He had to dig deep into his storage closet, dig out the Rolodex from the salad days to find the phone number of Eddie Lightner, the smooth operator who’d arranged the lease for Mega-Media. To his surprise, the number, a Coconut Grove exchange, was still good. He wasn’t surprised at all, however, when Eddie’s machine voice picked up.
Deal hung up in the middle of Eddie’s recorded assurances that the call meant everything in the world to him, and sat pondering things for a moment. He ought to go to bed, get a decent night’s sleep, start over in the morning. But he felt like the little blue train, over the hump at last, and picking up steam. No way to stop now.
He tapped on the door of the bedroom Mrs. Suarez had been using often these days, told her he was going out for a few minutes, asked if they needed anything from the Farm Stores minimart, an all-night place that Isabel had named the “cow store” for the dairy animal on its sign. Mrs. Suarez came to the door in a housecoat, assured him they needed nothing, and added, in Spanish, that he should go with God.
A couple of minutes later, he was guiding the Hog down Seventeenth Street on his way toward the Grove. A light rain was falling, just enough to glaze the streets, and even though he had the light he took it slow going across Coral Way. Going with God or not, the neighborhood attitude toward traffic signals got a little flexible as the hour advanced and traffic thinned out. Oh, they would want to stop, if they saw the Hog in the intersection, but with a head of steam up and a slick roadway, maybe throw in a set of bald tires…intentions and actions did not always mesh.
He made it across safely, however, passed the old Citgo station that had kept its same corny Deco architecture from the thirties, thinking that the building was another reason never to move back to stylish Miami, where anything older than last week automatically went onto the developers’ hit lists. He wound his way on down through the modest residential neighborhood, had soon swung out onto South Dixie, where the traffic was a little heavier—maybe a Heat game letting out of the Arena downtown, or a concert, maybe Eddie Lightner was in a car ahead or behind him, or in a bar putting the moves on another in a long line of bimbos and what the hell was he doing out here driving around anyway?
He edged into the left lane, made the turn into the Grove at Douglas, heading due south now. He turned again, then a second time, was deep down one of the leafy tunnels that served as roadways in Coconut Grove, before he was ready to admit what had really brought him out. He guided the Hog to the side of Tigertail Avenue, brought his headlights down, sat staring up at the Mariner, the exotic conglomeration of wood and glass angles that Janice was now calling home.
There were a couple of dozen apartments in the building, many of them with lights ablaze, and he had no idea which one might be hers. He didn’t want to know, for that matter. He already felt like some high school kid cruising his girlfriend’s house, hoping…hoping what, exactly? That she’d walk out of the building, on her way to the E-Z Quick for some Häagen-Dazs, he could say he’d just pulled over to check his tire pressure?
Shape up, Deal. You want to talk, call her up on the phone. He pounded the wheel, disgusted with himself, dropped the Hog back into gear, pulled back onto the street again.
It took him a couple of minutes to find Lightner’s street, a tiny cul-de-sac off Tigertail, but the reward was finding the place blazing with lights, an Acura angled in at the verge with its personalized plate clearly visible: EDDIE D.
Deal squeezed onto the margin behind the Acura, got out of the Hog, noticed a tall, gaunt man in the shadows on the opposite side of the lane, attached to a tiny dog on a leash. Deal nodded, but the guy moved along without comment, apparently absorbed in the dog’s agitated dance along the shrubbery. “Yeah, well, have a nice dump,” Deal said as he turned away, but he doubted the guy heard him over the distant thunder of music coming from Lightner’s house.
The rumble had grown into a physical force wave as Deal reached the entryway of the house, a low-slung block building overhung with ficus trees and surrounded by an eight-foot wall that hid most of the property from the street. He’d been in the place a couple of times, back when DealCo was a major player in South Florida development. Though it was all invisible from where he stood, Deal knew that there was a pool on the other side of the wall, a small but lushly landscaped yard, a house with a lot of floor-to-ceiling glass that opened out onto various angles of the exotic surroundings. A typical Grove house—nothing special on the outside, a real box of chocolates inside.
