The Way You Look Tonight (26 page)

Ten minutes later he was on set as the programme counted down to transmission. The red light flashed once, twice, and then stayed on as the opening titles rolled. They showed pelicans gliding
over a shining sea; a police helicopter taking off from the top of a Miami skyscraper; hot-rod cars blazing along an endless smooth sandy beach, all interspersed with shots of nubile young women
wearing tiny bikinis frolicking in the sea.

The monitor in front of him cut to a wide studio shot showing both himself and the anchor – a household name in southern Florida – sitting on either side of a narrow wooden desk.

Lee was terrified.

The host, impeccably coiffed and improbably tanned even by Floridian standards, began talking to the camera. Lee couldn’t believe how insouciant and relaxed the man appeared, considering
that hundreds of thousands of people must be watching.

‘Good evening, good people,’ the anchor began in a crisp baritone. ‘You’re watching
SFNT
with me, Todd Rodgerson.’

The camera cut to Lee, who under the thick panstick could feel himself starting to perspire.

‘And this is FBI agent Lee Foster. His agency believes the infamous Keys Killer is not only still at large in Key West, but is concealing his true identity’ – the standard mug
shot of Woods appeared onscreen – ‘in a cunning disguise. Police artists, commissioned by this programme,’ (Lee raised an eyebrow at that) ‘have been working to give us some
idea of how the fugitive, John Henry Woods, may now appear. So, does he now look like
this
—’

A drawing of Woods with jet-black hair appeared on screen.

‘Or this . . .’ Now the wanted man had dark stubble, too.

‘Or
this
. . .’ Woods was blond now, first with a nascent beard, and then without.

‘Or THIS.’ The screen split into multiple images to show the wanted man in all the previous incarnations, but this time wearing tinted spectacles. The images began to slowly rotate
with full-frame shots showing each possible permutation.

‘Agent Foster . . . over to you, sir.’

Lee had been told by Todd’s enthusiastic producer that their available audience stretched from Cape Canaveral to the north, Key West to the south, and Tampa and Naples to the west. There
was nothing to the east, except the Bahamas, which broadcast a taped copy of
SFNT
six hours after transmission. Beyond those islands was the broad Atlantic stream that divided North
America from Europe.

He didn’t give a hoot about what the producer told him was the station’s ‘footprint’. All he cared about were the viewers watching in Key West.

‘Thanks, Todd,’ he said, trying to hide his jitters. ‘As you say, we strongly suspect Woods to be in Key West, masquerading under some form of false identity. It’s what
we call hiding in plain sight. If any of the images your viewers are looking at right now remind them of someone they have seen in recent days, or even today, in Key West, we urge them to call us
immediately.’ He paused uncertainly. ‘Er . . . do I give the number at this point, Todd?’

The host shook his head. ‘No need, sir. It’s right there on the bottom of the screen. As viewers can see, it’s a toll-free number, so it won’t cost anyone a red cent to
dial it. How dangerous do you think Woods is right now, Agent Foster? It’s been a while since he killed.’

Lee nodded. ‘Yes, clearly he’s been lying low. But he remains exceptionally dangerous, partly because he’s backed into a corner now and that’s bound to make him
unpredictable. If any of your viewers think they may have seen someone similar to one of these pictures, they must on no account approach him. It’s highly likely that he is armed and given
the horrifying nature of his crimes thus far he won’t hesitate to kill again if he thinks he has to.’

A studio floor manager standing beside Todd’s dedicated camera began to give the anchor a sign to wind up the interview.

Todd riffled his script for visual punctuation and said: ‘Thank you, Agent Foster, but I’m afraid that’s all we have time for. Everyone here at
SFNT
wishes you and
your men a speedy and successful conclusion to this operation.’

Lee held up one hand. ‘Just one more thing, please.’

Todd looked faintly annoyed. ‘Make it brief, sir. Time and commercials wait for no man.’

‘Sure. It’s just that if anyone
does
recognise one of these images, it’ll be that of a new kid in town. Coupla weeks at most.’

