Godsend

by Barry Knister

  He reached to the dash and unclipped the phone. “Gordon, my man… Am I where? What do you think this is, ‘beam me up Scotty’? I’m on my way right now, I’m in shorts for Christ’s sake. Who, Sherron Watkins? Of course she will, why wouldn’t she? No, Gordo, never happen. She’s the poster girl for corporate virtue. You watch, they’ll trash Lay and Skilling for a couple hours. They’ll both take the fifth and that’s that—”

  I’m too busy. Rivera smiled. It was always the best answer, because it sent the right signal. You weren’t neglecting anyone or being rude. You were just too busy. Too occupied with deals and work. Too successful. At the airport, he would not be able to rent a car, but a cab to the bus station would work just as well. Perhaps better. Having to leave Naples wasn’t good, but things would work out. There was a reason for everything, and this was just part of the big picture. Like the twelve thousand from Mrs. F.

  “Know anything about Enron?” Larson re-slotted the phone.

  “Just what’s been in the news.”

  “9/11 gave them a breather but not anymore. Lots of litigation. If you’re free tomorrow, tune into C-span, it should be good.”

  “Your law firm’s involved?”

  “Indirectly. We did work for Arthur Andersen. Between you and me, James, it’s curtains for that shop. But they’re in denial. They want more people in their corner. That’s why I have to fly up.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s the worst timing.” Larson shook his head. “I was just on my way to Miami in this thing. To pick up my wife. Do you believe it? What is it now? Twenty-seven months since 9/11? She still won’t get on a plane. She rode down with someone to Pompano Beach, then she took a cab to Miami International. I’m just out the door to meet her when I get this call from D.C. ‘Get up here yesterday.’”

  He clicked on his high beams and eased off the accelerator. “I haven’t told her yet,” Larson said. “She’s waiting at the airport in some motel. She said the room was moving when the bellboy turned on the lights. Not from planes taking off, from palmetto bugs. On the walls. She said they were bigger than Brian’s slot cars.”

  Rivera laughed. Old people told you lots of stories. It gave them pleasure, and so you listened. But Teddy Larson was another matter. He was talking as though they were friends. Where was it going?

  “I would’ve stopped anyway, but right now I’m thinking, if James doesn’t have a hot date, maybe he can do me a huge favor.”

  There it was. Chilled in the rush of air coming from the car’s dashboard vents, Rivera felt relieved. The future had been waiting all along, and now it took shape in his head. He saw himself driving the Jag. He was heading east through The Everglades, along Alligator Alley, slicing over the top of Big Cypress National Preserve to hook up to the metropolitan network that would take him into Miami. The Mazda’s two front tires had blown just minutes before Teddy Larson started north on I-75.

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t have anything on,” Rivera said. “I’m taking a personal day tomorrow. I thought I might do some fishing.”

  “God, this is perfect.” Larson slapped the wheel. “You’ll save my ass if you do this, and I’m not joking. Hell, my wife would rather drive back with you anyway.”

  Rivera laughed again. He hadn’t put on his seatbelt but now fastened it. He admired the car’s interior. “Not a problem,” he said. “Tell me where to meet her, and I can be there in less than four hours.”

  Larson let out a sigh. He shook his head. “You are my main man,” he said. He reached over and punched Rivera lightly on the shoulder. “And these are billable hours, James. Absolutely.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “No, I’m serious. Three hundred an hour, starting now. Believe me, compared to divorce, I’m getting off cheap. See, this is her car. Don’t ask me why, it’s a piece of crap, but she loves it. When she sees you come for her in her own car, my stock is going to have a nice pop. I won’t be coming back to snow in February. If you get my drift.”

  Snow in February, drift. Rivera smiled. “Pun intended?” he said.

  “What?” Larson’s eyes were trained on the road.

  “Snow, drift.”

  Teddy laughed and slapped the wheel. “No, I didn’t,” he said. “There you go exactly.”

  Settling back, he reached for the phone and worked the buttons. “Hi, it’s me. Just now… Sweetie, are you going to let me get a word in here? Guess who’s coming to dinner?”

