“Just a few questions, and I'll be out of your hair,” the cop said, that smile stubbornly stuck on his face. He pulled out a small notebook and flipped it open. “I understand that you knew Kent Anthony. You spent some time with him in his last few weeks. Is that right?”
“And how did you discover this?”
“Well, I can't very well spill my trade secrets, now, can I?”
Lacy settled in her chair, wondering desperately what he knew. “Yes, I saw him a few times.”
“Did his death surprise you?”
She scrunched her eyebrows. “No, I was expecting it. Of
course
it surprised me! Am I a suspect in the case?”
“No. No, you're not.”
“So what kind of question is that? How could I not be surprised by his death unless I somehow knew about it in advance?”
“You may have expected it, Lacy. Can I call you Lacy? He was depressed, right? He'd lost his wife and his son in the months preceding the fire. I'm just asking you if he seemed suicidal. Is that so offensive?”
She breathed deeply.
Calm down, Lacy. Just calm down.
“At times, yes, he was upset. As would be anyone who'd suffered as much as he had. Have you ever lost a wife or a son, detective . . .” She glanced at his card again. “Lawson?”
“I can't say that I have. So you think he was capable of suicide, then? Is that your position?”
“Did I say that? I don't remember saying that. I said that at times he was upset. Please don't turn my words around.”
The cop seemed thoroughly undeterred. “Upset enough to commit suicide?”
“No, I wouldn't say that. Not the last time I saw him.”
He lowered his voice a notch. “Hmmm. And did you know about his little difficulties at work?”
“What difficulties?”
“Well, if you knew, you would know what difficulties, now, wouldn't you?”
“Oh, you mean the bit about his boss betraying him while he was mourning the death of his wife? You mean that tiny speck of trouble?”
The cop studied her eyes for a moment. “So you did know.”
She was matching him tit for tat without really knowing why. She had no reason to defend Kent. He'd dumped her, after all. Now, if Lawson came right out and asked certain questions, she didn't know what she would say. She couldn't very well lie. On the other hand, she had promised Kent her silence.
“You knew him well, Lacy. In your opinionâand I'm just asking your opinion here, so there's no need to jump up and downâdo you think he was capable of suicide?”
“Do you suspect he committed suicide? I thought they concluded that a robber had murdered him.”
“Yes. That's the official line. And I'm not saying it's wrong. I'm just doing my best to make sure everything fits. You know what I mean?”
“Sure.”
“So then, yes or no?”
“Suicide?”
He nodded.
“Capable, yes. Did he commit suicide? No.”
The cop lifted an eyebrow. “No?”
“He was a proud man, Detective Lawson. I think it would take the hand of God to bring him to his knees. Short of that, I don't think he was capable of giving up on anything, much less his life.”
“I see. And from what I've heard, I would have to agree with you. Which is why I'm still on the case, see?” He stopped as if that should make everything crystal clear.
“No, actually I don't see. Not in the least.”
“Well, if it were a suicide there would be no need for further investigation. Suicide might be an ugly thing, but it's usually an open-and-shut case.”
She smiled despite herself. “Of course. And being murdered causes guys like you a lot more work.”
He smiled. “If he was murdered there would be no need to investigate
him.
We'd be looking for the murderer, wouldn't we?”
“Then it seems to me that you're barking up the wrong tree, Detective Lawson.”
“Unless, of course, your friend Kent was not murdered. Now, if he did not commit suicide and he was not murdered, then what are we left with?”
“A dead body?” Mercy, where was he headed?
Lawson shoved his little notebook back into his pocket, having written maybe two letters on the open page. “A dead body! Very good. We'll make a detective out of you yet.” He stood abruptly and headed for the door. “Well, I thank you for your time, Miss Cartwright. You've answered my questions most graciously.”
He was hardly making sense now, she thought. She stood with him and followed him to the door. “Sure,” she muttered. What did he know? Every bone in her body screamed to ask the question.
Did you know we were in love, Officer? Did you know that?
No, not that!
He had his hand on the door before she spoke, unable to restrain herself.
