward reclaiming half the marital property. Or possibly more.

She heard a mechanical roar from the garage; the resourceful Tennesseeans had found fuel for the generator. A bare lightbulb flickered on and off in the living room.

Leonel Varga, still in his bathrobe, came over to say hello. He assured her that the police detective was a nice man.

“What did he want? Is it about Tony?”

“I think so. He didn’t say.” Mr. Varga stared up at the busy figures of the men on the roof beams, backlit by the molten sunrise. “You found some roofers?”

Neria Torres said, “Oh, I seriously doubt it.”

She dialed the private number that Detective Brickhouse had penciled on the back of the business card. He answered the phone like a man accustomed to being awakened by strangers. He said, “I’m glad you called.”

“Is it about Tony?”

“Yeah, I’m afraid it is.”

“Don’t tell me he’s in jail,” said Neria, hoping dearly that Brickhouse would tell her precisely that.

“No,” the detective said. “Mrs. Torres, your husband’s dead.”

“Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.” Neria’s mind was skipping like a flat rock on a river.

“I’m sorry—”

“You sure?” she asked. “Are you sure it’s Antonio?”

“We should take a ride up to the morgue. You’re home now?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m back.”

Brickhouse said, “I’ve got to be in court this morning. How about if I swing by around noon? We’ll go together. Give us some time to chat.”

“About what?”

“It looks like Antonio was murdered.”

“How! Murdered?”

“We’ll talk later, Mrs. Torres. Get some rest now.”

Neria didn’t know what she felt, or what she ought to feel. The corpse in the morgue was the man she’d married. A corpulent creep, to be sure, but still the husband she had once believed she loved. Shock was natural. Curiosity. A selfish stab of fear. Maybe even sorrow. Tony had his piggish side, but even so …

Her gaze settled for the first time on the purse. A woman’s purse, opened, on the kitchen counter. On top was a note printed in block letters and signed with the initials “F.D.” The note said the author was keeping the dogs at the motel. The note began with “My Sexy Darling” and ended with “Love Always.”

Dogs? Neria Torres thought.

She wondered if Tony was the same man as “F.D.” and, if so, what insipid nickname the initials stood for. Fat Dipshit?

Curiously she went through the contents of the purse. A driver’s license identified the owner as Edith Deborah Marsh. Neria noted the date of birth, working the arithmetic in her head. Twenty-nine years old, this one.

Tony, you dirty old perv
.

Neria appraised the face in the photograph. A ballbuster; Tony must’ve had his fat hands full. Neria took unaccountable satisfaction from the fact that young Edith was a dagger-eyed brunette, not some dippy blonde.

From behind her came the sound of roupy breathing. Neria wheeled, to find Matthew looming at her shoulder.

“Christ!”

“I dint mean to scare ya.”

“What is it? What do you want?”

“It’s started up to rain.”

“I noticed.”

“Seemed like a good spot for a break. We was headed to a hardware store for some roof paper, nails, wood—stuff like that.”

“Lumber,” Neria Torres said archly. “In the construction business, it’s called ‘lumber.’ Not wood.”

“Sure.” He was scratching at his Old Testament tattoos.

She said, “So go already.”

“Yeah, well, we need some money. For the lumber.”

“Matthew, there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

“Sure.”

“My husband’s been murdered. A police detective is coming out here soon.”

Matthew took a step back and said, “Sweet Jesus, I’m so sorry.” He began to improvise a prayer, but Neria cut him off.

“You and your crew,” she said, “you
are
licensed in Dade County, aren’t you? I mean, there won’t be any problem if the detective wants to ask some questions…?”

The Tennesseeans were packed and gone within fifteen minutes. Neria found the solitude relaxing: a light whisper of rain, the occasional whine of a mosquito. She thought of Tony, wondered whom he’d pissed off to get himself killed—maybe tough young Edith! Neria thought of the professor, too, wondered how he and his Earth Mother blow-job artist were getting along with no wheels.