  “Just a minute—” Rayette was now holding the phone away as she talked to someone. It was a man, but not Charlie.

  With both hands on the wheel, Brenda had her own phone tucked between head and shoulder. She had slid onto the shoulder, just beyond the point where the horse woman had stopped her. She had over-corrected and almost spun out. The car’s headlamps could not shove more than a few feet into the foggy night.

  Rayette said, “Yes, I will,” and a door closed. “OK, honey, here I am. I’m glad you called.”

  “Charlie didn’t come back?”

  “He sure did,” Rayette said. “Big time.”

  “Is he there?”

  “Not yet, but the officer says he should be done pretty soon.”

  “What officer?” Even with the defroster working, the windshield had fogged over. Brenda clicked on the wipers.

  “Naples Police,” Rayette said. “Where are you?”

  “Just outside Immokalee.”

  “Yeah, they said police were at James Rivera’s out there.”

  “Tell me about Charlie,” Brenda said. “Where is he? What did he say?”

  “Well, he came back. He was looking for you. He seems like a very nice man.”

  “What do you mean, he came back big time?”

  “Big time for me is coming back and finding a dead body,” Rayette said.

  “Patrick Sweeney.”

  “No, George Ivy. I knew the name, but never met him. I don’t move in that crowd. He owns—well, owned one of the big houses on Donegal Drive. Charlie came here looking for you. I told him I thought you went to Sweeney’s. Since I didn’t know the story on that—about last night—I didn’t go into detail.”

  “You say George Ivy died at Sweeney’s?”

  “In the pool,” Rayette said. “No, that’s wrong. He didn’t drown. Someone killed him first. ‘Blunt-force trauma,’ they said. Then whoever did it put him in the pool and covered him up.”

  Rayette cleared her throat. “I feel sorry for your friend,” she said. “He just gets here from Wisconsin. He goes over to some man’s house looking for his lady friend and finds a dead guy in a swimming pool. If that’s not coming back big time, I don’t know what is. Charlie found a neighbor at home and called 911.”

  Brenda passed the stone quarry she remembered from her trip with Ray Colon. Ahead glowed the blurred lights of Immokalee. Charlie had come back.

  “He’s still talking to the police,” Rayette said. “At Patrick’s house. He told them about getting here this afternoon, then going to look for you. The policeman came here, he wanted to check that all that was true. Patrick’s neighbor remembered seeing you earlier, when she was walking her dog.”

  Brenda had reached the town’s central intersection. She stopped for the light and thought of Charlie in his summer shirt. “But there’s still nothing on Patrick?”

  “You sure are a cool customer,” Rayette said. “Maybe it’s because you’re a journalist. You hear about a murder, and don’t miss a beat. You move right on.”

  “George Ivy I don’t know,” Brenda said. “Patrick Sweeney I do.”

  “That’s a point. But these people? Here at Donegal? Cool is what they aren’t. They’re going to freak when they learn about this. Right here in gated la-la land, someone gets killed and weighed down with golf clubs. In a swimming pool.”

  The light changed. “Rayette, thank you.” Brenda turned left on Main. “I’m grateful to you for sticking around.”

  “Yeah, that’s OK. I think, though, I’l
l go back next door. I’ll leave your cell number for your friend. But he must have it already, right?”

  “Right, thanks.” She put the phone on the passenger seat. In some way, she had broken faith with Rayette Peticore. You show up, and eligible widowers disappear, Brenda thought. Then someone is murdered. Next time, Rayette would think twice before rolling out the welcome wagon.

  On her left and right, signs glowed for pawn shops, convenience stores, check-cashing. She looked for landmarks from her one trip—Burger Bob’s, Rib City. She turned right on Lake Trafford Road. The First Baptist Church rose on her right, then the school Ray Colon said his kids attended. Lights were on in his house, but she saw no truck. She remembered him sitting next to her, talking about his cousin. He’s different, Ray said. Ambicioso. All the time go go go. He knows how to deal with the gente rica, the rich. But he helps poor people for free. Regalo de Dios, they call him. A gift from God. He calls it pro bono work, a word he got from lawyers.

