A uniformed sergeant stood guard at the suite's double doors. He looked at my cane and at my face and let out a low whistle. Then he blocked the door and made me negotiate.
"Let 'em in!"
It was Nick Fox. "Been expecting you, Jakie…" He did a double take. "Jesus H. Christ, you look like shit warmed over."
I looked around the room. No Pamela Maxson. No Bobbie Blinderman. "You were too late," I said hoarsely.
"It happens that way sometimes."
"Where's the body?"
He jerked a thumb toward the balcony. The sliding glass doors were open, and a humid breeze from the Atlantic puckered the flimsy curtains. I hobbled out. A police photographer was crouching, taking a shot of something on the concrete slab of the balcony. He was blocking my view. I stepped around him.
A woman's shoe.
A black shoe with a stiletto heel cleanly broken off. The heel was jammed in the track of the sliding glass door. The rest of the shoe lay forlornly on its side near the edge of the balcony. I looked straight down over the railing, gripping it tight. One hundred twenty feet below, on the pool deck, lay a body in a black dress. The legs were splayed at an unnatural angle, and a pool of blood seeped from beneath her head and across the hard Chattahoochee. Alongside, a man in a white coat was taking photos. Another man was on his hands and knees, whisking the deck with a brush.
"Dr. Maxson's in the bedroom," Nick Fox said, standing behind me.
My eyes must have had a desperate look. "She's okay, don't worry. Now, before you go in there, I gotta ask you a couple questions. The other night, you were at your secretary's place, and you had the. 38, right?"
"Right."
"Did the gun discharge?"
"Yeah."
"Did Dr. Maxson shoot the gun?"
"Yeah."
"Why did she shoot?"
"To get my attention."
"Maybe I should try that. How many shots?"
"One."
"You're sure, just one shot."
"Yeah. What the hell-"
"You ever shoot it?"
"Never."
"Okay, c'mon. Let's see your girlfriend."
Pam Maxson sat on the bed. She wore a double-breasted coatdress in purple-and-black houndstooth. Epaulets and padded shoulders, not your typical daytime resort wear. A female detective sat next to her, scribbling notes on a pad. The detective wore a blue skirt, white blouse, and blue jacket, and her holster was visible on the left side. Clipped to the jacket was a plastic shield with her photo and name and large black letters spelling "Homicide." I moved closer. Her name was Sigorsky. She was short and bleached blond, but she hadn't made it to the beauty salon in a while. She was wide through the hips, and her dark eyes walked me up and down, taking their sweet time. Her report would probably record each welt, bruise, and blister. Two other cops in uniform stood around, admiring the wet bar, every liquor under the sun in miniature airline bottles. Cops always travel in packs.
"Jake, oh Jake, thank God you're here. It was so awful."
Pam Maxson stood and rushed to me, throwing her arms around me. If she noticed that my face looked like steak tartare, she didn't mention it. I held her. It was impossible to do anything else. I felt her tears against my neck.
Detective Sigorsky said, "That will be all, Dr. Maxson, unless you want to add anything."
Pam just shook her head.
I eased up on her padded shoulders. "What happened?"
She shook her head again, tears streaming from her green flinty eyes.
"A freak accident," Sigorsky said.
Behind me Nick Fox chuckled. "A freak's accident is more like it."
The detective continued: "Dr. Maxson was treating the subject for psychological disorders related to her…or rather, his sexual-identity confusion. Did I get that term right, doctor?"
"Gender-identity disorder. Possible schizophrenia."
"Maybe he wasn't used to walking in those high heels," Sigorsky said. "Lord knows, I have trouble with them; maybe he wasn't watching and he stepped in the door track, the heel broke, he fell forward and flipped over the railing." Sigorsky shrugged and smiled a rueful smile. "We've had some of those spring-break college kids go off balconies, but usually they're trying to climb from floor to floor when they're all liquored up. Now a shoe does it. I tell you, it gets weirder every day."
I heard Charlie Riggs's voice. Accident, suicide, homicide, and natural.
Pam gathered herself and sat down again. Nick Fox came up and nudged me. "Hey, Jakie, know a good lawyer, maybe sue the shoe manufacturer, or the hotel, eh?"
I ignored him.
"Too bad the little jockey won't be around to collect the settlement," Nick continued.
"What's that mean?" I asked. "What happened to Max?"
"Nothing till the grand jury meets Monday. Then I'd say he'll be indicted for Murder One, just like you said."
"No. I was wrong. Bobbie did the killing."
"Jakie, shut up and take some praise. You ain't gonna hear it for long. You were right the first time. Old Max couldn't handle Bobbie's flings. He'd tail her, wait around, and just after she left, he'd go to the door, knock, and imitate her voice. He's pretty good at it, if you want to hear. Then he'd push his way in. With that jockey's quickness, he was on them in an instant. Manual strangulation. When he came over here and saw his so-called bride like that, he just broke down. Said he wanted to talk. Confessed to killing the Rosedahl girl and Prissy. He's in a room down the hall giving a sworn statement right now. We Mirandized him ten ways from Sunday, but he refused a lawyer. Wish they were all like that."
"I don't believe it."
"Don't worry, Jake. You'll get the credit for breaking the case. It may help you."
"But Bobbie…her poetry. It cried out with her guilt."
Pam Maxson was shaking her head. "Oh Jake, that's the problem with laymen thinking they're analysts. The poetry expressed her psyche's guilt, her confusion about her sexual identity, but had nothing to do with her actions. Fantasies, Jake, nothing more."
Now they both looked at me. Why was I so out of it? But something else was bothering me now. Sometimes, my brain rolls a thought around like a chrome pinball, bouncing off the bumpers before finding the hundred-point socket.
"What did you mean, Nick, it might help me?"
"With the judge, Jakie. One of the crime-scene boys found a Smith and Wesson bodyguard. 38 in the bushes outside Rodriguez's house. Blue steel with the checkered walnut stock. Three bullets still in the cylinder, two fired. Serial number matches the gun assigned to you, my friend. The gun had two sets of latents. Want to know whose?"
I already had a pretty good idea, but Nick just kept going.
"One set matched Dr. Maxson's, who was kind enough to lend us her pinkies."
She looked at me. "A dicey situation, Jake. They asked me not to tell you."
"One set matched yours," Fox said, "which we took when you were sworn in. We dug a. 38 caliber bullet out of Alex's bed. Ballistics fires the gun, and guess what, it's the murder weapon. Are you with me, Jake, or you want I should slow down?"
I just glared at him, and he continued: "Now we know that Dr. Maxson fired only one shot. Who fired the other one, Jake?"
"You've got to be kidding."
"Where were you yesterday, Jake?"
"You can't be serious."
"Okay, I'll tell you. In the morning, you were in this very hotel suite, and at about eleven you caused a hell of a scene out front when you got your clock cleaned by a shrimp who used to ride the ponies at Hialeah and for the last few years pretended to be married to a broad with a dick. From there you went to Mercy Hospital for X-rays, but you were out of there by twelve-thirty. You didn't get to your office until two o'clock, spent maybe twenty minutes there, and got to Rodriguez's house at about three, when you called me upon allegedly finding the body. That about right?"