Pam let him out the back telling him to knock and she'd open it again.
What Maurice wanted to do--LaBrava was sure now--was take a picture of his friend smashed, bleary-eyed, then show it to her tomorrow. "See what a beauty you are when you're drunk?" Shame her into sobriety. But if the woman had a problem with booze it would be a waste of time. He wouldn't mind, though, getting a shot of Earl. Earl showing his scar. Shoot it from down on the floor. The guy's leg crossed, pants pulled up, shin in the foreground, shiny crescent scar. Earl pointing with a dirty fingernail. Grinning near toothless, too drunk not to look proud and happy.
Bending over in the trunk LaBrava felt inside the camera case, brought out the Leica CL and attached a wide-angle lens.
Headlights flashed on him, past him. By the time he looked around the car had come to a stop parallel to the building, its dark-colored rear deck standing at the edge of the floodlit area that extended out from the back door. LaBrava felt in the case again for the flash attachment. He straightened, slamming the trunk closed.
A young guy was out of the car. Big, well-built guy in a silver athletic jacket, blue trim. Banging on the door now with the thick edge of his fist, other hand wedged in the tight pocket of his jeans. LaBrava came up next to him. The guy grinned, fist still raised, toothpick in the corner of his mouth.
"How you doing this evening?" Slurring his words.
He was thick all over, heavily muscled, going at least six-three, two-thirty. Blond hair with a greenish tint in the floodlight: the hair uncombed, clots of it lying straight back on his head without a part, like he'd been swimming earlier and had raked it back with his fingers. The guy wasn't young up close. Mid-thirties. But he was the kind of guy--LaBrava knew by sight, smell and instinct--who hung around bars and arm-wrestled. Homegrown jock--pumped his muscles and tested his strength when he wasn't picking his teeth.
LaBrava said, "Not too bad. How're you doing?"
"Well, I don't idle too good, but I'm still running." With a back-country drawl greasing his words. "You gonna take some pitchers?"
"I'm thinking about it."
"What of, this pisshole? Man, I wouldn't keep goats in this place."
"I imagine they don't have much of a budget, run by the county," LaBrava said. Hearing himself, he sounded like a wimp. He had the feeling he would never agree with this guy. Still, there was no sense in antagonizing him.
"Palm Beach County, shit, they got more money'n any county in the state of Florida. But you look at this pisshole kind of shack they put people in--I mean nice people--you'd never know it, would you? You don't see none of that Palm Beach crowd brought in here. They can be pissing on the squad car, cop'll go, 'Get in, sir. Lemme drive you home, sir.' Shit... Hey, you want a take my pitcher? Go ahead, I'll let you."
"Thanks anyway," LaBrava said.
"What paper you with?"
LaBrava paused. He said, "Oh," a pleasant, surprised tone. It was not recognition of himself, LaBrava the street shooter, but it was recognition of a sort. "What makes you think I'm a news photographer?"
The guy said, "I guess 'cause all you assholes look alike." He turned away as they heard the locks, the door opening.
LaBrava saw Pam's expression change, startled, the girl tiny next to the silver jacket. She said, "Hey, what're you doing--" The guy was taking her by the arm as he entered.
"I come on official business, puss. How you doing? You're new here, huh? I ain't seen you before."
LaBrava edged past them with the camera, walked toward the hall and heard the locks snapping again behind him, heard the guy's bullshit charm hard at work. "Here, shake hands. I'm Richard Nobles, puss, with the police hereabouts." He heard Pam say, "Wait a minute. What police hereabouts?" He heard the rigid man say, "You ever see an eagle?" And heard Richard Nobles say, "You kidding me, papa? I've cooked and ate a eagle..."
Maurice was waiting in the hall by the doorway.
"Go in get a shot of her. Wait, what've you got, the Leica? Okay, go on."
"She awake?"
"I'm getting her outta here. Shoot straight down on her. What do you have it set at?"
"I don't know yet." LaBrava walked into the room. He saw bare legs in the shaft of light from the hall, sandals with medium heels. Slim legs, one of them drawn up. She was lying on her side, wearing a light-colored dress, her shoulders bare, an arm extended, partly covering her face. Maurice stooped down to move her arm, gently. LaBrava went out to the hall to make his adjustments. When he came back in and stood over the woman on the mattress, framing her in the viewfinder, dark hair against pale skin, Maurice said, "What'd you set it at?"
"Sixtieth at eight."
"I don't know..."
LaBrava didn't wait. The flash went off as he triggered the camera tight to his right eye, cocked it with his thumb, shot the second time, cocked and shot again.
"Set it lower and get another one."
"That's enough," LaBrava said.
"I want to be sure we got something."
"We got it," LaBrava said. "Take her out the front and I'll bring the car around."
There was another girl in the office now who seemed only a few years older than Pam but more grown up, in charge. Coming into the room again LaBrava heard her tell Nobles she was the supervisor and wanted to see some identification or there would be nothing to discuss. Right away LaBrava liked her confidence. He liked her slim build in jeans standing with long legs apart, arms folded, brown hair waved to her shoulders. A good-looking girl who knew what she was doing.
Nobles dug a wallet out of his back pocket, turning sideways and brushing his silver jacket open so they would see the checkered walnut grip of a revolver stuck in the waist of his jeans. Saying, "Boca police brought this lady here happens to be a friend of mine. See, I checked with them and they said it would be okay to release her to my custody. They said fine, go ahead." He flipped open the wallet to show a gold shield on one side, an I.D. card bearing his photograph on the other. "See what it says there? Palm Beach County."
The slim girl took a half step, extending her hand and he flipped the wallet closed. She said, "Palm Beach County what? If the Boca Police said it was okay, they'd have called to let us know. That's how it works."
Nobles shook his head, weary. "Look, I'm doing you a favor. Lemme have the lady and we'll say nighty-night, let you all go on back play with your nuts."
"No one leaves without authorization," the slim girl said, standing right up to him.
"I'm giving you authorization. Jesus Christ, I just now showed it to you."
LaBrava said, "Excuse me. Would somebody like to open the front door?"
Nobles gave him a look, cold, with no expression, and the slim girl said, "Show me identification or get out. That's the way it is. Okay?"
LaBrava watched Nobles sigh, shake his head--not so drunk that he couldn't put on an act--and flip open the wallet again. "What's that say? Right there? Palm Beach County authorization." Giving her a flash of official wording and flipped the wallet closed.
He's not a cop.
LaBrava would bet on it. He heard the girl say, "That's not PBSO or any badge I've ever seen before."
Nobles shook his head again. "Some reason you got your ass up in the air. Did I say I was with the Palm Beach sheriff's office? You don't listen good, do you? See, long as I got credentials as to who I am and Boca PD says it's fine with them, then tell me what your problem is, puss, cause I sure as hell don't see it."
Sounding drunk, but with a swagger that was part the guy's brute nature and would not be contained for long; his size, his eighteen-inch neck giving him permission to do as he pleased. LaBrava had known a few Richard Nobles.
The guy was no cop.