‘Point taken, Agent Foster, and thanks again. After the break – the Miami Dolphins. Doomed, desperate and destined for defeat against Denver? That’s when we come
back.’

The programme’s sting – a brief, stirring cacophony of French horns – cued the commercials. Todd slipped his earpiece out and proffered his hand to Lee.

‘Nice going, Mr Foster, especially for a first-timer. You’re a TV natural. Had me worried for my job a moment there.’ He laughed.

Lee smiled back at him as they shook hands. ‘You have to be kidding. My heart was going like a jack hammer. I was more nervous than when I got into my first shoot-out. Anyway, thanks for
the spot.’

The make-up girl was back, dabbing at the presenter’s nose with an enormous powder puff.

‘Sure, no problem. By the way – d’you really think he’s still in Key West?’

Lee stood to go.

‘I damn well know he is. And now the bastard knows I know.’

He switched off the TV and took another of the old queen’s cigarettes from the varnished bamboo box by the side of the bed, lighting it with the gold Ronson
he’d found on the same elegant French-polished table.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

The artist’s impression showing him clean-shaven with bleach-blond hair and tinted glasses might just as well have been a Polaroid of him that someone had taken that very
afternoon.

Sliding off the bed, he went to the enormous Baroque mirror that was fixed at a suspicious angle on the wall opposite the end of the ornate four-poster bed, and stared at his
reflection.

He was fucked. If Tom or anyone else who worked at the Springfield had been watching the broadcast, they’d almost certainly be on the phone to the cops right at this very moment. Every
one of the bastards would be chasing that $10, 000 reward, not to mention the bar’s regulars, too. Everyone would recognise him from the picture; you’d have to be blind or stupid not
to. Jesus, even the wrinkled old tart whose body he’d just dragged down into the fruit cellar would otherwise have probably been tottering down Duval to Key West’s police headquarters
to turn him in.

Then there was the small matter of tomorrow’s papers. The eerily accurate sketch was going to be all over them. The
Courier
, the
Herald
, probably even the
frigging
Keys Shopper
.

Jesus.

He drew hard on the cigarette. It was time to face reality. This whole thing was unravelling much, much more quickly than he would have believed possible at the start. Which was when,
exactly? Christ, not even two months ago. He’d honestly believed it would be way past Thanksgiving or even Christmas before the cops or the Feds got so much as a sniff of him. When he sensed
that, he would have been out of the state with a new off-the-shelf ID before they’d even got close.

Well, they were close now all right. And it was all thanks to his English rose. Boy, did that bitch have a poison thorn on her.

He turned away from the mirror and crossed the bedroom to a sideboard that stood underneath the bedroom window. He pulled the double doors open and grimaced. The top shelf was heaped with
sex toys, mostly enormous and elaborate phalluses. But underneath was a circular rotating platform crammed with bottles of exotic drinks. He poked through the assorted crème de menthes,
cherry brandies and Benedictines until he found some whisky, almost a full bottle, and yanked it out.

A couple of minutes later he was in the dead man’s kitchen rooting through an ancient and filthy freezer in search of ice. He found a block in a drugstore-bought bag of ice cubes which
had solidified. He smashed it repeatedly onto the floor until some usable chunks broke loose.

He couldn’t find any clean glasses so he rinsed a crystal tumbler that was lying in a heap of unwashed crockery in the sink, and mixed himself an enormous scotch on the rocks with just
a dash of water from the tap.

He took it back upstairs and lay down fully-clothed on the four-poster.

He had a lot of thinking to do, a lot of planning.

His run might be almost over, but he’d end it on his own terms.

‘An English Rose for a Keys Killer’;
that’s what those headlines had said.

Yeah. Damn straight on that.

The time had come to take what was rightfully his.

Tom was surprised and slightly annoyed when Dennis didn’t show up for happy hour. He had two other guys on duty, but a shift was a shift and he hated staff taking
advantage of his easy-going nature.

He went upstairs to his apartment above the bar, making a mental note to pull his newest barman up short when he eventually deigned to show up for work. He wouldn’t make too much of it,
though – so far Dennis had been hard-working and reliable. That’s why he was surprised by tonight’s no-show.

