"Something with Nicholson. We're going back ten, eleven years. The Dolphins got their asses kicked, that much I remember. Anyway, after that it was back to being friends. Her choice, not mine."
Krome said, "I'm not after anything."
Moffitt chuckled. "Man, you're not listening. It's herchoice. Always." He started the car.
Krome said, "Be careful at the apartment."
"You're the one who needs to be careful." Moffitt winked.
When Krome returned to the restaurant, JoLayne reported that the pie was excellent. Then she asked what Moffitt had told him in the parking lot.
"We were talking about football."
"Yeah, I'll bet."
"You realize," Krome said, "he's taking one helluva risk."
"And I appreciate it. I do."
"You've got a funny way of showing it."
JoLayne shifted uneasily. "Look, I've got to be careful what I say with Moffitt. If I sound ungrateful, it's probably because I don't want to sound toograteful. I don't want ... Lord, you know. The man's still got some strong feelings for me."
"The hots is what we call it."
JoLayne lowered her eyes. "Stop." She felt bad about dragging Moffitt into the search. "I know he's supposed to get a warrant, I know he could lose his job if he's caught – "
"Try jail."
"Tom, he wants to help."
"In the worst way. He'd do anything to make you happy. That's the curse of the hopelessly smitten. Here's my question: Do you want your Lotto money, or do you want revenge?"
"Both."
"If you had to choose."
"The money, then." JoLayne was thinking of Simmons Wood. "I'd want the money."
"Good. Then leave it at that. You'll be doing Agent Moffitt a big favor."
And me, too, Krome thought.
Champ Powell was the best law clerk Judge Arthur Battenkill Jr. had ever hired; the most resourceful, the most hardworking, the most ambitious. Arthur Battenkill liked him very much. Champ Powell didn't need to be taught the importance of loyalty, because he'd been a policeman for five years before entering law schooclass="underline" a Gadsden County sheriffs deputy. Champ understood the rules of the street. The good guys stuck together, helped each other, covered for one another in a jam. That's how you got by, and got ahead.
So Champ Powell was flattered when Judge Battenkill sought his advice about a delicate personal problem – a fellow named Tom Krome, who'd come between the distinguished judge and his lovely wife, Katie. Champ Powell was working late in the law library, researching an obtuse appellate decision on condominium foreclosures, when he felt Arthur Battenkill's hand on his shoulder. The judge sat down and gravely explained the situation with Krome. He asked Champ Powell what hewould do if it was his wife fooling around with another man. Champ (who'd been on both ends of that nasty equation) said first he'd scare the living shit out of the guy, try to run him out of town. Judge Battenkill said that would be excellent, if only he knew how to do such a thing without getting himself in hot water. Champ Powell said don't worry, I'll handle it personally. The judge was so profusely grateful that Champ Powell could see his future in the law profession turning golden. With one phone call, Arthur Battenkill could get him a job with any firm in the Panhandle.
That very night, the law clerk drove to Tom Krome's house and shot out the windows with a deer rifle. The judge rewarded him the next morning in chambers with a collegial wink and a thumbs-up. Two days later, though, Arthur Battenkill phoned Champ Powell to irately report that Krome was still communicating with Katie, sending her photographs of an occult nature: weeping statuary. Champ was outraged. With the judge's blessing, he left work early so he could get to the hardware store before it closed. There he purchased twelve gallons of turpentine and a mop. Any experienced arsonist could have told Champ Powell that twelve gallons was excessive and that the fumes alone would knock an elephant on its ass.
But the law clerk had no time for expert consultations. With resolve in his heart and a bandanna over his nostrils, Champ Powell vigorously swabbed the turpentine throughout Tom Krome's house, slicking the floors and walls of each room. He was in the kitchen when he finally passed out, collapsing against the gas stove, groping wildly as he keeled. Naturally his hands latched onto a burner knob and unconsciously twisted it to the "on" position. When the explosion came, it was heard half a mile away. The house burned to the foundation in ninety minutes.
Champ Powell's remains were not discovered until many hours after the blaze had died, when firefighters overturned a half-melted refrigerator and found what appeared to be a charred human jaw. Larger bone fragments and clots of jellied tissue were collected from the debris and placed in a Hefty bag for the medical examiner, who determined that the victim was a white male about six feet tall, in his early thirties. Beyond that, positive identification would be nearly impossible without dental records.
Based on the victim's race, height and approximate age, fire investigators conjectured that the dead body was probably Tom Krome and that he'd been murdered or knocked unconscious when he surprised the arsonist inside his house.
The grisly details of the discovery, and the suspicions surrounding it, were given the following morning to The Register'spolice reporter, who promptly notified the managing editor. Somberly he assembled the newsroom staff and told them what the arson guys had found. The managing editor asked if anybody knew the name of Tom Krome's dentist, but no one did (though a few staff members remarked upon Krome's outstanding smile, cattily speculating that it had to be the handiwork of a specialist). An intern was assigned the task of phoning every dental clinic in town in search of Krome's X-rays. In the meantime, a feature writer was assigned to work on Krome's obituary, just in case. The managing editor said the newspaper should wait as long as possible before running a story but should prepare for the worst. After the meeting, he hurried back to his office and tried to reach Sinclair in Grange. A woman identifying herself as Sinclair's sister reported he was "at the turtle shrine" but offered to take him a message. The managing editor gave her one: "Tell him to call the goddamn office by noon, or start looking for a new job."
As it happened, Champ Powell and Tom Krome had, in addition to their race and physique, one other characteristic in common: a badly chipped occlusal cusp on the number 27 tooth, the right lower canine. Champ Powell had damaged his while drunkenly gnawing the cap off a bottle of Busch at the 1993 Gator Bowl. Tom Krome's chip had been caused by a flying brick during a street riot he was covering in the Bronx.
One of Krome's second cousins, trying to be helpful, mentioned the broken tooth (and its semiheroic origin) to a Registerreporter, who mentioned it to the medical examiner, who dutifully inspected the charred jawbone retrieved from Krome's house. The number 27 canine looked as if it had been busted with a chisel. With confidence, the medical examiner dictated a report that tentatively identified the corpse in the ruins as Tom Krome.
The Registerwould run the news story and sidebar obituary on the front page, beneath a four-column color photograph of Tom Krome. It would be the picture from his press badge – an underexposed head shot, with Tom's hair windblown and his eyes half closed – but Katie would still fall apart when she saw it, dashing to the bedroom in tears. Judge Arthur Battenkill Jr. would remain at the breakfast table and reread the articles several times. Try as he might, he would not be able to recall the condition of Champ Powell's dentition.
Arriving at the courthouse, he would find that for the second consecutive day his eager law clerk hadn't shown up for work. The secretaries would offer to go to Champ's apartment and check on him, but the judge would say it wasn't necessary. He would pretend to recall that Champ had mentioned driving to Cedar Key, to visit his parents. Later Arthur Battenkill Jr. would go alone into his chambers and shut the door. He would put on his black robe, untie his shoes and sit down to figure out what would be worse for him, from the standpoint of culpability – if the burned body belonged to Champ Powell or to Tom Krome.