Unknown Remains (22 page)

“I think I'm all done for tonight.” Diane handed the Glock to him, and he slid it in the holster on his hip. “Still think I had something to do with Vicki Ross's death?”

Marquis Brown shook his head. “You been cleared.”

“Who did it?”

“Shooter worked for Frankie Cheech.”

“You come all the way down here to tell me that?”

“Cobb and Diaz are wanted for murder. I figured, I find you, I'm gonna find them. Remember, you told me you liked Captiva, told me where you stayed, said you could even live here part of the year. Remember that?”

Yeah, she remembered. It was when he asked where Jack might go. “Well, here he is.” Jack came over and stood where the carpet and linoleum met. “Jack, this is Detective Brown, New York Police Homicide.”

“Found him, huh? Knew where he'd be. That was the plan, I gotta believe.”

“There was no plan. It happened the way I told you.”

Marquis seemed distracted, looked through the kitchen into the living room. “Where's Diaz?”

Now Diane looked too. Ruben was gone and so was the black nylon bag.

Marquis moved slowly past Jack into the living room, glanced down at Cobb, drew the Glock, crossed the floor and went in the bedroom, Diane behind him, seeing the open window. Marquis walked over and looked out at the darkness. He smiled and slid the Glock in his holster. “Listen, you've got to get out of here.”

“You're not going to arrest Jack?”

“For what?”

“I should stay and tell the police what happened.”

“You don't think I can do that? Now take your man and go.”

They drove in
silence to the end of the island, Diane picturing Cobb, eyes open, dead on the floor. Why did it have to end this way? She could feel Jack staring at her. He finally broke the silence. “You all right?”

“No, I'm not all right. I'm not close to being all right. I just killed someone.”

“Who was going to kill you, who was probably gonna kill all of us. You didn't have a choice.”

Hearing that made her feel a little better. The tires whined as they went over the bridge. Jack, still staring, said, “What do you want to do?”

Diane pulled over in the deserted beach parking lot, looking at the ocean.

It was hot, stuffy in the car. She put the window down and felt a warm breeze and heard waves breaking on shore. She turned in the seat and faced him.

“Let me say something.” Jack paused. “Look, I screwed up, I can't change that, but I can tell you it won't happen again.” His eyes held on her. “If that sounds like I'm giving you a line, I'm not. I mean it. You're gonna have to go with your instinct on this. Either I'm worth another chance, or I'm not.”

Diane had made up her mind. “It isn't going to work. I don't know you anymore. I don't trust you.”

“You're gonna throw away twelve years of marriage just like that?”

“You already did, remember?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Get out of the car.”

“Come on. We can work things out. I know it.”

“I would always wonder about you, and I don't want to live that way.”

“I do love you,” Jack said, giving it one more try, but there was no sincerity or emotion in his voice. He sounded like he was recommending a mutual fund.

“You'll get over it.”

Jack got out. Diane pulled away, left him standing in the parking lot and knew it was the right thing, the only thing. She got on the road to the mainland and never looked back.

FORTY-THREE

Ruben shaved and poured cologne in his hand, patted his face, and felt his skin sting a little. He picked up the Cuba Libre and, in a white hotel robe, walked out on the balcony, staring at the dark ocean in the distance, feeling the breeze and listening to the night sounds of San Juan below him.

He put on a crisp white shirt and the new linen suit. It was nine forty-five. Ruben would start at Club Brava and go from there. He would drink rum and the local men would come up to him and say,
Ruben, hey man, how you doing? I saw you fight so-and-so. Man, you knock him out in the
. . .

He would meet a woman, dance, and bring her back to his wonderful luxury room that had a bathtub and a shower. For the first time in his life, Ruben had money and nothing to worry about.
La vida era buena
.

When he finished dressing, Ruben stood in front of the full-length mirror admiring himself in the white suit. He thought he heard a door close and saw a man appear behind him holding a gun, and he knew he should've been more careful.

“Where is the money?”

“In the closet,” Ruben said. With what he had saved and what he took from Jack McCann, there was more than eight hundred thousand.

“Vincent Gallo sends his regards.” The man raised the pistol now and shot him in the back, the bullet going through his body, coming out his chest, and shattering the mirror. Ruben, not sure how he
was still standing, looked at himself in the fractured slivers of glass. There was a hole in his suit jacket, the white fabric turning red. Ruben dropped to his knees and fell backward, the man standing over him aiming the pistol again.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A week before my father passed away, he was at my house for dinner. Elmore was telling me about the book he was writing called
Blue Dreams
. He paused, smoking a Virginia Slims 100 and said, “How's your book coming?” I said, “I'm in the middle of act two.” Elmore said, “What's your title?” I said, “
Unidentified Remains
.” He brought the cigarette to his mouth, inhaled, glanced across the room, blew out smoke and said, “How about
Unknown Remains
?”

I want to thank my agents Andrew Wylie and Jeff Posternak for connecting me with Counterpoint, my new publisher, and for getting
Unknown Remains
in the hands of editor Dan Smetanka. Dan is extraordinarily good at keeping a story moving, hitting on all cylinders.