by C I Dennis
“Her?”
“Not her,” I said. “Me.”
MONDAY
I rented a Prius at the West Palm airport and drove to the beach. I would pull into the Breakers, toss the keys to the valet, and strut into the place like a rock star, except that I didn’t have anything approaching a clean shirt: I was wearing the same one that I’d worn for the last three days, and I hadn’t bothered to shave. I would be lucky to get past the lobby.
It was just after noon, and I’d had the farthest-back row to myself on the flight from New York after connecting from Burlington. Chan was at my mother’s until I decided what to do with him. I was leaning toward adoption, although I’ve never owned a dog. Whenever Royal was at Barbara’s, it was damn quiet in my house. It might be nice to have another living creature around, even if the creature had a major attitude.
A few hours of flying had given me time to think about where all of this was going. I would meet Grace Hebert, we would have a talk, and my work would be complete. She wasn’t missing anymore. I would confirm that she was OK, and I would report back to her grandmother. Done. Finito.
Except that two people in Grace’s immediate circle had recently met with violent deaths. I had to entertain the possibility that Grace wasn’t just a mixed-up kid with a drug problem and a bunch of old men chasing her. Karen’s description of the dinner table scene with the gun didn’t sound very good. It was possible that Grace had killed Matty, for whatever reason. She was the last person in possession of the Ruger .44 magnum, as far as I knew. She could also have lured Donald Lussen to the water tower and shot him with the bow. The homicide investigations were John Pallmeister’s problem, but they were mine too, because as much as I might like to report in to Mrs. T that I had found her granddaughter and then slide back into my life with Royal, it might not be that simple, and I finish what I start.
I also wanted to see Karen Charbonneau again, at least one more time, because something had started there, too. Not that it would go any further, of course. Like, beyond the long, slow kiss that had lingered with me all the way back to my mother’s house…and through a few hours of toss-and-turn sleep…and the drive up to Burlington…and the entire frigging plane trip to Florida. No, that couldn’t possibly be it. I just wanted to make sure that Karen was going to be all right. It was a good thing that Chan wasn’t with me now, because he would have had something to say about that.
The valet took my car, because a tip was a tip after all. And nobody gave me the sniff-test as I entered the Italian Renaissance-styled hotel that had been built back in the day when Palm Beach was the winter playground of the Astors and the Vanderbilts. The Breakers is a Florida version of the grand palaces of Europe: ornate ceilings, fabulous stonework, spectacular grounds, oceanfront golf course, pools, and everything else that might make you feel that you had turned back the clock to a more glamorous era when you could see F. Scott and Zelda arriving in their Stutz Bearcat, high on champagne and trading witty remarks.
No Fitzgeralds were in attendance today. I was in a line behind four guys in golf clothes and a European family with three whirling-dervish children, waiting our turn while an elderly couple was holding everything up at the check-in desk. Robert Patton’s babysitter hadn’t contacted me yet, so I had decided to press ahead and see if I could finesse Lucinda Kardos’ room number from a reception clerk.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder. “Vince?”
“Rose?” Rose DiNapoli stood in front of me, dressed in tennis shorts with a white polo top. She held a water bottle in one hand and a racquet in the other. “What are you doing here?”
“Watching over your friend,” she said. “Patton got me the gig. I just played two sets with her, and we’re going to change and meet at the pool.”
“Does she know who you are?”
“Sort of,” she said. Rose was a U.S. Customs agent I had met on a case around the same time that my marriage to Barbara was falling apart. She was my age, cute, and Italian American, with curly black hair. We had enjoyed each other’s company—a lot—but I’d gone into my shell shortly afterward. This was the first time that I’d seen her in over a year. “She knows you’re coming. She’s OK with talking to you. I didn’t tell her who I worked for, because I didn’t want to scare her.”
“How did you do all that?”
“I chatted her up over breakfast,” Rose said. “We’re friends now. She’s a good kid. Messed up, though. You have your work cut out for you if you’re trying to straighten her out.”
“I know.”