He tried the bell, but the music throbbed on, unabated. Deal shifted his feet, heard a squishing sound, glanced down to find water pooled on the floor of the entryway. Strange, he thought. The rain that had misted his own neighborhood seemed to have missed the Grove. Maybe Lightner’s sprinklers were on? He glanced into one of the planter boxes beneath the doorbell, but it seemed dry. Then he noticed the rivulets oozing out from under the doorjamb.
There was an iron gate that was supposed to serve as security, but it swung away easily at Deal’s touch. When he hammered at the door itself, the thing, done up like a massive ship’s hatchway and encased in about an inch of glossy resin, fell inward as if it turned on rails.
The music hit him like hot wind, an unintelligible blare of human screams and distorted instrumentation that was blaring strongly enough to vibrate a framed print just inside the doorway. Deal stared down the brightly lit hallway, stunned momentarily by the sound, by what he saw. Water poured onto the floor tiles from an elevated passageway down the hallway. Some of it splashed over a Giacometti-like wooden sculpture that had tumbled there, then rushed on down a set of steps that led to a sunken living area. Another tributary had formed that led down the hallway and over the doorjamb at his feet. The force of this stream had picked up now that he’d opened the door.
He glanced over his shoulder at the Hog, thought about going for a phone, then found himself hurrying inside, trying to sidestep the stream of water, making for the passageway on his right.
He saw the woman first. She was face down on the floor of Lightner’s den, long hair fanned about her head and shoulders, a flimsy kimono pushed up over her bare buttocks, her hands and feet splayed, the water piling against one thigh before it coursed on toward the hallway. Deal should have guessed where the water was coming from.
The aquarium was Lightner’s exhibition piece, something he was fond of showing visitors. It was a huge tank, several hundred gallons, that ran nearly the length of the room, set into some highly burnished cherrywood cabinetry that also housed the sound system and a television monitor that even now displayed a live video image of the room, like some floor display from an electronics store of the damned.
Deal saw it all in a glance, a miracle of technology: One dead woman with long red hair, one stunned intruder staring dumbly over her lifeless form, and there, Lightner himself, head and torso crashed through the cabinetry and submerged in the massive tank, legs dangling over the lip, water jetting from cracks in the shattered front.
Deal turned from the ghostly image to the tank itself, saw a cloud of tiny, needlelike silverfish swirl like smoke from Lightner’s face, felt Lightner’s pop-eyed, sightless gaze lock on his own. An orange fish the size and shape of a throwing knife bumped its way down Lightner’s jawline, mouth popping as if it were delivering a series of kisses. A huge angelfish brushed through the wavering fan of Lightner’s thinning hair. Something iridescent and wormlike lashed from the cavern at Lightner’s lips, as if he’d acquired some new aquatic tongue that was flailing about, trying to explain all this.
Just an eel, doing an eel-like thing, Deal told himself, but still he felt his knees weaken, felt himself reeling backward, out of the room. One foot caught at the edge of the step, his other hit the slick tile of the hallway and went out from under him. He went down hard, his shoulder, then his head, slamming the tile. He came up on his hands and knees, stunned, his vision blurring in and out. The music was still pounding at a deafening level, seeming to suffocate
him now. His stomach heaved mightily, then again. He steadied himself, then began to move crablike toward the entranceway, thinking that if he could just get outside, into the cool quiet air, he could maintain.
He managed to drag himself upright, push himself along the wall, his shoulder tracing a wet course along the plaster. He felt more than heard the sound of something far off in the house, a shudder that passed through the wall and into his shoulder. A door slamming? he wondered.
He staggered out into the night, where, blessedly, the power of the distorted music was muted. He bent over, bracing his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. Just the wind knocked out of him, he assured himself, as his head began to clear.
Something moved in the corner of his vision and he jerked his head sharply, throwing up his hands in a defensive posture, though anyone could have done him in at that moment. What he found was a tiny dog—some blend of terrier and God knows what, trailing its leash, whining, dancing frantic circles, darting toward the street and back again. Deal had a flash of memory: the dog snuffling the bushes, its gaunt-looking master trailing behind.
