A motion of the boat snapped Paz out of this unpleasant reverie. Someone had come aboard, and now a voice called out, “Can I help you?”
Paz emerged from the sleeping cabin to confront a soft-looking man of about forty with a buzz cut over an undistinguished set of white-bread American features. His eyes were uncertain and nervous behind horn-rimmed glasses, and he held his right hand out of sight.
Paz slowly withdrew his badge wallet from his breast pocket and showed his ID.
“Paz, Miami PD. Who’re you?”
The man leaned forward and examined the credentials for longer than most people did when so confronted. Seemingly satisfied, he straightened and brought his other hand into sight.
The man said, “I’m David Packer. This is my boat.”
“You’re renting it to Emmylou Dideroff?”
“Yeah,” he said, and then his brow knotted with concern. “Hey, did anything…I mean, is she okay?”
“She was fine the last time I saw her. How is she as a tenant?”
“Perfect. Doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink, doesn’t have skanky men come by all the time, or dope parties, like the last one I had in here. No broken glass. So if she’s okay, how come you’re here?”
“She’s involved in a crime and we’re checking her out. Look, could we go up on deck, it’s getting warm in here.”
“Yeah, it’ll do that. Boat’s got an AC, but she don’t use it much.”
The man turned and walked out. He was overweight, and his T-shirt was too tight to conceal the butt of the pistol he had shoved into the waistband of his faded cutoff jeans.
On deck, Packer said, “We could go to my place, get out of the sun if you want to talk.” He gestured to the next moorage where loomed a large structure covered with redwood shingles. Technically a houseboat, it was more like a houseon a boat, flat-roofed, wooden-shingled, with big picture windows, a balcony, and a deck full of redwood lawn furniture and well-grown potted plants.
“Lead the way,” said Paz, and they both walked off Dideroff’s houseboat, along the bulkhead and up a ramp onto the larger craft. They had to squeeze past a huge motorcycle on their way to the deck facing the river.
Packer directed Paz to a padded mahogany chaise lounge, but he chose a canvas chair instead. Packer dropped down into another lounge, winced, pulled the pistol out from behind him, and placed it carefully on a side table. He said, “Sorry about my attitude. We’ve had breakins, theft, vandalism.”
“Uh-huh,” said Paz. See a black guy, naturally you reach for your gun. He looked at the pistol. It was a Walther PPK/S. The man saw his look and said, “Don’t worry, Officer, I have a license.”
“Detective, and I’m not worried, sir,” said Paz. “So…Mr. Packer. You know Emmylou for long?”
“Just since she’s been here. A year or so. I could check my records.”
“She just showed up one day?”
“No, she was…I mean I was recommended to her by mutual friends. She was looking to settle here in town, I had a boat to rent…like I said, she’s been a tenant from heaven.”
“And you’re here most of the time?”
“Oh, I’m out and about. Got a motorcycle over there on the stern deck, you probably saw.”
“Yeah, the Harley. And you’re what? Independently wealthy?”
Packer laughed. “I wish. No, I’m just a retired civil servant with some lucky investments. And a pension.”
“Mm. What agency were you with when you were working, if I may ask?”
“Excuse me, but I thought we were going to talk about my tenant,” said Packer. “You said she was involved in some crime?”
“Yes, sir. A homicide.”
“Emmyloukilled someone?”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine, sir. Now, did you ever see her with anyone who might have been African or Arab?”
“No, we didn’t socialize, and I never saw anyone visit at the boat.”
“Did you ever know or hear her talk about a man named Jabir Akran al-Muwalid?”
“No. Is that who she’s supposed to have killed?”
Paz ignored this and took a steno book and a pen from his breast pocket. “We’re trying to find out something about Emmylou, her background, where she’s from. Can you fill in any of that?”
“No, I’m afraid I can’t. Like I said, we weren’t pals. We exchanged small talk if we happened to pass and once a month when she brought the rent. Paid in cash, by the way, and always on the day.”
“Well, then, those mutual friends…”
“Hilda and Stewart Jameson. I have a P.O. box number for them at Methodist World Missions you could have, but I have no idea how you’d get in touch with them. They’re on the road a lot.”
“In Africa.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. How did you know?”
“Oh, just a lucky guess.” Paz did not appreciate being snowed, which he was pretty sure was what Packer was doing to him, but he had no leverage on the man at present, so he took his leave (noting the license plate number on the bike as he did so) and drove to the Wilson Brothers Marine engine shop to check out Dideroff’s employment. It was a big shed by the river, smelling of dank water and engine exhaust. He located the proprietor in his office, a small cubicle lined with cheap luan paneling. This was decorated with a whiteboard listing active jobs, framed photos of boats, a calendar supplied by Volvo Marine and another showing a naked woman, which was heavily marked with circlings and phone numbers. Jack Wilson was a big heavily tanned guy with a long back-sweep of golden hair down to the neck in back and not too clean, dressed in the usual grease-stained khaki cutoffs and sleeveless T-shirt of the Miami water rat. He had massive biceps on which were tattooedLIVE FREE OR DIE (left) and a marijuana leaf (right). A shark’s tooth on a thong decorated his neck.
“I’ve been expecting you guys,” he said after Paz introduced himself. “When Emmylou didn’t come back with my truck I figured something was up. I called and they told me she was arrested.”
“We’re questioning her. She may have witnessed a crime. So tell me a little about her. A good worker? Reliable?”
“Yeah. She was great. Is great. I mean everybody around here really liked her.”
“She ever mention any Arabs? Guy named Jabir al-Muwalid?”
“Not that I ever heard,” said Wilson. “What kind of crime?”
“Why don’t you let me ask the questions, sir? I’ll be out of your way a lot quicker. How did you come to hire her?”
“A guy we did some work for steered her here when my old girl quit.”
“So you hired her on a boater’s recommendation. A friend of yours?”
“No, just a customer. Dave Packer. She rents a houseboat from him.”
“I know. I met Mr. Packer a while ago. And so…she ran your office? Handled the petty cash. Looks like you got a lot of expensive stuff for sale. She cut your checks too?”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“Just that it seems an important job to give a stranger on the recommendation of some guy you hardly knew. Did she have references?”
Paz kept up the cop stare, buoyed by the cop instinct that he was in the presence of someone with something to hide, a violation of the criminal code type of something. This was the kind of leverage he did not have on Packer, and he was going to make the most of it. After a little pause, Wilson said, “Look, I’ll level with you. This is the Miami waterfront, huh? People come and go. I mean decent office help’s hard to find, and most people’d rather work in a bank, nice office, air-conditioning, quiet…I mean this place, a crummy little room, fumes from the shop…so I was paying her off the books?cash, no withholding. She wanted it like that anyway.”
“And why was that, do you think?”
“Hey, she was a good worker. And I’m not nosy.”