Durell was nodding, thinking, saying "Okay, okay. ..."
Ford said, "Then you're convinced?"
"I'm convinced you tampered with evidence and that DeArmand's bunch got a little too cute trying to smooth it over."
"Rafe was murdered and you know it."
"What I know is, there's almost zero chance of proving it now. But the governor's office might like to hear about DeArmand and the Everglades County Medical Examiner's office. Dereliction of duty, criminal negligence, failing to hold a body forty-eight hours. You drop the right bomb and sometimes all kind of creatures start crawling out. Even killers. "
"I've collected some data on DeArmand. None of it is incriminating by itself, but, taken as a whole, it shows he's crooked and slippery . . . and dangerous. I've got stuff on Sealife Development Corporation, too. And the registration numbers from the boat I found on the island that day. I'll put it all in a letter and send it to your office."
Les Durell was looking at him, not reacting, a steady look of appraisal. "You know what I'm worried about? I'm worried about you. Some guy who thinks he's clever enough to bang around playing detective, manipulating people, making way too much noise. If DeArmand suspects someone is interested, he's going to cover his tracks so quick that even the governor's office won't be able to seal his records or get subpoenas out fast enough. And I don't want to spend a lot of time, do a lot of work, knowing someone is going to screw it all up making amateur mistakes. "
Ford shrugged. "I guess you'll have to take it on faith that I won't."
"I take God and the Democratic Party on faith, not you. Within an hour of you calling me, I'd done computer checks through the Federal Crime Information Center, the FBI, and a couple of others. Missed my tee-off time, and you know what I got for my trouble? Almost nothing. Bare bones stuff. You did your military training at Naval Special Warfare Center in Coronado, California. So I take that to mean you were a navy SEAL. You got a couple of college degrees while in uniform, so I take that to mean the navy invested extra money in you for a reason. You scored real high on your Civil Service exam and left the navy for no apparent reason. And that's it, buddy boy. I've run checks on priests that gave me more."
"I've lived a quiet life."
Durell said, "You think if I hadn't figured out what kind of quiet life, I'd be wasting my time talking to you right now? I don't know why Sanibel Island attracts so many retired CIA agents. You guys have meetings, put on dances? And there's another thing. "
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Maybe you didn't think of it, but if DeArmand's bunch was involved in the murder, they're going to be wondering who got to the body first and messed up their nice suicide. They're going to be wondering who called it in. They might even be looking for the guy."
Ford said, "I didn't work for the CIA."
"You're better off me thinking you did. Being an admitted felon and all."
"The next time we have a dance," Ford replied, "I'll make sure you and your wife are invited."
Ford stopped at the beach bar and had a beer with Harvey Hollins, Durell, and the rest of the guys, then left them there, old teammates hooting it up and replaying lost games. It was the way all funerals should end. Across the asphalt parking lot, his truck shimmered, saturated with midday sunlight; the door and steering wheel hot enough to cauterize flesh. He rolled down both windows and shifted to speed, his soaked shirt cooling in the wind off the road. He had Rafe's address book out. There were a couple of places Ford wanted to see.
The main street was Ocean View Drive, a slow business district four-lane: True Value Hardware, Burger King, Island Doctors Clinic, Cobb Cinema; everything built of concrete block, low to the ground. Sealife Development Corporation offices were just beyond, not quite to Sandy Key Mall, a one-story building behind a two-story fagade: broad lawn, a fountain with American and Canadian flags, a parking lot dividing the main building from two model homes, DELUXE VALUE AT MIDDLE CLASS PRICE. Billboard signs with open-house banners. There was a car in the lot, so Ford pulled in and a salesman in one of the model homes told him the corporate office was closed, being Monday—Sunday was their big day—but if Ford wanted a deal on a house or condo, now was the time to buy. Was he interested? Ford said he was—wishing there was some way to get inside the corporate building to see what kind of bric-a-brac the corporate elite used to decorate their offices.
The salesman wanted to know if he was interested in a beach condo. They had one or two new units, a very few used units. Or, if Ford wanted something a little higher priced, they'd just listed a split-level executive house on the seventh green of the country club. "Our Thomas Jefferson model," the salesman said. "Rarely available." Ford asked if he had a photo of the house—he'd be willing to follow him into the corporate building, if the salesman wanted to unlock. The salesman said no, he might have one back in the files and, when he went to check, Ford lifted the Realtors Only listing book and glanced through it. In the few minutes the salesman was away, Ford counted more than a dozen Thomas Jefferson executive models for sale. Every other listing was a beach condo.
Real estate sales seemed a little stagnant on Sandy Key, and Ford wondered if Sealife Development was having financial trouble.
He tried a few more ploys to get into the main building; none worked. If he wanted to check the office shelves for pre-Columbian art, he'd have to come another day.
Just off the main street, he found the Everglades County Sheriff's Department: three floors of brown stucco with mirrored windows and a chain-link lock-up out back where several white-and-green squad cars glittered in the sun. At the desk, he asked the stern woman in uniform and holster harness if Sheriff DeArmand was in. If he had been, Ford had already decided he would ask about employment. He wasn't.
What Ford was trying to do was get a feel for the place, a sense of the organization. He had fifteen single-spaced typed pages on Sealife Development back at his lab, but he wanted to flesh out the impression. He wanted a physical understanding of what he was up against. He bought a city map at a 7-Eleven and, using Rafe's address book, found DeArmand's home: a huge split-level version of the Thomas Jefferson executive model built on a sodded half-acre plot that butted up against a line of gray melaleuca trees that separated it from the golf course.
Ford slowed. Three cars in the drive: a new station wagon, a red Corvette, and a white, unmarked Ford squad car. DeArmand and wife seemed to be home. Ford considered stopping; thought about asking directions—"I'm looking for a Jefferson model on the seventh green"—but decided that was just a little too cute, too risky. He turned at the circular dead end, then headed back out to Ocean View. At a pay phone, he found the address for H. B. Hollins—it wasn't in Rafe's book—and drove to the other end of the island looking for 127 Del Prado Place: a white ranch house with two palm trees, an overgrown lawn, and a faded Honda Accord in the drive.
The bell didn't work, so he rapped on the door . . . waited . . . rapped again . . . waited . . . then followed the sound of thudding rock-n'-roll and the smell of chlorine to the screened pool behind the house.
The pool water was the color of lime Jell-O, and a woman there lay on her back in a lounge chair, pale pink thread of bikini bottoms tracing the curve of her buttocks, pink bra top in a tiny heap beside the chair, heavy breasts taut in the heat beneath a viscous coating of oil, arms stretched behind her head to form a pillow, eyes closed.