“You need a shower,” she said. “Let’s go up to my room, and then we’ll find you a bathing suit. It’s going to be a beautiful afternoon.”
“I’m not here for fun,” I said.
“Excuse me? This is the Breakers, dude. Let’s enjoy it. Patton got me comped for the room, and you and I are going to order expensive drinks and go swimming with your young lady, who’s quite the hottie, by the way. You can question her and do all your shit, and then you and I will return to our boring little lives, capisce?”
If Rose had already set things in motion, this would be a lot easier than I’d thought. Maybe I could relax a little. It sure was nice to be back in Florida, with the temperature in the eighties and the opulent surroundings. I would have a poolside beverage with Grace Hebert and debrief her, and then everyone would be happy again. Except for the two people who were dead.
“Lead on,” I said. I was glad to see Rose and to be near my home, but I was worried about why things appeared to be going so smoothly. That was never a good sign.
*
Half an hour later I was dressed in a too-tight pair of swim trunks that Rose had gleaned from the lost and found. I borrowed a terrycloth hotel robe to cover up the rest of me and wore the sneakers that I’d packed for Vermont. I felt laughably conspicuous, but once we got to the pool area I realized that everybody else looked just as silly and I should just chill. This wasn’t going to be a normal interview anyway. All that I had seen of Grace since I’d started looking for her was her undressed form in Clement Goody’s basement, so I had no idea how I was going to play this, but I had the suspicion that any discussion between us would be on her terms, not mine.
Rose walked a few paces ahead of me with a bounce in her step. We wound along pathways and across terraces to the South Pool, which abutted the ocean and was mostly deserted except for a bartender and a few sun-seekers scattered about on chaises. The day was balmy with a light breeze coming off the ocean, and this was not feeling at all like work. But it was, and as much as I tried to go with the bathing suit, relax-by-the-pool idea, it felt wrong. I wanted to go back to Rose’s suite, put on my clothes, collar Grace Hebert, and grill her in a small room. That wasn’t going to happen, because I wasn’t a cop, and she wasn’t being held for anything, so all I could do was go along with Rose’s set-up and hope that Grace would answer my questions.
I spotted Grace lying face down on a padded chaise with the top of her bikini unclasped. Her young body was so untroubled by age, sun, and cellulite that it looked photoshopped. She saw us coming, reattached the bra strap, and signaled the bartender, who came running. Twenty-one years old and she was already bossing around the help.
“Hello you two,” she said as we approached. “Drinks? Any specials, Jimmy?”
“I make a killer Negroni, Miss Kardos,” the man said. He had the deep tan and sun-bleached hair of a lifeguard.
“Three Negronis?” Grace said, looking at us.
“Two,” I said, taking a seat at a teak table next to Grace’s chaise. “Iced tea for me.”
“Cuba Libre,” Rose said. “And something to munch on.”
The waiter disappeared. “So you’re a regular at this place?” I said.
“Not really.”
“How often—”
She cut me off. “I appreciate what you do for my grandmother, Mr. Tanzi. I love her a lot, you know.”
“She’s a lovable person.”
“She adores you.” She stood up
from the chaise and wrapped a sheer blue cover-up around her bikini.
“She’s very concerned about you,” I said. “That’s why I’m here.”
Rose DiNapoli took off her hotel robe and draped it over one of the chairs at the table. “I’m going to get a quick swim,” she said. “You two go ahead and talk.”
“Have a seat,” I said to Grace. She ignored me, walked over to the bar, and came back with a small bowl of macadamia nuts.
“Starving,” she said. Meaning: I’ll sit when I’m ready to sit, not when you tell me to. “There’s nothing to worry about, Vince. I’m fine. Please tell her that.”
“Maybe you should tell her that.”
“It wouldn’t carry the same weight.”
“What if I didn’t believe that you were fine?”
“Then don’t,” she said, looking straight at me. Her dark eyes reminded me of her grandmother, except they lacked the softness. She was ready to do battle, and the relaxed, drinks-by-the-pool thing was history.
“Karen and Cindy say you’re using again.”