He heard the sound of a car engine starting somewhere, gravel popping against a garbage can. He caught another breath and, still gasping, reeled on toward the street after the dog. The animal was yapping now, its movements more frenzied, tangling itself in its leash, dancing backward toward a dark canopy of undergrowth opposite the Hog.
Deal hesitated, fumbling for his keys. He’d call 911, then see what the dog had in mind. But the animal was back at him, actually growling now, an absurd, pipsqueak sound that was muffled even further when it grasped Deal’s pantleg in its mouth and began to tug, digging its claws into the loose gravel at the verge for purchase.
Deal shook his leg loose, fought the urge to kick the dog into oblivion. “All right,” he said, and followed the animal into the shadows.
The dog had calmed finally, sinking to its haunches as Deal ducked under an overhang of branches and approached. He saw a pair of tennis shoes sticking out of a thick planting of lariope, bent down, expecting to find trouser legs, the body of the gaunt man there. Instead it was a muscular pair of calves, heavy thighs, someone clad in running shorts and a T-shirt. Deal leaned closer, saw a young man with a sweatband around his forehead lying motionless, his chin tilted up at an impossible angle.
“Good God,” he said, staggering back.
He ran for his car then, expecting the dog to be yammering at his heels, but the thing stayed by its master. It had set up a mournful howl by the time Deal made his way to the Hog and went to place his call at last.
***
“You going to be okay?” one of the cops asked him. “A glass of water, maybe?” Deal glanced up. It was a blond woman, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Mid-thirties maybe, trim, a businesslike set to her movements. But she looked at him with concern.
Deal nodded. “Thanks.”
“I’ve got a message for you,” she said. “From Vernon Driscoll. He said he’s on his way.”
Deal looked at her. “You know Driscoll?”
She gave a short laugh. “Everybody knows Driscoll,” she said.
Deal nodded again, sank back against the soft leathery upholstery of Lightner’s living room couch. The lady cop gave him a last glance, then turned away as attendants maneuvered a gurney into the hallway from the den.
“Who the hell puked?” one of the attendants complained.
“Somebody want to get that dog out of the way?” another called.
Deal glanced up, saw the ratty terrier dodge the grasp of the lady cop. It bounded into the sunken living room, made a beeline for Deal, still trailing its leash. The thing dove onto the couch, huddled against him. He could feel it trembling, the thud of its heartbeat. Deal felt his hand go to the dog, begin to stroke it automatically. He wasn’t fond of small dogs, not at all, had owned a series of black Labs until they’d had to sell their house in the Shores. “Shark bait” was what he called the little yappy ones like this. And yet this one…well, it had displayed a certain form of guts.
The lady cop came back into the room, bent down on her haunches, gave the dog a pat. She glanced up at Deal. “The guy in the bushes,” she said, “he didn’t make it.”
Deal nodded.
“His neck was broken, that’s what it looked like to me.”
“The guy I saw earlier with the dog,” Deal said, “it wasn’t the same guy who was lying in the bushes.”
She nodded. “The detectives’ll talk to you about it,” she said. “I got an address off the dog’s collar earlier,” she said. “Just around the corner. A little place, like a gardener’s cottage, you know? Nobody else there. Maybe he lived alone.”
Deal glanced down at the dog. “Maybe,” he agreed.
“You want to hold on to this guy for now?” she said. “Otherwise, I’ll have to call Animal Control.”
Deal shrugged. Somehow he’d been thinking of the dog as some piece of evidence, a clue to be handled with kid gloves. Now he understood the creature was basically a nuisance. “Sure,” he said finally. “I’ll watch him.”
She nodded, stood. “Too bad he can’t talk,” she said. She lifted the corner of her mouth into a Driscoll-like gesture that said, “So whaddaya going to do,” then turned back toward the activity in the den.
Deal watched her go, moving with the economical grace of a gymnast, her hips as slender as a boy’s. But, a woman of substance, he was thinking, and then he saw Driscoll’s bulk appear in the hallway door.