  She turned onto Lee, Rivera’s street. They had driven past his place on Saturday. Ahead, lights were flashing in the soupy air, and as Brenda neared, she saw squad car spotlights trained on the house.

  She parked opposite and crossed the street. Quinto was 5 in Spanish. That had been his name before coming here. Brenda walked up the drive, into the open garage. It’s like him, she thought, looking around the lighted, empty space. It had been freshly whitewashed, everything in place. Tools, hoses and lawn chairs hung neatly from brackets. The floor had been painted.

  As she came out the back door, a uniformed officer stepped off the patio. “May I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Ray Colon,” she said.

  “What’s your business?”

  “I’m actually looking for his cousin.” She stopped and waited for him to reach her. Cops were territorial, and she always let them be boss. He was young, with a crew cut. “My name’s Brenda Contay,” she said. “I’m staying in Naples.”

  “What’s your business here?”

  “Someone’s missing at the Donegal Golf and Country Club. I thought James Rivera might have information.”

  Why did she think so? She explained about seeing George Ivy, the man found dead in Patrick Sweeney’s pool. “My friend is the one who found Ivy,” she said. “Charles Schmidt.”

  From there, it grew more confused. Why was she here? Why had her friend come to Naples? Did he know the deceased? Brenda did her best, pausing while the cop wrote in a notebook. As he flipped the page, she looked across the yard. A second, smaller house stood on the far side of the property. Lights were on.

  “If possible, I’d like to see Mr. Colon,” she said.

  The cop nodded. He pointed to an open door off the patio and followed her. Once inside, she heard Spanish. “He’s up in front,” the cop said. She glanced in passing at the kitchen—empty and orderly, like the garage—and moved into a hall. Voices grew louder, speaking Spanish. Doors stood open to empty rooms.

  When she stepped into the front of the house, Ray Colon was sitting on a kitchen chair, facing another cop. Ray looked at her, and the cop turned. Except for the chairs and a lighted floor lamp, the room was empty.

  “You tell them, lady,” Colon said. “They don’t believe me.”

  “Her name’s Brenda Contay,” the cop behind her said. “She knows Rivera.”

  It had to be done again—who she was, why she was here. They brought her a straight chair. She described the trip from the airport, then driving Ray Colon to Immokalee. She did it patiently, facing Ray as she spoke. He looked resigned now. Stoic. As she answered questions, he folded his arms and sat back.

  She finished. “I show them receipts for everything,” Ray said. “They don’t believe me. They bringing the truck back.”

  “Just tell me, Ray.” The cop sitting opposite leaned forward. “Why does your cousin all of a sudden want to sell everything?” He had a slight accent and was darkly handsome. He didn’t sound like an adversary.

  “Why you say all of a sudden?” Colon said. “The garage is full. You going to have to ask him. He call here, he tell me it’s time to ship to Miami, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, okay. But why ship his own furniture?”

  Colon shrugged. He pointed to a pile of receipts on the floor. “Everything on the truck we get from people we work for,” he said. “Gifts.”

  “We’ll check it out,” the cop said.

  “That’s okay, you check it out. I got names and addresses.”

  “But no idea where he went.”

  “He tell me he coming here. He never show up.”

  The cop looked to Brenda. “You know Dennis Stuckey?”

  “Perezoso,” Ray said. “Vago.”

  “No, I don’t,” she said.

  “He’s an All Hands employee. He lives here in the guesthouse. He was working at a condo in Pelican Bay yesterday. The condo owner hung himself, while Stuckey was looking after the deceased’s mother-in-law. He says Rivera fired him in front of the officers that took the call. When they left, Rivera told him he wasn’t fired, it was just for show. Know anything about it?”

  “Pendejo.”

  No, she didn’t. “This Stuckey says Rivera made him eat a watch,” the cop said. “Rivera thought he was stealing.” Brenda shook her head. “OK.” The cop stood. “We’re sealing the house as a possible crime scene.” Colon said something in Spanish and the cop held up a hand. “I said possible, Ray. And don’t forget, be where I can reach you.”

