Текст книги "Surface Tension"

Автор книги: Christine Kling

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IV

By the time I tied Gorda to the seawall back at the estate, and Abaco leaped off and ran into the bushes to pee, it was almost two o’clock. All the way back up the river I had tried to put things together. I refused to consider the possibility that Neal was dead. As I’d untied Gorda down at the Coast Guard dock, I overheard the police discussing the search that was taking place offshore; as far as they were concerned, it was a search for another dead body. But it simply couldn’t be, no way, not Neal. Not that former Seal trained in self-defense, trained to kill. Not the man who had once lain next to me on the foredeck of his sailboat and pointed out Orion’s Belt and Ursa Minor and tried to educate me, the celestial illiterate. I knew it didn’t make any sense, but he just seemed too alive to be dead.

But if he wasn’t dead, then what had happened out there this morning? Where was he? Was he capable of doing that to that girl? I knew the answer to that question, and I didn’t want to think about it.

I walked the brick path to my cottage, and even after the events of the morning, I felt some of the tension leave me. It had been almost two years since I first moved into the old boathouse on the Larsen estate, and I still marveled at how lucky I was to have found the place. The location, in the Rio Vista section of Lauderdale, was convenient for me, because it was close to both the inlet and downtown. The main house was a big two-story Moorish mansion originally built in the 1930s, with multiple turrets and towers, all topped by red barrel tile, and it was set about sixty feet back from the New River. My cottage, on the other hand, had the best river view. The tiny wood-frame structure had once been a boathouse, a storage outbuilding for some past owner’s collection of sailing dinghies and sculls. At some time in the sixties the place had been refurbished as a guest house and was now topped with a matching barrel-tile roof and divided inside into a small bedroom, with a combined living area and kitchen all built over varnished Dade County pine floors. The Larsens gave me a break on the rent because I kept an eye on the house, the grounds, and their toys, like the garaged Jaguar and the Jet Ski they kept on the dock. There had been a number of break-ins in this neighborhood of snowbird owners these past few years, and my comings and goings made the big house look lived in as well. What made the place perfect for me was that I could sleep just a few steps away from where I kept Gorda tied up.

When I unlocked the front door, I saw that the red light was blinking on my answering machine. I punched the button on my way to the fridge and listened while gulping straight from the jug of cold orange juice—just one of the benefits of living alone. It was Galen Hightower, the owner of the Ruby Yacht, a seventy-two-foot steel ketch, reminding me that I had to be at Pier 66 at “eleven on the dot” Saturday morning. He’d had this tow booked for weeks, but he was the nervous type who needed his hand held all the time.

The machine beeped and clicked to the next message. I immediately recognized the voice—my older brother, Maddy, who throughout my childhood had threatened to beat me up if I ever called him Madagascar in public.

“Look, uh, we gotta talk. I got some problems, money problems, and you still haven’t paid your February payment. It’s not working, Seychelle. Gorda’s gotta go. I want out, now . . . Call me.” The dial tone sounded. I jammed my index finger down on the stop button, rewound the machine, and listened to the message again.

“You bastard, Maddy,” I said out loud and rewound the machine one more time. I thought somehow if I kept on listening to it, maybe I’d hear something in his voice that indicated it was all some kind of a cruel joke.

It was skin cancer from all those years with the sun shining down on his fair freckled skin that had finally taken my dad. During the years that I was lifeguarding and taking a few classes at the local community college, when I’d moved out into my own apartment, leaving Red alone in the big house, the doctors kept cutting off big chunks of him. When I’d call him every few weeks, just to see how he was doing, I didn’t want to hear about his most recent trip to the doctors. Red and I never talked about the important things, not about Mother’s death, not about what his illness might mean. Toward the end, I moved back home, quit school, cut back on my hours lifeguarding. I did what I could, tried to make him comfortable, even though I didn’t want to remember him like that, but rather like the big barrel-chested man with the red suspenders, blazing beard, and mischievous grin I’d looked up to as a little girl.