***
Driscoll gave him a wave, motioned for him to stay put, disappeared into the den, where several plainclothes detectives had been at work for some time. Aside from the female cop who’d taken his preliminary statement, no one had spoken to Deal. It seemed odd. Sure, he’d found the bodies, made the emergency call, but even Deal could figure that didn’t mean he hadn’t done it. Maybe they were in there drawing straws right now, seeing who’d be good cop, who’d be bad, let’s grill the Deal guy. A couple of minutes from now, he’d find himself under a naked lightbulb, head swiveling back and forth as the questions rattled at him.
The dog whined softly, put its chin up on his thigh. Deal looked down, gave it a reassuring pat. “You’re my only alibi, pal,” he said. The dog blinked, tucked its head away again. Not a promising gesture, Deal thought. When he glanced up, Driscoll was in the hallway, beckoning him with a thick finger.
“What’s that?” Driscoll said, pointing at the dog as Deal approached. He had thought about what to do with it, ended up tucking the creature under his arm.
“It belonged to the jogger,” Deal said, nodding toward the outside.
“What are you doing with it?” Driscoll said.
Deal stared at him. Driscoll was wearing a rumpled sport coat, but underneath was a T-shirt with a hamburger emblazoned on the chest. An odor of meat and grilled onions emanated from the ex-cop, and the dog had lifted its nose to check it out. “I don’t know,” Deal said.
Driscoll gave the dog another doubtful look.
“So what’s going on, Driscoll? Nobody’s asked me anything.”
Driscoll nodded. “They’ll get around to it,” he said. He glanced back inside the den, thought about something, finally motioned for Deal to follow him. “You’re not going to believe this,” he said.
Deal took a breath, followed after the ex-cop. The bodies had been removed, and a narrow walkway had been described through the room with crime scene tape. Most of the water was gone from the big tank now, though there was still enough seepage to keep the floor dangerously slick. The shallows inside the ruined tank were alive with leaping, shuddering fish. With Lightner’s body gone, Deal could see a starburst the size of a dinner plate in the tank’s glass front. Smears of blood radiated out from its center. Deal felt his stomach constrict again, and turned away.
“You don’t have to see this, you know,” Driscoll said.
“I’m okay,” Deal said.
Driscoll gave his characteristic shrug, and drew him along toward a knot of plainclothesmen who had gathered around the TV monitor Deal had seen earlier.
“The guy is hung, I’ll have to say that,” someone was saying.
“Was hung,” someone else said. “Come on, Lonnie, get to the part where the doorbell rings.”
Deal glanced over one detective’s shoulder. The image showed Lightner and the woman on the den floor. Lightner was on his knees, shucking out of his robe, the woman poised before him, also on her knees, her backside up in the air, her robe bunched around her shoulders, exposing her breasts.
“The lady had a set,” someone said.
“Shut up, Dewhurst,” the lead detective said.
Lightner’s companion had placed her head on her hands, and though her face was turned toward the camera, her hair had tumbled free and Deal could see only her parted lips. Lightner glanced up as if checking the position of the camera lens, and Deal found his head swiveling toward the bookcases that lined the wall behind him. The camera had to be hidden up there somewhere, but he couldn’t see any evidence of it. He wondered briefly if the woman had known the act was being filmed.
When he turned back to the monitor, the figures were moving in accelerated fashion, actions that might have seemed erotic now reduced to Keystone Kops herky-jerky.
“Hold it,” one of the cops said, and the image froze. “Yeah, there. Now back up a couple of frames, right where her head comes up.”
The woman’s face blinked clearly into focus via a series of still images. “Okay, now go,” the lead detective said.
The woman was still staring toward the camera when the doorbell rang. At first Lightner paid no attention, but then the chime sounded twice more, in rapid succession.
Deal heard a curse, then Lightner was getting to his feet, throwing his robe on, moving out of the room toward the door. The woman rearranged herself into a sitting position, drew her robe closed. She glanced in the direction Lightner had taken, shrugged, reached to pick at something on an eyelash. She examined whatever she’d found, flicked it away, plucked again. Deal thought she looked like an actress whose scene had been put on hold while the crew hashed out some technical problem.
Book Deal Page 14