She also thought of the many things she didn’t want to do, such as move back into the gutted husk at 15600 Calusa. Or be interviewed by a homicide detective. Or go to the morgue to view her estranged husband’s body.

Money was the immediate problem. Neria wondered if careless Tony had left her name on any of the bank accounts, and what (if anything) remained in them. The most valuable item at the house was his
car, untouched by the hurricane. Neria located the spare key in the garage, but the engine wouldn’t turn over.

“Need some help?”

It was a clean-shaven young man in a Federal Express uniform. He had an envelope for Neria Torres. She signed for it, laid it on the front seat of Tony’s Chevy.

The kid said, “I got jumpers in the truck.”

“Would you mind?”

They had the car started in no time. Neria idled the engine and waited for the battery to recharge. The Fed Ex kid said it sounded good. Halfway to the truck, he stopped and turned.

“Hey, somebody swiped your license plate.”

“Shit.” Neria got out to see for herself. The FedEx driver said it was probably a looter.

“Everybody around here’s getting ripped off,” he explained.

“I didn’t even notice. Thanks.”

As soon as he left, Neria opened the FedEx envelope. Her delirious shriek drew nosy Mr. Varga to his front porch. He was shirtless, a toothbrush in one cheek. In fascination he watched his neighbor practically bound up the sidewalk into her house.

The envelope contained two checks made out to Antonio and Neria Torres. The checks were issued by the Midwest Life and Casualty Company of Omaha, Nebraska. They totaled $201,000. The stubs said: “Hurricane losses.”

Shortly after noon, when Detective Brickhouse arrived at 15600 Calusa, he found the house empty again. The Chevrolet was gone, as was the widow of Antonio Torres. A torn Federal Express envelope lay on the driveway, near the rusty Oldsmobile. Mr. Varga, the neighbor, informed the detective that Neria Torres sped off without even waving good-bye.

Brickhouse was backing out of the driveway when a rental car pulled up. A thin blond man wearing round eyeglasses got out. Brickhouse noticed the man had tan Hush Puppies and was carrying a box of Whitman chocolates. High-pitched barking could be heard from the back seat of the visitor’s car.

The detective called the man over. “Are you looking for Mrs. Torres?”

The man hesitated. Brickhouse identified himself. The man blinked repeatedly, as if his glasses were smudged.

He said, “I don’t know anybody named Torres. Guess I’ve got the wrong address.” Speedily he returned to his car.

Brickhouse leaned out the window. “Hey, who’s the candy for?”

“My mother!” Fred Dove replied, over the barking.

The detective watched the confused young man drive away, and wondered why he’d lied. Even crackheads know how to find their own mother’s house. Brickhouse briefly considered tailing the guy, but decided it would be a waste of time. Whoever crucified Tony Torres wasn’t wearing Hush Puppies. Brickhouse would have bet his pension on it.

Augustine parked at a phone booth behind a gas station. The governor had them wait while he made a call. He came back humming a Beatles tune.

“Jim’s alive,” he said.

Edie Marsh leaned forward. “Your friend! How do you know?”

“There’s a number where we leave messages for each other.”

Bonnie asked if he was hurt badly.

“Nope. He took it in the vest.”

Augustine shook a fist in elation. Everybody’s mood perked up, even Edie’s. Skink told Bonnie she could call her mother, but make it fast. It went like this:

“Mom, something’s happened.”

“I guessed as much.”

“Between Max and me.”

“Oh no.” Bonnie’s mother, laboring to sound properly dismayed, when Bonnie knew how she truly felt.

“What’d he do, sweetie?”

“Nothing, Mom. It’s all me.”

“Did you have a fight?” her mother asked.

“Listen, I’ve met two unusual men. I believe I’ve fallen in love with one of them.”

“On your honeymoon, Bonnie?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s not certain,” Bonnie said.

“These men, are they dangerous?”

“Not to me. Mom, they’re totally different from anyone I’ve ever known. It’s a very … primitive charisma.”

“Let’s not mention that last part to your father.”

Next Bonnie phoned the apartment in New York. When she got back to the Seville, she told Skink to go on without her.