A Hard Death (31 page)

J
enner was relieved the Mercedes wasn't in the shelter parking lot.

He rang the bell a couple of times before Dr. Ade appeared, slipping on her white coat.

“Oh, doctor, I'm so glad it's you.”

He grinned at her. “So, how's the patient?”

Her face was serious. “He's fine—he's acting almost as if nothing ever happened. But there's something else, and it's urgent: Ms. Craine has been calling. She's lost your number.” She scribbled the address on a yellow Post-it note and handed it to him. “She wants you to go to her house right away. I'll let her know you're on your way.”

“What's this about?”

“She didn't say. But she's been calling every five minutes, so I think it's really important. Do you know where she lives?”

Jenner looked at the Post-it. “No. Is it far?”

“Five minutes. It's right next to the golf course, a gated community called the Polo Course. It's a white house with a blue gate. She'll buzz you in through the main gate—her house is the last one on the street.”

She called to him as he was about to head out through the door. “And doctor?”

He turned.

She hesitated for a second, then said gravely, “I think she might have been drinking.”

T
he Polo Course was a luxury development, seven or eight big houses on large plots, each widely separated from its neighbors. The architectural styles were a potluck, from Modernist glass and concrete to faux Mediterranean, but the group was united by immaculate lawns and shrubs, all meticulously trimmed to the regulation lengths specified in the community bylaws.

Maggie Craine's was at the end, where Polo Course Lane curled into a cul-de-sac. It was the largest, a white clapboard house with a wraparound porch, carefully designed to evoke Old Florida.

A Hispanic maid in a gray uniform and white pinafore let him into the house. It was dark and cool, with glossy, ebonized walnut floors and tall white sheers covering the windows. The maid gestured wordlessly to the gloom of the back of the house; she looked like she'd been crying. Jenner walked through the huge kitchen and out onto the back veranda.

The back garden was beautiful, an extravagant outburst of tropical plants—clusters of big white Amazon lilies, spikes of red and orange heliconia, elephant ear leaves the size of platters, still glistening from the previous night's rain; the air was sweet with the perfume of thick vines of shining jasmine dripping from an old mahogany. He walked down the steps and made his way to a glassed-in cabin at the bottom of the garden, where a sentinel mynah bird tethered to a black metal stand hopped silently from foot to foot.

The cabin seemed to be built of glass casement windows, and as Jenner approached, he saw it was Maggie's studio. A big easel supporting a half-finished, brilliantly colored self-portrait in oils stood in one corner, the easel supports and the floor underneath thickly encrusted with dripped paint. More self-portraits leaned against the walls of the
studio; most were portraits of her face, others were nudes, her body painted so that the breasts were lush and full but her belly, flanks, and hips were gaunt.

She coughed and he turned to find her behind him. She was dressed in a paint-flecked man's shirt tied at the waist, and similarly spattered rolled jeans and espadrilles. Her hair was up in a ponytail, and her eyes were red.

“You hate them.”

He shook his head. “No, not at all. They're very striking, very…expressive.”

Maggie dismissed his comment with a wave of her hand. “I've been calling you at the shelter all afternoon.”

“Why didn't you call my cell?”

“I deleted you.”

He didn't react. She said, “She's gone, Jenner.”

“Who?”

“Lucy.” She fumbled for her cigarettes in her pants pocket. “I think Daddy took her.”

“Oh.” He was confused. “Well, call his cell.”

“He's not answering.”

“When is your flight?”

“What flight?”

“He said you were going to France today.”

“What?”
She began to cry. “No!
No
, we're not going to France! Why would you think that?”

“That's what he said. I thought…”

“What did he say?”

“I think his exact words were something like ‘I'm going to take my daughter to France this afternoon.'”

Maggie was crying hard now. Jenner put a hand on her shoulder but she shook it off, weeping as she tried to put a cigarette in her mouth. He said, “I don't understand.”

“He's taking
Lucy
to France!”

“Oh. I'm sorry, I misheard him.”