  “What about the clients?”

  “That’s all right, but stay local. You and Stuckey.”

  “Un payaso.”

  The cop laughed. He got his cap off the rug, still smiling, and followed Brenda and Colon to the front door. He opened it, and she stepped out. A third cop was unfurling yellow tape. He waited for them to come down, then ran the tape across the porch railing. Ray started across the lawn, and Brenda followed. Behind them, the garage door began rumbling down.

  “I want to help,” she said. Colon kept walking. “Tell me what you think.”

  “Le que Dios quiera,” he said. “You remember?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whatever God wants.” They reached the street and stopped. “That’s what Quinto think,” Ray said. “Providencia. Destino. Everything going to happen a certain way. You think you running your life, but everything is fixed before. He believe that.”

  “Do you?”

  He shrugged. His van’s keyless entry chirped. “He don’t tell me everything,” Colon said. “‘What you need to know, that’s what I’m telling you.’ OK, Quinto. You want it like that, fine with me.”

  They crossed the street. When Colon reached his van, he ran his fingers over the rubber seal around the glass. He opened the door and turned to her. “This man,” he said. “The one is missing. He your friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “You worry about him?”

  “Yes.”

  Ray Colon thought a moment, looking down the street. “I don’t know nothing,” he said. “All I know, last night, Quinto come to my house. He don’t say nothing, he just take my boat on the trailer. Night fishing alone, what you think? He never do that before.”

  He looked to the police cruisers in front of the house. “I check it this morning,” he said. “I got these weights—” He made fists and flexed his arms as though doing curls with a barbell. “I use a couple, tie them with rope. I got a different anchor, but sometime I use the weights. After Quinto bring back my boat? No weights.”

  He got in the van and started the engine. He slammed the door, then buzzed down the window. “He change,” Colon said, not looking at her as he put the van in gear. “His mother get sick, when we just start All Hands on Deck. He worry maybe he never get back here if he go to see her. Then she die.”

  Colon pulled off the shoulder. As he moved up the street, the van’s taillights glowed like embers.

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  “You can stay here, Dennis.” Good-looking Officer Rosario
took off his hat to smooth his hair. He put the hat back on. “Just don’t go in Rivera’s house.”

  “I won’t.”

  The officer nodded. He looked around a last time. They had searched the guesthouse earlier. Cookware taken from kitchen drawers still rested on the sink. Sofa and chair cushions had been stood on end. Rosario opened the door and looked out.

  “It’s a nice place,” he said. “Nice setup. What’s your rent?”

  “He was letting me stay free,” Stuckey said. “Until I got it together.”

  Rosario stepped outside. “So, did you?” he asked.

  “Did I what?”

  “Get it together?”

  It’s over, Stuckey thought. “Yeah, I’m together,” he said. “But you have to watch the caffeine. Old people can make you crazy.”

  “Well, that’s good, Dennis.” Rosario straightened his service revolver. “OK, then, you have a good one. Like I said, stick around. We’ll be back.”

  “I’ll be here. At least until Colon fires my ass.”

  “He doesn’t like you, I see that.”

  Rosario started across the yard. He reached the gate next to the garage, stepped out and latched it, and was gone. Stuckey waited. Seconds later, the squad car’s searchlight blinked out. The car moved up the street.

  He stood listening to the evening. Music played somewhere, followed by a commercial break. Skating, he thought. Jocks in condom racing suits. Lots of rah rah rah with the flag. Stuckey inhaled deeply. Even though it was safe now, still he waited, listening in the sticky night air. He hated cops. He thought maybe they put spy cams in trees to check on you after they left. You could put them anywhere, they even had spy cams in women’s dorms and restrooms. You could watch dollies taking a pee, or touching their toes for the boyfriend.

  He stepped now to the biggest of his terra cotta pots. He had set them up where they would get lots of sun. Basil, chives, mint. The largest container held a bushy, staked tomato plant. He leaned down and held up the leaves. Carefully he dug with his fingers until he felt the plastic baggie. He tugged it free and looked again to the yard before he patted down the loosened potting soil.