“And don't leave old, sweaty clothes in your lockers,” Angel Watson said.
“Do as she says,” Troy said.
“Don't need none of that anyway,” Calvin Smith said. “Car can't outrun a radio. Man can't outrun a bullet.”
“Calvin, you can't outrun June, here,” Angel said. There were a few chuckles. Calvin was, in fact, the only fat officer Troy had.
“What about me?” June asked. “I'm not an officer. I'm a dispatcher. I mean, I wear my own clothes.”
“Not any more. You're a member of the department. You'll wear the same uniform, minus the duty belt and gun. I, or a patrol officer, will cover the front desk for you while you work out each morning.”
“I'm sixty years old, Troy.”
“Then the
good news is you don't have to do as many workouts before you die.”
“How do we do all this with our schedule?” Juan Valdez asked. “I mean, there's not any flexibility here.” Valdez was five-seven and light brown, with black eyes and hair, thin but strong.
“How would you do it, Juan?”
Valdez thought a moment. Troy waited. Finally Valdez spoke again. “Right now, the arriving shift people show up at the same time. Eight a.m. to four p.m. for the day shift and so on. If we changed those times to seven to three and eight to four, we could have one incoming officer on patrol and one officer about to go off-duty too, at all times, even if the other incoming officer is still doing a workout. Evenings, nights, same thing, staggered schedule. Not actually that big a change, if you think about it.”
Troy nodded. “That sounds good. Real good. We'll do that.” It was what Troy had planned to do anyway. “June can make up a new schedule. And June, at the end of the month
everyone
rotates. No favorites any more.”
Everyone at the table looked at Milo. “My uncle's not gonna like that,” Milo said.
“It's training. Good practice for you. Once you're on with the sheriffs you'll be the newbie and they won't care about your uncle. Newbies get the nights. You're not going to see daylight for five years. You'll think you're turning into a vampire. With us, you will only do that every three months. Be happy.”
Troy continued down his list. “Next. No more swearing. I've made up a Bad-Word Jar.” Troy stood and took a large jar off the side counter, walked to the other end of the table, and sat it on the table in front of June. There was a slot in the screw-off top. “It stays up front on June's desk. I don't want her to have to walk too far to put in money. Wear out her shoes.” There were chuckles around the table.
“From now on any person using any fucking swear word inside this station has to donate a dollar.” Troy was still standing behind June. He took out a dollar from his wallet and stuffed it through the slot in the top. “At the end of the month we'll have a department party and apply that money toward the beer and pizza. With what June is going to donate we can probably buy an official chief's patrol car with spinning hubcaps.”
“Fucking-a,” June said. She put in a dollar.
“Don't see a damn thing wrong with that,” Bubba said. He reached across the table and added a dollar.
No one else seemed to want to lose a dollar.
“And we're going to repaint this entire department inside,” Troy said. He walked back and sat in his chair. “The paint is out in the storeroom with the barbells and boxes of uniforms. And I have some new furniture coming. Well, not really new but different from what we have.
“In summary, we want to look good, both for ourselves and for the paying citizens. Our new policy will be STRAC: Skilled. Tough. Ready Around the Clock.”
“I heard that meant something different,” Juan Valdez said. “Back when I was in the Marines.”
“Well, the Marine Corps version would cost me a lot of money to say.” Troy pointed to the Bad Words Jar. “Marines not being at all polysyllabic.”
“Not sure if I can speak at all if not allowed the fucking Marine Corps Universal Gerund,” Juan said. He added a dollar to the jar.
“Try,” Troy said. “Maybe we can get in a speech therapist to help.”
Got to keep an eye on this lad
, Troy thought.
He's pretty sharp
. “All right peoples, let's break it up.”
In fact, Troy didn't much care about paint and a new desk. All his life he had lived and worked in small spaces with indifferent furniture. He had never paid any attention. But he wanted as total a break with the old police station, and the old department habits, as he could manage within the same building. He looked around the table. They already looked more cheerful at the idea of repainting and redecorating. Maybe they were starting to think as a team. Maybe they were all frustrated interior decorators; he didn't know. Troy thanked them all and they went into the storeroom to dig out their new uniforms.
Chapter 13
Tuesday, July 23
Troy went back to his office and used his computer and telephone to find that Kathleen Barrymore had, until a little over one year back, been Kathleen Pragga with an address in Goodland, a tiny village adjacent to Marco Island. And Kathleen Pragga had a record for cocaine possession, petty theft and burglary.
Troy called the sheriff's office and asked them to send over a copy of her complete file. He wished he knew who John Barrymore's personal attorney had been so he could get a look at any will. John Barrymore had died a little more than one year after marrying someone half his age. Troy wondered if the one year held any significance. On a whim he called all six attorneys who had practices in Mangrove Bayou but none of them claimed to do business with John Barrymore. He could wait. Someone had to file the will at the courthouse in Naples soon.
At lunchtime Troy walked to Bert's Crab Shack, facing Oyster Bay. Bert's was on the water. Just beyond it a rickety pier had several crab boats tied to it. The interior was picnic tables and a kitchen. Where the yuppified restaurants nearer the beach had strung up all manner of nautical oddments, Bert's had bare wood walls. Troy ordered a chicken sandwich and some unsweetened ice tea. His picnic table had an assortment of ketchups, tartar and other sauces in a small metal pail along with a roll of paper towels. Bert Frey came out of the kitchen and sat at Troy's table. “How's it going, Chief?” he asked. “Been meaning to stop by. Welcome you to town.”
“Thanks. Pleased to meet you. You have the trapper license, I understand.”
