A special prosecutor sent down from Tampa presented the case to the grand jury, and the grand jury agreed that the killing of Judge Raleigh Goomer was probably self-defense, though a point-blank nostril shot did seem extreme. Even though Stranahan was cleared, he obviously could no longer be employed by the State Attorney’s Office. Pressure for his dismissal came most intensely from other crooked judges, several of whom stated that they were afraid to have Mr. Stranahan testifying in their courtrooms.
On June 7, 1988, Mick Stranahan resigned from the prosecutor’s staff. The press release called it early retirement, and disclosed that Stranahan would be receiving full disability compensation as a result of injuries suffered in the Goomer shooting. Stranahan wasn’t disabled at all, but his family connection with a notorious personal-injury lawyer was sufficient to terrify the county into paying him off. When Stranahan said he didn’t want the money, the county promptly doubled its offer and threw in a motorized wheel-chair. Stranahan gave up.
Not long afterwards, he moved out to Stiltsville and made friends with the fish.
A marine patrol boat pulled up to Mick Stranahan’s place at half-past noon. Stranahan was on the top deck, dropping a line for mangrove snappers down below.
“Got a second?” asked the marine patrol officer, a sharp young Cuban named Luis Cordova. Stranahan liked him all right.
“Come on up,” he said.
Stranahan reeled in his bait and put the fishing rod down. He dumped four dead snappers out of the bucket and gutted them one at a time, tossing their creamy innards in the water.
Cordova was talking about the body that had washed up on Cape Florida.
“Rangers found it yesterday evening,” he said. “Lemon shark gottheleft foot.”
“That happens,” Stranahan said, skinning one of the fish filets.
“The M.E. says it was one hell of a stab wound.”
“I’m gonna fry these up for sandwiches,” Stranahan said. “You interested in lunch?”
Cordova shook his head. “No, Mick, there’s some jerks poaching lobster down at Boca Chita so I gotta be on my way. Metro asked me to poke around out here, see if somebody saw anything. And since you’re the only one out here… “
Stranahan glanced up from the fish-cleaning. “I don’t remember much going on yesterday,” he said. “Weather was piss-poor, that I know.”
He tossed the fish skeletons, heads still attached, over the rail.
“Well, Metro’s not all that excited,” Cordova said.
“How come? Who’s the stiff?”
“Name of Tony Traviola, wise guy. Jersey state police got a fat jacket on him. Tony the Eel, loan-collector type. Not a very nice man, from what I understand.”
Stranahan said, “They think it’s a mob hit?”
“I don’t know what they think.”
Stranahan carried the filets into the house and ran them under the tap. He was careful with the water, since the tanks were low. Cordova accepted a glass of iced tea and stood next to Stranahan the kitchen, watching him roll the filets in egg yolk and bread crumbs. Normally Stranahan preferred to be left alone when he cooked, but he didn’t want Luis Cordova to go just yet.
“T hey found the guy’s boat, too,” the marine patrolman went on. “It was a rental out of Haulover. White Seacraft.” Stranahan said he hadn’t seen one of those lately. “Few specks of blood was all they found,” Cordova said. “Somebody cleaned it pretty good.”
Stranahan laid the snapper filets in a half inch of oil in a frying pan. The stove didn’t seem to be working, so he got on his knees and checked the pilot light-dead, as usual. He put a match to it and, before long, the fish started to sizzle. Cordova sat down on one of the wicker barstools. “So why don’t they think it was the mob?” Stranahan asked.
“I didn’t say they didn’t, Mick.”
Stranahan smiled and opened a bottle of beer.
Cordova shrugged. “They don’t tell me every little thing.”
“First of all, they wouldn’t bring him all the way down to Florida to do it, would they, Luis? They got the exact same ocean up in Jersey. So Tony the Eel was already here on business.”
“Makes sense,” Cordova nodded.
“Second, why didn’t they just shoot him? Knives are for kids, not pros.”
Cordova took the bait. “Wasn’t a knife,” he said. “It was too big, the M.E. said. More like a javelin.”
“That’s not like the guineas.”
“No,” Cordova agreed.
Stranahan made three fish sandwiches and gave one to the marine patrolman, who had forgotten about going after the lobster poachers, if there ever were any.
“T he other weird thing,” he said through a mouthful of bread, “is the guy’s face.”
“W hat about it?”
“It didn’t match the mug shots, not even close. They made him through fingerprints and dentals, but when they got the mugs back from the FBI it looked like a different guy altogether. So Metro calls the Bureau and says you made a mistake, and they say the hell we did, that’s Tony Traviola. They go back and forth for about two hours until somebody has the brains to call the M.E.” Cordova stopped to gulp some iced tea; the fish was steaming in his cheeks.
Stranahan said, “And?”
“Plastic surgery.”
“No shit?”
“At least five different operations, from his eyes to his chin. Tony the Eel, he was a regular Michael Jackson. His own mother wouldn’t have known him.”
Stranahan opened another beer and sat down. “Why would a bum like Traviola get his face remade?”
Cordova said, “Traviola did a nickel for extortion, got out of Rahway about two years ago. Not long afterwards a Purolator truck gets hit, but the robbers turn up dead three days later-without the loot. Classic mob rip. The feds put a warrant out for Traviola, hung his snapshot in every post office along the Eastern seaboard.”
“Good reason to get the old shnoz bobbed,” Stranahan said.
“That’s what they figure.” Cordova got up and rinsed his plate in the sink.
Stranahan was impressed. “You didn’t get all this out of Metro, did you?”
Cordova laughed. “Hey, even the grouper troopers got a computer.”
This was a good kid, Stranahan thought, a good cop. Maybe there was hope for the world after all.
“I see you went out and got the newspaper,” the marine patrolman remarked. “What’s the occasion, you got a pony running at Gulfstream?”
Hell, Stranahan thought, that was a stupid move. On the counter was the Herald, open to the page with the story about the dead floater. Miami being what it is, the floater story was only two paragraphs long, wedged under a tiny headline between a one-ton coke bust and a double homicide on the river. Maybe Luis Cordova wouldn’t notice.
“You must’ve got up early to get to the marina and back,” he said.
“Grocery run,” Stranahan lied. “Besides, it was a nice morning for a boat ride. How was the fish?”
“Delicious, Mick.” Cordova slapped him on the shoulder and said so long.
Stranahan walked out on the deck and watched Cordova untie his patrol boat, a gray Mako outboard with a blue police light mounted on the center console.
“If anything comes up, I’ll give you a call, Luis.”
“No sweat, it’s Metro’s party,” the marine patrolman said. “Guy sounds like a dirtbag, anyway.”
“Yeah,” Stranahan said, “I feel sorry for that shark, the one that ate his foot.”
Cordova chuckled. “Yeah, he’ll be puking for a week.”
Stranahan waved as the police boat pulled away. He was pleased to see Luis Cordova heading south toward Boca Chita, as Luis had said he would. He was also pleased that the young officer had not asked him about the blue marlin head on the living-room wall, about why the sword was mended together with fresh hurricane tape.
Timmy Gavigan had looked like death for most of his adult life. Now he had an excuse.