I removed the book- Shadow Country by Peter Matthiessen-and placed it on the deck before grabbing the newspaper. The front section was still in the plastic baggie untouched.
To demonstrate I wasn’t worried and wasn’t in a hurry, I ignored the local section, with its headlines about Bern Heller, and read the front-page national section.
The lead story was about the attempted abduction of Senator Barbara Hayes-Sorrento and the missing boy. Only a dozen paragraphs had made this early island edition, but there was a photo of Barbara and a photo of one of the entrances to the Explorers Club. There was also a sidebar about the murdered limo driver.
The boy, Will Chaser, wasn’t named. An “unidentified pedestrian” was credited with detaining one of the kidnappers.
I asked Tomlinson, “You didn’t read the national section?”
“Never made it that far.” He motioned vaguely to the deck beneath his chair. “No need to play it cool with me. I can tell you’re worried shitless. Take a look at the story about Heller, you’ll understand.”
As I knelt to retrieve the local pages, he added, “You don’t have to worry about me narcing you to the cops. I’m no Judas.”
“It’s unusual for you to make biblical references on a Friday. Getting a jump on the weekend guilts?”
“In your e-mail, isn’t that why you mentioned Tenth Man? Thirty pieces of silver-hell, they could offer me thirty blotters of Frisco ’68, I still wouldn’t blabber.”
I said, “Here’s a concept: Some people ask questions because they want an answer. Me, for instance.”
“That’s my answer: Judas was the Tenth Man, the tenth disciple. You sent the e-mail, worried I was going to rat you out to the cops. That’s the way I interpreted it.”
Had Choirboy said Tenth Man or Tinman? Interesting distinction. It offered an entirely different meaning, but I was concentrating on the newspaper now. The body of a man found floating off Naples Pier, has been identified as former NFL lineman Bern Heller, 38, of Indian Harbour. Heller was sentenced to life in prison for murder but released from Florida State Penitentiary, Raiford, last month pending a hearing. Heller, who was principal owner of Indian Harbour Marina, was found guilty of second-degree murder seven months ago and was awaiting trial for additional charges that included murder, kidnapping and multiple rapes. Heller was reported missing from his live-aboard yacht at Indian Harbour six days ago by a friend and occasional roommate, Tripper Oswald of Fort Myers. The marina is in the final stages of foreclosure. Only Heller was living on the property, according to Citi Management Corporation, the mortgage holder. A Wisconsin native, Heller was convicted of the shooting death of Capt. Javier Castillo, a popular local fishing guide. Capt. Castillo’s widow and two children have been the benefactors of recent charity functions sponsored by Dinkin’s Bay Marina on Sanibel. Heller’s arrest made national headlines, and his testimony may have contributed to investigations into the effects of steroid rage associated with crimes committed by professional athletes. According to the Lee County Medical Examiner’s Office, the cause of death will not be released until police finish their investigation. According to a statement issued yesterday by Heller’s attorney, there are “sufficient anomalies” to suggest the former football star was a victim of foul play. Oswald and members of Heller’s family have retained a private investigator. According to the sheriff’s department, the investigation into the former star’s death is continuing…
I had tuned out Tomlinson but now looked up from the paper after he banged me on the shoulder, asking, “Are you listening to me? This is serious shit, man.”
I said, “Heller’s dead. Good. I don’t see what that has to do with me.” I folded the paper and carried it to the railing. My shark pen was below: a rectangle of net and wire kept afloat by basketball-sized buoys at each corner.
Sharks are delicate, complex animals. The bull shark, Carcharhinus Leucas, is one of my primary interests as a researcher. Leucas is known by several names worldwide, including Zambezi River shark and Lake Nicaragua shark. It swims hundreds of miles up rivers to feed and possibly reproduce in freshwater lakes. The shark is also responsible for more attacks on humans than great whites or tiger sharks.
Because I had been traveling, the pen was empty. A five-hundred-pound shark is not the invincible killer portrayed in films. The animal requires constant care and is fussy about what it eats in captivity. I no longer take risks with the sharks I use for research. I would rather release a dozen of them than return home after a trip to find one dead.
Through the clear water, I saw a school of mullet daisy-chaining, stirring detritus clouds with their tails. Angel-striped spadefish flashed in slow arcs near pilings. Where water deepened, snook were stacked in shadows, muscled densities orderly as rungs.
Tomlinson was still talking. “That investigator the paper mentions, I met him. He was nosing around the marina last night, asking questions at Sanibel Marina, and Tween Waters, too. Seedy little gumshoe of a guy, you ask me.”
I nodded: Good.
“The county fuzz, that’s who you need to worry about. They showed up last night, the lead detective in an unmarked Chevy. Her name’s Palmer, Detective Palmer, an interesting-looking woman. She’s got the typical hard-ass attitude, but there’s some wisdom in her face. Palmer’s smart. She’s also ambitious.”
I shrugged: Bad?
I was scanning the rest of the story, hoping to see a mention of the watch Heller was wearing, as Tomlinson said, “Detective Palmer was interested in the Cheesehead’s wristwatch,” breaking into my thoughts. It wasn’t the first time he had done something like that.
I played it straight. “What’s his watch have to do with anything?”
“When they found him, Heller was wearing a cheap rubber watch. Not waterproof. They figure it stopped the day he drowned. Like in the movies, you know, the broken watch determines the time of death. The paper says he’s been missing since”-because Tomlinson was reaching, I handed him the newspaper-“Heller was reported missing six days ago. It was also the day the watch stopped. So the date would have been… Saturday, January seventeenth?”
I said, “The detective told you all this?”
“Yeah… I mean, no. Yes, it was the seventeenth. No, Palmer didn’t tell me. I pieced it together from the questions she asked the fishing guides.”
He rattled the paper for emphasis, then stuffed it under the chair. “You flew to New York last Friday, the sixteenth, right, Doc?”
Tomlinson was staring at me now. I stared back. “You know I did. Apparently, I left the day before Heller died. Which means you’re wrong. Police have no reason to come after me.”
“I’m not an expert on watches, but couldn’t a killer click the date ahead, then break the thing on purpose? A really shrewd person, I’m talking about.”
I said, “With saltwater drowning, it’s not easy to pinpoint the time of death. Because fish and crabs and things aren’t fussy about what they eat. A smart killer wouldn’t bother planting a broken watch. And a dumb killer wouldn’t think of it. That makes the watch gambit unlikely.”
Tomlinson got up, nodding. I watched him go into the lab, giving me a look, before he let the screen door swing closed, his expression saying Okay, okay, if that’s the way you want to play it…
I went downstairs to double-check my boat. Heller’s family was pushing police to look for his killer? I had a lot to do.
A few minutes later, I heard a screen door swing closed. Tomlinson came down the steps, wearing faded jeans and a tie-dyed T-shirt that read RELIGION IS A COMPASS, NOT A HARNESS.
He was carrying an antique bag, once called a Gladstone, leather and brass.
I was coiling a water hose. Before leaving for New York, I had double-scrubbed the boat’s deck. An extra shot of water and half a bottle of degreaser couldn’t hurt. DNA can be as stubborn as any stain.