“Do
you
think he's dead, Detective?”
He turned and looked her in the eyes. For a long moment they held eye contact. “We have a body, Miss Cartwright. It is burned beyond recognition, but the records show that what is left belongs to Mr. Kent Anthony. Does that sound dead to you? Seems clear enough.” He flashed a grin. “On the other hand, not everything is what it seems.”
“So why all the questions?”
“Never mind the questions, child. We detective types practice long and hard at asking confusing questions. It throws people off.” He smiled warmly, and she thought he was sincere. She returned the smile.
He dipped his head. “Good evening, Mrs. Cartwright.”
“Good night,” she returned.
He turned to leave and then hesitated, turning back. “Oh, one last question, Lacy. Kent never mentioned any plans he had, did he? Say some elaborate plan to fake his death or any such thing?”
She nearly fell over at the question. This time she knew he saw her turning red under the gills. He could hardly miss it.
And then he simply flipped a hand to the air. “Never mind. Silly question. I've bothered you enough tonight. Well, thank you for your hospitality. Coffee might have been niceâwe detectives always like coffeeâbut otherwise you did just fine. Good night.”
With that he turned and pulled the door closed behind him.
Lacy sidestepped to the chair and sat hard, heat sweeping over her. Lawson was on to him! The detective was on to Kent! He had to be! Which meant that Kent was alive!
Maybe.
KENT DROVE his new black Jeep down the hill to the town at seven, just as the orange sun sank behind the waves. The sound of calypso drums and laughter carried on the warm breeze. Brent the real-estate broker had recommended the Sea Breeze. “The finest dining south of Miami,” he'd said with a twinkle in his eye. “A bit draining on the wallet but well worth it.” Kent could use a little draining on his wallet. It was feeling a tad heavy.
He mounted the wooden steps and bounded up the flight. A fountain gurgled red water from a mermaid's lips just inside the door. Like some goddess drunk on the blood of sailors. He turned to the dim interior. Through a causeway a fully stocked bar already served a dozen patrons perched on tall stools. Mahogany stairs wound to the upper level to his right.
“Welcome to the Sea Breeze, sir. Do you have reservations?”
Kent faced the hostess. Her black hair lay long on bare shoulders. She smiled carefully below dark eyes, and an obscure image of red water spewing from
those
round lips slinked though his mind. Miss Mermaid in the flesh. Her nametag read “Marie.”
“No. I'm sorry, I didn't realize that I needed reservations.”
“Yes. Maybe you could return tomorrow night.”
Tomorrow? Negative, Black Eyes.
“I'd rather eat tonight, if you wouldn't mind,” Kent returned.
Marie blinked at that. “I'm sorry, maybe you didn't understand. You need a reservation. We are full tonight.”
“Yes, evidently. How much will a table cost me?”
“Like I said, sir, we don'tâ”
“A thousand?” Kent lifted his eyebrow and pulled out his wallet. “I'm sure that for a thousand dollars you could find me a table, Marie. In fact for a thousand dollars you could possibly find me the best table in the house. Am I right? It would be our secret.” He smiled and watched her black eyes widen. He felt the subtle power of wealth run through his veins. In that moment he knew that for the right price, Miss Mermaid Marie here would lick the soles of his sandals.
She glanced around and smiled. Her breathing had quickened by the rise and fall of her chest. “Yes. Actually we might have an opening. I apologize, I had no idea. This way.”
Marie led him up two flights of stairs to a glass-enclosed porch atop the restaurant. Three tables rounded out the room, each delicately laid with candles and flowers and crystal and silver. The musty scent of potpourri hung in the air. A party of well-groomed patrons sat around one of the tables, drinking wine and nibbling at what looked to be some sea creature's tentacles. They looked at him with interest as Marie sat him across the circular room.
“Thank you,” Kent said, smiling. “I'll add it to your tip.”
She winked. “You are kind, Mr. . . .”
“Kevin.”
“Thank you, Kevin. Is there anything else I can do for you at this time?”
“Not at the moment, Marie, no. Thank you.”