Tom always changed for evenings in the Springfield and he expected his staff to smarten up a bit after sundown, too. His parents had always changed for dinner; he supposed he got it from
them.

He switched on the portable TV in the lounge and carried it through to the bedroom, adjusting the aerial when he got there. The picture sharpened nicely but he kept the sound low for now. An ad
for the latest Cadillac was airing and he glanced at his watch. Two before six. Good; he was in time for Todd Rodgerson, who he had a bit of a thing for, if he was honest. He’d never read
anything in the
Miami Herald
gossip columns that indicated whether the unmarried anchor was or wasn’t straight, but he had his suspicions which team the guy batted for. Something
told him that if the TV host came down here to Key West he’d be more comfortable drinking in the Springfield than in the Hog’s Breath.

He opened his wardrobe and wondered whether he should wear the seersucker jacket he’d picked up on his last trip to New York, or his new captain’s blazer with the brass buttons
he’d bought from the menswear store next door a few days back.

He’d just decided on the seersucker and was picking out a shirt and tie when he heard Todd’s distinctive voice coming from the portable. His show had started and he was saying
something about Key West. Bruce had been right, then. Curious, Tom crossed the room and turned up the volume.

Todd was sitting opposite some guy – also very cute, Tom noted with appreciation – and talking about the Keys Killer and some sort of disguise. He turned up the sound a little
more.

‘. . . some idea of how the fugitive, John Henry Woods, may now appear. So, does he now look like
this . . .
’

Todd and his guest were replaced on screen by a montage of sketches of the wanted man. After the first two or three, Tom shrugged and went back to the wardrobe. He’d never seen anyone like
that down here.

He slid a pale blue shirt from its hanger and turned back to look at the TV while he put it on.

His fingers froze in the act of buttoning down the collar.

‘Holy fuck.’

Staring out at him from the little screen was the man he’d sent off on a late lunch break two hours earlier.

‘Holy
fuck.
’

The series of sketches were now being repeated over and over, lazily succeeding each other on screen as the cop or G-man or whatever he was talked about the manhunt. Every time the version that
had to be Dennis –
had
to be – appeared, Tom felt like he was being punched in the stomach.

Now the cop was saying something about not approaching the fugitive, how he was a ruthless killer, and to call the toll-free number on the bottom of the screen if you recognised him.

Tom half sat, half collapsed on to the end of his bed, his shirt still unbuttoned. This was unbelievable. This was totally unbelievable. Todd was wrapping the segment up but the cop interrupted
him. He said the killer would be a new kid in town and would only have shown up in Key West in the past week or two.

Dennis had walked into the Springfield, what, ten days ago?

‘Jesus, I hired a fucking psycho,’ the bar owner whispered to himself. And then a sudden spasm of fear gripped him.

What if he’s on his way back here now?

Chanting the police phone number aloud over and over to keep it in his memory, he raced down the stairs, shirt flapping open as he went.

He burst into the bar, running to the phone on the wall opposite.

‘Pete, Harry – lock the doors,’ he shouted. ‘Do it now.’

The bartenders stared at him in astonishment.

‘But we’ve got some customers in already,’ one of them objected. ‘We can’t lock them in, they’ll—’

‘
I said lock the frigging doors! Now!
’

The next moment his trembling fingers were transferring the numbers in his head to the phone, forcing the dial back against its ratchet between each digit in an effort to speed it up.

Finally he was done and after a few moments he heard the ringtone.

‘C’mon . . .
c’mon
,’ he breathed. Behind him he could hear the bar doors slamming shut and bolts rattling into place. One customer was protesting but he could
take a hike.

At last someone picked up the phone at the other end.

‘Police – Keys Killer hotline. You have information for us?’

Tom took a deep breath.

‘You can say that again.’

Lee had barely driven out of the TV station’s parking lot in downtown Miami when the radio on his cruiser’s dash crackled into life. It was the sergeant he’d
left in charge of the phone room back in Key West.

He snatched the microphone from its holder. ‘Talk to me, Ben. What kind of response are we getting?’