Red’s will had left everything to the three of us equally. I was surprised he even had a will; as sick as he was at the end, he never let on that he considered his own death a possibility. The doctors’ bills and taxes ate up most of what we got out of the house. After Red’s funeral, my brothers and I sat down and tried to figure out what to do with the Gorda. Maddy already had his own boat business going, running a charter sportfisherman out of Haulover down in Miami. He’d developed a reputation as a fishing guide—he even gave the morning fishing report on a local AM sports radio station—and he wasn’t about to give up his charter business to go into towing and salvage work.

Pitcairn was the nomad in the family. Maddy and I couldn’t figure out how he supported himself, but he had fallen in love, first with surfing and then, when he grew taller, with windsurfing. We received his postcards from Maui, Costa Rica, the Columbia River Gorge, and when he came to Red’s funeral, it was the first time either of us had seen him in over three years. He said he didn’t care about the money, he’d leave any decisions to us. He just didn’t want to give up his life on the pro windsurfing circuit to settle in Lauderdale.

They both laughed when I said I’d like to take over Red’s business. Maddy said most of the yacht captains wouldn’t want to hire a woman, that I’d never make enough to pay the maintenance on the boat, much less support myself. But I was twenty-seven years old, and although I was still in good shape, I didn’t want to be a lifeguard in my thirties. I didn’t want to have to sit out there in a tank suit when the flesh started to sag and my reactions started to slow. I was ready for a career change.

Besides, most of the old-timers knew me, I’d argued. I practically grew up aboard Gorda, and I had worked for Red off and on ever since I was a kid. He was a great teacher, and he loved showing off how well his little girl could handle a boat. I’d spent so much more time on the boat than Maddy had. I knew I was the most experienced of the three of us, and probably the only one who could qualify for the commercial towing captain’s license. My brother Pit was all for me from the start, and finally Maddy relented. Although I ran the boat, we were still three-way partners in Sullivan Towing and Salvage.

I made mistakes at first, but eventually I got back most of Red’s river and waterway business. I hoped to be able to buy my brothers out in a few years’ time. I had a little nest egg—it wasn’t much, just a couple of thousand dollars, but it was my emergency money. I’d vowed not to touch it unless it was a serious emergency– something like a blown engine. It was my security fund, and I knew that once I started to dip into it to pay the bills, those thousands would become hundreds in a flash. Neither of my brothers had seemed to be in any particular hurry to get their money out of the boat, and I paid them each a small percentage of the business every month. Sure, things had been a little slow lately, but it would pick up. That was the nature of the business. And now I had a salvage claim to pursue against a multimillion-dollar vessel.

I was about to shut the machine off when a familiar voice started speaking on the third message.

“Hey, Seychelle, I just heard about the Top Ten” B.J.’s voice sounded unusually subdued. “I stopped in down at Sailorman to buy a rebuild kit for that head of yours, and everybody’s talking about it.” He paused, and in my mind I could see the way his eyes must have wrinkled as he tried to figure out what to say next.

“Sey, I know it must have been pretty bad out there.” I blinked back the pictures. “If you want to talk, I’ll be at the Downtowner around six. We could grab a bite. Later.”

For some reason that did it, hearing the sympathy in his voice. He was the first person who seemed to realize that the events of that morning had hurt. Suddenly I was overwhelmed by memories of Neal, alive, there in my cottage, making love on the floor, sitting up in bed talking all night, drinking beer and eating pizza by the window over there, listening to him whistle in the shower. I remembered that night we had slept in a sleeping bag on a little sandy cay down in the Dry Tortugas, swimming in the phosphorescent water at midnight and making love as the velvety trade winds dried the seawater on our skin. When we woke at dawn, Neal held me and kissed me, his tongue tracing the shape of my lips. His blue eyes glistened with unshed tears when he told me I tasted like rain.

The pressure inside my chest was building to the breaking point, and sour-tasting muscles pulled at the corners of my mouth, the back of my throat. I forced it back inside and blinked away the blurriness. Picking up my keys, I headed out the door.