Bert nodded and grinned. “You got something you need trapped?”
“Not at the moment. Just wanted to meet you. And I had to eat lunch anyway.” Troy took a bite and chewed. He swallowed and took a drink of tea. “Is this really chicken?”
Bert laughed. “I see someone else has already welcomed you to town. I get a kick out of that reputation. I call this Bert's Crab Shack because the tourists get antsy if I call it Bert's Mystery Meat Shack.”
Troy took another bite. Swallow. Tea. “Is this really chicken?”
“Probably. Could be gator. Taste about alike, or so people say.”
Troy swallowed and blotted his lips with a paper towel. “Don't you know?”
Bert shook his head. “I don't eat here. It's cooked. Do you care?”
“Guess not. Tastes OK. Hand me that bottle of hot sauce.”
Chapter 14
Tuesday, July 23
“Why we gotta go back to that motel to celebrate?” Tats Michaels asked. “That's your house now. We can fuck right on your big bed.” It was almost midnight and he was driving them east on Barron Road out of Mangrove Bayou. For the first time Katie had let Tats come to her house to pick her up.
“Can't do that yet, honey-bunny. You knows that. We gotta lie low a few months more. Least we can go any time now, not have to wait for John to go to Atlanta.”
“Well, I don't like it. You and me been together forever. You're my woman, always was. Always will be.”
“I knows that, Tats. We love each other. Always did.”
“Damn right. Been fucking since we was kids. You were always the best.” He peered ahead into the darkness. “What did that cop say?”
“He's an idiot. Don't worry about him. 'Sides, I got a town councilman on my side now. Met him at the yacht club. The cops get too nosy, I'll have him tell them to back off.”
“You started screwing someone else?”
“Not yet. Might have to. For insurance, you know. But even if I have to, remember you're my guy. Always have been. Always will be.”
“Surprised you don't just screw the head cop, you like screwing so much.”
“Now, now. You know that's my part of the job. And all that will be over soon, soon's the lawyer files the will.” She paused and looked out at the darkness ahead of them, thinking. “Screwing the cop might not be a bad idea, though,” she said. “He's kinda cute.”
Tats frowned. “Cops don't just back off too easy. I don't like that they sealed off the boat. That means they're suspicious.”
“That
was
annoying,” Katie said. “Even changed the locks so I couldn't get in. But don't worry. We'll soon be in the green. Sell that boat. How much you figure it's worth?”
“I don't know. I only fixes them, I don't buy them.”
“Well, we'll sell it. And the house. Buy another house someplace else.”
“Still don't see why we gotta hide out now. Coulda fucked back there on your own bed.”
“We'll get a room in our favorite motel, honey-bunny. Then go out for a nice steak dinner,” Katie said. “Would you like that?”
“Celebrate? Sure. I want champagne. After all, I did all the work.”
“I knows that too, Tats. And you done good. We'll get us some nice Cold Duck.” She reached down to the floorboard and pulled up her purse and took out a pack of cigarettes.
“Then we can talk about the money,” Tats said. “I did all the work. I should get half.”
“I'll take care of you, honey-bunny. Like always. You're my guy. Always have been. Always will be.”
“Damn right.”
Katie lit her cigarette off the dashboard lighter. She took in a deep pull and looked back through the rear window of the pickup truck. They were totally alone on the road for as far as she could see in either direction. “Pull over,” she suddenly said. “I gotta pee.”
“Oh Geez.” Tats slowed and pulled the truck off onto the narrow grass between the road and the guardrail. Katie reached into her purse.
“Is that a man standing across the road there?” Katie asked.
Tats looked. It was so dark he could barely see the bushes on the other side of the road. He started to turn his head back toward her. “Where? I don't⦔
Chapter 15
Wednesday, July 24
By Wednesday, Donald was a category one hurricane and was crossing the western tip of Cuba. Troy came in after his morning run and did his exercises in what they now called the gym but which was really a storeroom. He showered and changed into jeans and a fishing shirt and sat at his wobbly desk. The jiggling brought his computer screen back to life. Nobody ever shut any of them off.
One thing they lacked was laptops in the vehicles. Troy was accustomed to that from his work in Tampa, having access to a lot of records as well as text messaging from the dispatchers and station. But then, he reflected, in Tampa he hadn't had a large corner office with its own fire exit.
Troy was usually in his office by seven each morning. This morning he heard some commotion back in the cells and went to look. The station had four lockups along one wall together. On the other side of that hallway was an interrogation room with video camera, a door to the locker room, and a door to the shower and a public toilet. The hall ended at a door to the station lobby at one end and a metal door to the back parking lot at the other. Prisoners could be unloaded and brought in the back way, not past June and the front lobby. Plus all the staff parked out back.
Calvin Smith had unloaded two men from one of the trucks and was locking them up in one cell together. The men looked like migrant workers and Troy suspected Mexican heritage. They also looked drunk and one was bleeding from a gash on his forehead and a broken nose.
“What's all this, then?” Troy asked.
“Drunk and disorderly,” Calvin said. “They were peeing in the bushes by the microwave tower.”
“Good God almighty. Lawlessness run amok. Lucky you were able to quell them.”
Calvin grinned. “Probably want to charge them with indecent exposure, too. And this one resisted arrest and I
quelled
him.” He laughed. “
Quelled
the bejesus out of him.” He shoved the injured man into the cell so hard the man bounced off a wall and fell flat on his back. Troy put out an arm to stop Calvin from closing the cell door. He went in and bent over the man. Then he picked him up and stood him on his feet. When Troy let go, the man fell down again and Troy caught him before he hit his head on the concrete floor.