“Don’t listen to them,” she said. “They’re actresses.”
“Were you and Matty lovers?”
“Weren’t you supposed to be nice to me? Rose said you had a couple of questions. She promised me that you wouldn’t be a jerk.”
“I don’t believe that Matty killed himself,” I said. “Do you?”
Jimmy the bartender arrived with our drinks, and Grace signed the chit. Rose DiNapoli was doing a leisurely crawl in the pool near us with her head out of the water so that she could listen. I took a sip of my iced tea.
“You don’t have an answer?” I said.
“Not right now.”
“Please thank Angus for the drinks,” I said. “He has to be feeling pretty good with Donald out of the picture.”
Grace glared across the table. “You’re so wrong about that. You don’t know Angus.”
She was right—I was pushing too hard, too fast. But the whole thing was pissing me off, because even though I was sitting right in front of her, the truth was a million miles away.
“Let’s back up for a minute,” I said. “Why did you sneak up on me that afternoon? On Prospect Rock?”
“That wasn’t me.”
“Yes it was, Grace. And I don’t care about being assaulted. I just want to know why you did it. There’s no need to lie.”
She took a sip of her drink and looked out over the Atlantic. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with here.”
“Donald called you after I left his office, right? And you panicked, because you’d been getting death threats.”
“How do you know that?” she said. “No, of course you do.”
“There’s too much that I don’t know, and it bothers me. I don’t know who killed Lussen or Matty.”
“Neither do I.”
“You’re the common denominator.”
“What do you mean? You think I did it?”
“No,” I said, although I hadn’t ruled her out, but I wasn’t going to go there. “I’m worried for the same reasons that your grandmother is. You’re a heroin addict, and whether or not you’re using at the moment isn’t the point. Addiction is addiction, and you’re not dealing with it. Instead, you’re fooling around with two guys who are fifty years older than you are, because they’re rich and powerful. You’re under their sway. You should be in college, dating men your age and learning things from smart people like Karen, but instead you’re in deep shit, and two people who you cared about have died in the past week.”
“Is that the end of the lecture?” she said. “Because the answer is the same. I don’t know who killed either of them. So fuck off.”
“Your gun was in Matty’s mouth.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Why?”
“Because Angus has it,” she said. “He takes care of everything. Too bad he’s not here yet, because he’d swat you like a fly.”
“Don’t be a punk,” I said. “You can’t survive forever on being pretty. I think that you’re very unhappy, and you’re scared too, because who wouldn’t be? So stop dodging me. And if you have any respect for your grandmother, you’re going to come with us and we’ll get you some help. If you tell me that you’re not scared and not sick of all the craziness, I’ll leave you alone. But I can’t believe that you’re sleeping with Driscoll because it’s your goal in life.”
I had worked up a pretty good head of steam, and I was hoping that I hadn’t gone too far. Something had to be done. For all of Grace Hebert’s toughness she was still a goddamn kid, and people were taking advantage of her. I couldn’t stand it any longer, and I’d sounded off. Rose DiNapoli was getting out of the pool and had no doubt heard everything because she was shaking her head as she approached as if I had completely screwed this up.
“For god’s sake Vince—” she began, but Grace cut her off.
“No,” Grace said to both of us. “You’re right, I’m scared. But you have to leave now. I have nothing more to say.”
“Grace—” Rose began, but the young woman got up from the table and walked down a flight of steps to the beach. She waded past the small waves near the shore and dived into the warm water, swimming toward the horizon.
“I just love to watch a pro at work,” Rose said.
“That went better than it sounded. She’s just not ready yet.”
“So we’re done here?”
“For now,” I said. “Drink your drink.”
I walked over to the bar and got a piece of paper and a pencil from Jimmy. I wrote down my cell number and left it on the table for Grace. Sooner or later she would call, because she wasn’t ready now, but she was close, and she was the kind of person who had to do this on her own terms. In the meantime I had learned several things, not the least of which was that Grace’s sugar daddy was coming to West Palm. I couldn’t wait to see him.