She turned and raced across the garden to disappear into the house. He followed her, winding through the kitchen into the den. She was opening a small wall safe tucked into a bookcase; the door swung open to reveal several large envelopes, a jewelry box, and stacked bundles of cash. Weeping, she held up a passport—hers.

“He took her passport!”

Then she sagged into a chair, put her face in her hands, and shook with tears.

Jenner stood next to the chair, put a hand on Maggie's shoulder.

“He didn't tell you?”

She sobbed, “Jenner! You never understand
anything
!”

“Listen—you're her mother. You're her legal next of kin; she's in your custody, and it's up to you whether she goes or not. Maybe you should call the police…”

“I
can't
! You
know
I can't!” Maggie's hair had come out of her ponytail, and she was mopping it across her face into her tears. “He
told
me he told you! You know! You
know
!”

He sat next to her. “Listen, he doesn't have the right to take her. It's that simple. How would he get to France? Has he gone before?”

“We go at least a couple times a year.” She sat up, face flushed. “There's a JetBlue flight at seven thirty p.m. from Fort Myers to Atlanta, connecting to the eleven thirty p.m. Delta flight to Charles de Gaulle.”

“Okay, well, let's find them, then. It's almost two p.m. now, and it's, what, an hour's drive to Fort Myers? We've got almost four hours to find them. Have you been to Stella?”

Maggie snuffled. “I was there a little while ago—he's not there. He's closing it up. The staff have been moving valuables into storage and putting everything under covers since yesterday; he told them he's opening up the Connecticut house before the summer gets too bad here.”

“Okay, well, where else could he be?”

“He doesn't go anywhere else. We have a boat, but it's in dry dock for a new keel. And that's it.”

Jenner said, “Except the farm.”

“Well, yes, I guess.” Maggie nodded slowly. “Except the farm.”

She was silent for a second; when she turned to him, her eyes were desperate and pleading.

He couldn't say no. He told her to stay at home in case Lucy came home, or her dad called, and said he'd call when he'd found them.

He entered his number into her cell phone again, then got into his car. He told her he'd call a friend in New York, make sure Chip and Lucy wouldn't get on the Delta flight to Paris. He told her not to worry, and set off. She stood in the driveway and watched him leave.

D
eb Putnam steadied the clipboard on the hood of her Jeep to write the citations. The four boys sat on their ATVs, watching her with amusement. She didn't know these boys, but she knew their type—she'd been dealing with their type for the last five years now. And their family names were immediately familiar.

If Deb recognized their names, chances were they were rich, and the fine would be meaningless, and there was no reason for them not to go on tearing through the saw grass and bogs, trashing the terrain and filling the air with blue smoke and engine din.

She laid out their drivers' licenses on the hood in a neat row and sighed; all four lived in the Beaches. Big surprise.

She glanced back at them, and immediately one of the little fuckers looked away, his face flushing deep red; he'd been checking out her ass! Great! Horny little environment-destroying cretin! What was he, sixteen, seventeen tops?

Deb supposed the boy was at
that
age. She decided to take it as a compliment, but mostly it was just irritating. And it was hot and sweaty out there, and Jenner hadn't called to say when they'd meet.

Two of Captain Bashful's friends were yakking on their cell phones, not at all worried or concerned—at their age, she'd have been petrified. The fourth had taken off his shirt, and was stretched out on his four-wheeler working on his tan, the long bill of his Polo Grounds cap tilted coolly over his face.

Deb had just finished the fourth citation when she saw Jenner's blue Accent drive by—he was moving fast. She cursed under her breath, and pulled out her cell; the display showed a couple of bars but immediately dropped them. He'd probably been trying to reach her but hadn't got through because of the shitty reception in the Glades.

Less than a minute later, an unmarked county car, a cream Taurus, flew by, heading north after Jenner toward Bel Arbre; to her surprise, she recognized Tom Nash at the wheel. Even odder, he was in plainclothes. She wondered if there'd been a killing in Bel Arbre, then remembered that Jenner wasn't the ME anymore.

She turned to the boys and handed out the paperwork. “There you go, gentlemen. I'll be calling your parents, just to make sure the word doesn't slip through the cracks.”