First I locked up the boat and set the alarm from the electronic keypad I’d installed on the side of the wheelhouse. I checked to make sure Abaco had water, and then I crossed the grounds and passed through the side gate that led to the street side of the Larsens’ house, where my old white Jeep was parked in the gravel drive. Neal had nicknamed her Lightnin’ because she wasn’t any ball of fire. I’d bought her in my lifeguarding days, and since I usually didn’t drive a whole lot, she’d served me well in spite of her ever-growing collection of rust patches. Her original owner, back in ’72, had seen fit to put a Jesus on the dashboard, and none of the rest of us who’d owned her had been brazen enough to remove the thing. Now faded and cracked from years in the Florida sun, the pale pink figure stood in mute testimony to the effectiveness of ’70s adhesives.

I just wanted to get out of the cottage as much as anything else, but as soon as I got behind the wheel, I realized I had better get over to see Jeannie Black, my lawyer. If Maddy had made up his mind that we were selling Gorda, I needed a cash infusion right now. Somebody did own the Top Ten, and that somebody should be very grateful that I just pulled his megayacht out of imminent peril. Just how grateful, in terms of dollars and cents, was for the lawyers to figure out, but I certainly had not gone through all that out of the goodness of my heart. I intended to get every dollar I could out of it.

Jeannie didn’t look like much; actually, at well over 250 pounds, she looked like too much, but she had served me well in the past. She’d been a lawyer on the fast track in a high-powered firm when her twin boys were born. She never even told her boyfriend, who she knew had no interest in fatherhood, that she was pregnant, believing she could handle it all herself. But single motherhood turned out to be far more difficult than law school. She eventually decided to quit the firm, stay at home with the twins, and work out of her own house. Though her office was no longer of the high-powered sort, any opponents who judged her to be soft in the courtroom soon learned not to evaluate her on her appearance.

I’d met Jeannie in Winn-Dixie in the frozen-food aisle when one of her boys pitched a box of frozen waffles at my backside as I bent down to reach for a can of orange juice. Jeannie was totally unfazed by the incident. She just flashed me a boys-will-be-boys smile and introduced herself. She gave me her card. Later, when Red died and I needed a lawyer, I gave her a call.

Jeannie lived in the neighborhood known as Sailboat Bend, an interesting blend of million-dollar waterfront homes right across the street from low-rent apartment

buildings. Thrown in among these were some of the oldest homes in Lauderdale, old Conch cottages built by Bahamian carpenters in the ’20s and ’30s. Jeannie’s place was in a ’50s-vintage two-story concrete block and stucco house that had been divided into two apartments. She lived in the upstairs half of the building, and when I drove into the dirt yard, Andrew and Adair were up in the branches of a live oak tree, complete with eye patches, bandanas, and clip-on gold hoop earrings. I waved at the boys and climbed the outside staircase to the porch in front of Jeannie’s apartment.

Peering through the screen, I called out, “Hello! Jeannie?”

The dark shadow of her bulky silhouette completely blocked out the light coming from the kitchen at the end of the hall.

“Seychelle!” she called out in her contralto voice as she burst through the screen door. Her bright tent-like muumuu surrounded me with folds of parrot-and-bamboo-print fabric. A squeeze from her arms threatened my air supply, and she smacked a wet kiss just in front of my right ear.

“It’s so good to see you. I take it you made it past the pirate patrol out there.”

I nodded and started to speak, but she held open the door and jerked her head in the direction of the interior. With a meaty hand in the small of my back, she propelled me into the small living room of her two-bedroom apartment.

There was always a homelike feeling to being with Jeannie. Although physically she was nothing like my mother, her housekeeping reminded me of my childhood. Every level surface in the room was covered with papers, files, and books, and the local public radio station played classical music in the background.