*
I checked in with Robert Patton, who had enough pull with the hotel management to arrange another night’s free stay, for which Rose bravely volunteered. John Pallmeister was also in the loop, as I had caught him up on everything during a half-hour cell conversation. He was intrigued by Grace’s mention of the gun that had killed Matty being in Angus Driscoll’s possession. It wasn’t. The State Police had it, and they would for a while. Meanwhile he promised to personally check in with Clement Goody, who owned the weapon, to see if he knew anything.
Patton found Driscoll’s name on a flight manifest that would put him in West Palm later in the afternoon. Rose invited me to stay at the hotel for dinner, but you could buy a week’s worth of groceries for what you paid for a salad there, and Vero Beach was only an hour-and-a-half-drive north. I called Barbara, explained what was going on, and arranged to pick up Royal for the evening. I would feed him, get in some playtime, and then take him back to Barbara’s, because I planned to be back at the hotel by breakfast. Forget Angus Driscoll: I could hardly wait to see my son.
*
Barbara met me at the door of her bungalow in full babe regalia: a soft pink top that outlined her shape and left no doubt as to her gender, skin-tight blue jeans, sandals with low heels, and carefully applied makeup. She gave me a dazzling smile of the kind usually reserved for somebody she wanted to charm, like the elderly male judge who had presided over our split-up.
“You must have a date,” I said as she let me in. I stood far enough from her so that there was no chance that we would touch, much less embrace. It could be a dance step: the post-divorce dosey-doe.
“No, just home alone,” she said. “I thought I’d treat myself to some oysters.”
“You bought oysters?” Barbara had never been that fond of them as far as I knew.
“Yes, and I got way too many. You’re welcome to stay for supper if you like.”
Uh-oh. Something was going on here, and I didn’t think that it was me being irresistible. “Is everything OK?”
“I guess.”
“Wher
e’s Royal?”
“Still in his crib,” she said. “We went shopping and I wore him out. You can stay. I’ll make you a drink.”
“I’m taking it easy on the drinking,” I said. That is, I hadn’t had a drop since the three pints that I’d cheerfully pounded down with Karen Charbonneau less than twenty-four hours ago.
“I’ll fix you something, babe.”
“No thanks,” I said. “Don’t worry about it. I can run some errands and come back when he’s awake.”
“Am I that awful, Vince?”
I looked around the living room of Barbara’s small house. Some of the furnishings were things that she and I had bought during our time together. Some were new, or were borrowed from her friends. None of it looked comfortable. “I’m still working on this case,” I said.
“Tonight? I thought the girl was in Palm Beach.”
“I may get a call at any time. I’ll just run some chores. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your doing all this.”
I heard Royal’s familiar cry coming from his bedroom. I opened his door, plucked him out of his crib, and held him to my chest. “Dada!” he squealed as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and for the first time in a week everything was good with the world.
My former wife was in the kitchen, carefully layering the oysters into a plastic container. She put it into Royal’s diaper bag along with his essentials. “Enjoy,” she said. “I know you love them.”
“Thank you,” I said, and I took my son out to the car.
*
Royal and I had played all of our favorite baby games, and I’d dropped him back at Barbara’s and ran before I could be drawn into another conversation. I put away his toys, cleaned up, and took the oyster shells out to the garage so that they wouldn’t stink up the kitchen. The smart thing to do now was to go to bed—my own bed, which would be very welcome after six nights on the road. In the morning I would shower, shave, dress in fresh clothes that were appropriate for the swanky hotel, meet up with Rose, and start over with Grace Hebert if I hadn’t completely alienated her.
I didn’t think that I had, because I’d seen more than a glimmer of fear in those dark eyes. Grace was a cool customer, but Matthew Harmony’s death and Donald Lussen’s murder had to have upended her world. When things like that happen you look for a rock: someone who can protect you. So, Grace had flown to Florida on Angus Driscoll’s dime, and theoretically, he was going to protect her. Clement Goody could have done the same, but he and Grace were seemingly on the outs right now, and Driscoll was the rock.