The tall, tanned kid smirked and said, “Thanks, officer. And our parents will be calling your boss, just to make sure their gratitude for you not shooting us doesn't slip through the cracks.”

His boys snorted as she rolled her eyes and tapped the Glock at her hip.

“If they didn't make us fill out so much paperwork for shooting someone, things might've gone differently.” She smiled sweetly. “Now, please remember to think twice the next time you decide to ruin a beautiful ecosystem!”

She started the Jeep. She didn't have turret lights, but if she hurried, she might be able to catch Jenner. The boys were peering dully at the citations; she was sure the tickets would be in the trash in under fifteen minutes. Or, far more likely, blowing across the beautiful ecosystem.

Deb headed north, half an eye on the rearview mirror, wanting to see what they'd do. They didn't disappoint: Suntan Boy climbed onto his four-wheeler, stood high off his saddle, and when she was at a safe distance, dropped his pants and pointed his ass in her direction.

She laughed out loud—now
that
was something she'd have done at their age!

J
enner was a few miles south of Bel Arbre when he saw the blue light flashing behind him.

This is it,
he thought.

As he pulled over, he felt under his seat for his Beretta; during the drive, the gun had slid farther back, out of reach. His fingers touched the diamond grid of the grip, felt the cool metal, solid and inert. He tried to coax it forward with his fingertips while sitting upright, but the weapon was too heavy to budge easily.

In the rearview mirror, Jenner saw a late-model Taurus with a blue dashboard light; he couldn't see—or count—the occupants. Could they see him? Would they see him if he bent to extricate the pistol from under the seat?

He decided not to risk it. He put both of his hands up on the dashboard; he wasn't going to give any motherfucker an excuse to “accidentally” shoot him. He imagined the cop shooting him in the head while he sat in his car, the whole thing caught on dashboard camera. Imagined Robin Meade playing the video on
Headline News
the next morning, warning viewers that the footage they were about to see might be disturbing to some. Imagined the blocky white numbers of the date/time stamp ticking away in the lower part of the video as the cop approached Jenner's car and shot him dead.

Then it occurred to him that an unmarked car wouldn't have a dashboard cam. He smiled grimly—his murder would go unwitnessed on national television.

The cop had parked fifteen yards behind him on the shoulder. The area was remote—traffic between Port Fontaine and Bel Arbre was light, and at this time of day, there'd be a good ten minutes between vehicles.

Jenner rolled down the windows, then killed the engine. The heat flowed into the car, with it the chatter of birds. The fields that stretched out to the swamp were like the ones that Adam Weiss had staggered out of: long rows of plants. But the harvest was over now, and these plants were bare, just straggly green stalks wilting in the heat.

Behind him, in the Taurus, Jenner could make out the driver—a single male, he was pretty sure now—talking on his cell or radio. The cop had shut the dashboard light off; he probably didn't want to attract attention.

Finally, the man opened his door and climbed out to stand between the door and frame, looking Jenner's car over slowly.

There was the blast of a horn; a truck loaded with vegetables covered in white plastic sheeting was behind the cop car, the road too narrow for it to pass without the cop shutting his door. As the cop waved to the driver and began to climb back inside, Jenner quickly bent forward and scrambled for his pistol, sweeping his fingers desperately between the under-seat metal struts.

It was hopeless—he must've adjusted the seat since stashing the handgun, because there was barely an inch gap. He straightened as the truck passed, four Latino workers peering at him over the backboard.

He put his hands back on the dash.

In the mirror, the man got out of the car again. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, but Jenner could see the weapon at his hip.

Jenner recognized Nash, the deputy who'd helped recover Marty Roburn's body. He saw Nash's hand dip to his waist, pop the back strap on the holster. As he came closer, Jenner could almost hear the infinitely quiet creak and click as the open strap flapped against the holster tab.

Nash approached from the driver's side, pistol in hand; he was careful to stay slightly behind the driver's compartment. Clever—Jenner couldn't see Nash properly, and if he tried to pull a weapon on Nash, he'd have to make such an awkward turn that the deputy could drop him before Jenner could even face him. It was slick, probably some standard cop trick.

