“Hi,” I said on the second ring. “I forget to ask you what kind of wine you like. I’ll pick up a bottle.”
“Sean,” her tone was serious. “I got some early results on the toothpick. Jonathan, in the lab, busted his butt to get it done fast for us. No rush charges.”
“What do you have?”
“DNA on the toothpick matches the DNA under the fingernail of your victim.”
“Are you sure?”
“Ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure. We’ll run the tests again, but it looks like Silas Davis, the jerk who tossed the toothpick in your face, beat up the face of your victim. I’d say you found the killer. Congratulations.”
FORTY
It was a couple of hours before sunset, and I jogged toward the Ponce Inlet Lighthouse. I ran past tidal flats, dotted with small mangrove islands, past shallow pockets of brackish water, much of it no more than a foot deep at low tide. As my feet pounded the bike path, I could see Silas Davis’ smirking face, a chewed toothpick in the corner of his mocking mouth, the smell of unwashed scalp, the odor of sweat and reefer clinging to dreadlocks like compost. Now I knew his skin cells were under the dead girl’s fingernail. I ran harder.
A dozen cars were in the Ponce Inlet Lighthouse parking lot. Tourists snapped digital souvenirs of the old brick lighthouse that rises more the 175 feet above the surrounding land. I cut through the parking lot and jogged on the beach, making my way back to the marina.
Except for the gentle roll of breakers, it was almost still and flat. I slipped off my sneakers, socks. T-shirt and ran into the water. It was warm, and the water seemed to embrace every pore on my skin. I dove beneath a wave and swam underwater a half minute, feeling the coolness in the water the deeper I went. When my hand touched the sandy bottom, I headed back for the sun. Breaking through the surface, I inhaled a chest full of air and floated on my back.
I could only hear my breathing and the distance sound of the surf. I closed my eyes and simply listened. A laughing gull called out. A small fish broke the surface near me. Beyond that, nothing. I laid my head further back in the warm water, allowing it to cover my ears. Even the sound of a gull faded away.
“Sean, find your peace…” It was Sherri’s voice. It came from the deepest reaches of the ocean. Soft, distant and loving. Was it spoken between levels of my own consciousness, or did I really hear something? I opened my eyes and watched the lavender sky fill with warm hues of straw-tinted clouds.
I hadn’t been out to sea since I had released Sherri’s ashes. Now I floated alone on a desolate copper ocean. And I deeply missed my wife. I lifted my left hand and let the water run out of my palm. Somewhere in there, I thought, were traces of Sherri. Somewhere in there were traces of me.
I swam slowly to the shore. I could tell the tide was rising, pushing the surf further up the beach. I got my things and started across the sand to the path bordered by sea grape trees. I heard a wave crash, and I had an urge to turn and look at the ocean one last time. But instead, I walked toward the setting sun and followed long shadows all the way back to Jupiter.
As I shaved and showered, I thought of what lay ahead. I was going out, or staying in, with a woman. The first since Sherri’s death. My emotions were like a tossed salad, lots of pieces in one ceramic bowl with a hairline crack in the center. I was starting with a woman who was in the same line of work that I’d left, sworn off.
For the first time in a long time, I made a conscious effort to think about what I’d wear. If clothes make the man, my choices on Jupiter were limited. I dressed in fresh jeans, polo shirt, and boat shoes without socks. Then I picked up a bottle of cabernet from Jupiter’s vast collection and headed out. I stood in the cockpit, locked the doors, set the paper-clip alarm, and suddenly sensed my own insecurity. I felt like a kid going on a first date. Maybe this was what I’m supposed to expect. Since Sherri’s death, I’d never rehearsed this moment.
Then why did I feel bad by trying to feel good? I started down the dock wondering if I’d do well with the meaningless chatter that dating people often spew like bounced spam. I didn’t want to go there, but I didn’t want to stay in emotional isolation, either. I liked Leslie. Liked her smile, her head, and her laugh. And I liked her body.
One foot in front of the other, I thought. But I didn’t know if I was on the right path.
FORTY-ONE
When Leslie opened her front door, I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. She looked stunning in a natural way. Her long brown hair was down, very little make-up, the skin on her face radiating a healthy glow, her eyes dancing in the light. She wore black designer jeans, three-quarter length that fit her like paint.
“Hi,” I said. Nice open pal.
“Come in,” she said, beaming.
“Hope you like this. The cab ought to go well with the steaks.”
She took the bottle and glanced at the label. “Perfect. Let’s open it. It can catch its breath, and then we’ll have a glass.”
Her home was small, but decorated in bright tones. Lots of green plants and furniture that Hemingway might have brought home from Burma or Africa. It had the look of an Asian-African fusion of the arts.
I said, “Looks like you have the Far East and the Dark Continent well represented. Sort of feel like I’m on safari here.”
“That’s the idea. I love Africa. Or maybe I love the idea of Africa since I haven’t been there. Friends who have been there told me you feel it’s where life on the planet began. I’d like to touch the soil. There’s something very old and earthy about the land.”
“I felt that way in Texas trying to drive across it.”
She smiled. “Never been to Texas. Think I’d like to see Africa first.”
“I’d like to start in Ireland. Begin my trip in a pub, work my way over to Africa.”
“You may not ever make it out of the pub.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
She laughed and stepped around the kitchen counter, handing me a corkscrew. “If you do the honors, I’ll finish the salad. We can toast Ireland and Kenya and then put the steaks on the grill.”
I poured the wine, handed her a glass, and said, “To the Dark Continent and to the place that makes the darkest beer, Dublin.”
She closed her eyes, savoring the wine’s aftertaste for a moment. “Very nice.”
Her lips were full, wet with the taste of wine. She simply looked at me, waiting for me to respond, a subtle coyness in her expression
“Glad you like it,” I finally said. Dumb. “What can I do to help?”
“Salad’s made. Steaks have been marinating in the fridge. I started the grill when I heard you drive up. Potatoes are in the oven.” She opened the refrigerator, took the steaks out, and removed the foil from the top of the glass dish. “Let’s go tell stories around the fire.”
“After you.”
The outdoor table was set with cutlery and two candles burning in the center of it all. Nice touch. I sipped my wine and watched Leslie turn the steaks on the grill. She was a pro, working the meat just close enough to the flames to sear it, but not scorch it.
“I can tell you’ve done this.”
“I like to cook, especially steaks. How do you like yours?”
“Medium.”
“Me, too. Used to like them with a cool center. Then along came mad cow and I went to medium.”
“Those cows weren’t mad, just misunderstood.”
Leslie laughed. Her smile was as warm as the fire. She sipped her wine, the flames playing in her eyes. She said, “I cook with hickory and mesquite.”