She turned with a twinkle in her eyes and left the room.
The two waitresses who served him had obviously been told of his generosity and were unabashed in their attempts to please. He ordered lobster and steak and wine, and they were delicious. As delicious as they had been three months earlier when he had ordered the same in celebration with Gloria at the completion of AFPS. He lifted his glass of wine and stared out at the dark seas, crested with moonlit waves.
Well, I did it, Honey. Every bit and more, and I wish you were here to enjoy it with me.
It settled on him as he ate that the food, though quite good, did not taste any different than it had when he'd paid twelve dollars for it back at Red Lobster in Littleton. The Heinz 57 sauce certainly came from the same vat. In fact the wine probably came from the same winery. Like different gasoline stations selling branded gas that anyone with half a brain knew came from the same refinery.
Kent finished the meal slowly, intent on relishing each bite, and uncomfortably aware that each bite tasted just as it should. Like lobster and steak should. The wine went down warm and comforting. But when he was done he did not feel as though he'd just eaten a thousand dollars' worth of pleasure. No, he'd just filled up his tank.
In the end he tipped heavily, slipped Marie her thousand dollars, and retired to the bar, where tequila was more in order. Steve, the bartender, must have heard of his tipping, because he eased right on over and set up a glass.
“What'll it be, sir?”
“Cuervo Gold. Straight up.”
Steve poured the liquor into the glass and started polishing another. “You passing through?”
“You could say that. I own a place up the hill, but yes, I'll be in and out.”
The man stuck out his hand. “Name's Steve Barnes. It's good to have you on the island.”
“Thanks. Kevin Stillman.”
The man hung around and asked a few more questions to which Kent gave short, pert answers. Eventually Steve wandered off to the other customers, who were talking about how some tourist had fallen off a fishing boat and gotten entangled in a net. Kent smiled once, but beyond the hint of humor, he found himself odd man out, and the hole in his chest seemed to widen. Maybe if he pulled out a few hundred and waved it around them.
“Hey guys, I'm rich. Stinking rich. Yes indeed, you may come over and lick my toes if you wish. One at a time, please.”
By the time Kent pulled into his circle drive back at the villa, his mind was numbed by the alcohol. Which was a good thing, he thought. Because something inside his mind had started to hurt, watching those fools carry on down at the pub.
But there was tomorrow, and tomorrow would be a day of reckoning. Yes indeed. Never mind the fifteen hundred bucks he'd just tossed down for dinner. Never mind the foolishness of those still surrounding the bar, gabbing with Steve the bartender.
Kent fell onto the covers. Tomorrow night he would turn the screws.
Sleep came within the minute.
Thursday
MARKUS BORST ran through the bank, huffing and puffing and not caring who saw him in the state of terror that obviously shone from his face like some kind of shiny red Christmas bulb.
He was not accustomed to running, and it occurred to him halfway through the lobby that he must look like a choo-choo train with his short legs pumping from the hips and his arms churning in small circular motions. But the gravity of the situation shoved the thought from his mind before it had time to set up. A dozen eyes glared his way, and he ignored them. What if Price was not in his office? Heaven help him! Heaven
help
him!
He met Mary as he was charging around the corner leading to Price Bentley's office, and she jumped with a cry. “Oh!” A sheet of paper fluttered from her grasp, and she bolted back. “Mr. Borst!”
“Not now!” he said. He rushed past her and slammed through the bank-branch president's door without bothering to knock. There was a time to knock and there was a time not to knock, and this was the latter if there ever was a time for the latter.
Price Bentley sat behind his big cherrywood desk, his bald head shining red under the bright fluorescent tubes above. His eyes widened in shock, and he came halfway out of his seat before his thighs intersected the bottom edge of his desk, propelling him back into his black leather chair. He immediately grabbed his legs and winced.
Bentley cursed. “What in the blazes are you doing, Borst!
Man
that hurt!” He opened his eyes and blinked rapidly at Borst. “Close the door, you fool. And straighten out that thing on your head! You look ridiculous!”