Or maybe just something he'd learned on TV.

“Hey, doc.”

“Nash.”

The deputy gave an awkward grin. “Sorry it has to be like this.”

“Me too. I thought you were a decent guy.”

Nash flushed, then the grin came back and he said, “Well, doc, I thought you were, too. And yet, here we are…”

They were both silent, then Jenner said, “So what happens now? Are you here to kill me?”

Nash shook his head quickly. “Oh gosh,
no
, doc! I'm a low man, you're talking to a low man here—I do minor shit, and they pay me minor money. I still sleep at night.”

“So you're not going to kill me.”

“Hell, no. Word has come down that too many dead people are bringing too much heat. You're good to go—unless you decide to make trouble up in New York.
Then
they'll do something—but it won't be me. And they say that's all up to you. Mr. Craine says they've already got your statement on video, so it'll be a lot harder for you to change directions now.”

“So what's this about?”

“Come on, doc! I think you know why I'm here: you have something that belongs to my employer, and he wants it back.”

“I do?”

He rolled his eyes. “The cash, doc! Mr. Craine wants his money back—sorry, but you don't get to keep it.”

“Oh, the
money
,” Jenner said. “It's in the trunk.”

“I'm going to need you to get out of the car, open the trunk, get the cash, and stick it in the Taurus, okay?”

“I could just pop the trunk for you, if you'd like.”

“You're a funny guy, doc! ‘Pop the trunk'—I like that!” Nash grinned thinly. “I don't care what they say about you—you're all right!”

Nash wiped his forehead with the back of the fist that held the Glock. Jenner wondered if he was sweating as much as Nash.

Nash said, “Well, let's keep our friendship going. You move the bags, and I watch you move them. And then you head back to New York, and I head to wherever I have to with the money. Okay?”

Jenner opened the door. Nash stepped back; he was smiling but wary.

“Okay, doc. Go easy now—they say you don't have a gun, but if
I
had a million in cash, I'd sure as shit be packing a goddamn cannon…”

Jenner said, “I don't have a gun.”

“Well, doc, I do. Now nice and easy, and in three minutes, you're on your way, dreaming of bagels and Yankee Stadium…”

“We're on the same page.”

He opened the trunk.

“Hold it!” Nash said. “Let me check it.”

Jenner stood on the grass while Nash, half-turned toward him, quickly searched the trunk, lifting the garbage bags, feeling their weight, patting down the carpet.

“Okay, doc. Go for it.”

Nash pointed his key fob back at the Taurus; there was a quiet clunk and the trunk opened slightly.

Jenner scooped his clothes aside; quickly tipping his cell phone into the trunk, he hit redial. Leaning in to block Nash's view, he shoved the hotel laundry bag into one of the bags that held his clothes, then made a show of yanking the two bags of cash together; the original leather carry bag, now thoroughly dissected, he left underneath.

“Hey, a coupla things. First, I dumped the carrier bag Craine gave me and divided the money into different bags—I didn't know if the original had some kind of tracker device on it.”

“A tracker device? Smart move, doc! I like that—don't think I woulda thought of that. What else?”

“I don't know how much money they told you they gave me, but I only counted $735,000. It was never a million.”

Nash's eyes narrowed. “You sure about that? You don't want to fuck around with these people. These are very bad people…”

“Look, I don't know if Craine is playing some kind of game here, but that's all the money he gave me. You can ask him.”

Nash relaxed and shrugged. “Okay—your funeral. You realize you're almost out, right? Almost home? You don't want to fuck this up now.”

Jenner looked at Nash's Glock; Nash glanced down, and said, “Yeah,
sorry, but I gotta be careful with you—I read what you did to that guy in New York. Please don't make me use it.”

He grinned, then gestured with the Glock toward the Taurus. “Okay, let's do this. Let's get you back home quick, okay?”

There was the cheery toot of a horn, and they turned to see Deb Putnam's Jeep pulling in behind Nash's Taurus.

She leaned out of the window, beaming, and called out, “Hey Jenner, hey Tom! Is this boys only, or can girls play too?”