I knew better than to share the couch with Jeannie. I’d made that mistake once before and had ended up perched on a forty-five-degree slope, trying to keep myself from tumbling downhill into Jeannie’s lap during the whole visit. I cleared a dining room chair, pulled it over by the couch, and sat.

“So, you must be in some kind of trouble again. I swear, girl, I never see you unless you need my help. Like that last time when you towed that Bertram charter boat, and it turned out the brokers had repoed the wrong boat, and everybody tried to hang it on you . . .” She chuckled.

Compared to the uncontested divorces, guardianship cases, and real estate closings that were her mainstay, Jeannie thought the work she did for me was interesting, and she loved to go back over the cases, gossiping about the “glamorous” world of yachts.

“You’re right, in a way.”

She grabbed a bag of blue com tortilla chips off the pile of paperwork on the coffee table, propped open the bag, and offered it to me.

I shook my head and offered a thin smile at another of her attempts to eat healthy. “I don’t know as I would call this trouble exactly, but I would like you to look into something for me.”

“Fire away.”

“I towed the Top Ten in this morning.”

“Ha! Neal run out of gas or something and have to beg you for a lift?”

When Jeannie saw I wasn’t smiling anymore, she dropped the joking tone and reached for my hand. I stared for several seconds at the wrinkles of fat around her wrist. Her small gold watch almost disappeared in a fold.

“Seychelle, just seeing that man again can make you go all droopy like this? Lord, I thought you were through with him.”

“I didn’t see him.”

“But I thought you said . . .”

“That’s just it.” I proceeded then to tell her the whole story, about the mayday call, and how I’d found the boat, and the girl, dead in the water.

“Oh, my God.” Jeannie shuddered. She heaved herself up in a big bounce to inch forward on the couch. “Was there much blood?”

I guess most attorneys really are ambulance chasers at heart, I thought.

“I did my best not to look.”

“And there was no sign of Neal?”

I shook my head, not trusting my voice to keep steady if we got off on that. Business, stick to business, I told myself. “Jeannie, the boat was sold shortly after Neal took over as captain, about a year ago. Neal said some big corporation owns her now. I don’t think he ever did tell me the name, or if he did I don’t remember but it shouldn’t be that hard to find out. That’s what I’m here for. I need you to find the owner and get him to sign a copy of Lloyd’s Open Form. Obviously, I am entitled to a salvage claim, and to own a yacht like that, there ought to be some deep pockets there.”

“The kind I like.”

“You find out who owns her and start the paperwork rolling. Since she was nearly aground when I got to her, I risked the safety of Gorda and myself . . . you know the line to take. Figuring possible replacement cost of Gorda, my livelihood that I risked, and my fair wages for the effort I put in, we ought to ask for fifty thousand and settle for around twenty-five.”

“Don’t get your heart set on numbers like those, girl. It’s not that easy.”

“And it’s not every day that you find a multimillion-dollar yacht floating around completely unmanned. Besides, I’ve got the best damned attorney in Fort Lauderdale.” I grinned.

“Ha, well, I always knew you were a smart kid.” She returned the smile. “Okay, tomorrow’s Friday. I’ll see what I can get started, but there won’t be too much I can do on the weekend.”

“I know. Just do what you can. Unfortunately, business hasn’t been great lately. I’m not desperate . . . yet. But faster is better.” I stood up and started to walk to the screen door. I stopped and turned. “There’s something else, Jeannie.” The boys’ voices drifted up to the outside porch. Their little-boy voices strained for deeper pitches as they threw around “avasts” and “ahoys” aplenty. “I had a message from Maddy on the machine when I got back to the cottage. He wants me to buy him out of his portion of Gorda. I don’t have that kind of money, and he knows it. So he wants me to sell the boat.”

“What? Did this just come out of the blue?”

“Yeah. I don’t really understand where it’s coming from. I have my suspicions, but I’m going to talk to him about it. Once he makes his mind up about something, though, he usually doesn’t change it. Anyway, this salvage claim is now doubly important.”

Jeannie got up and followed me to the door. When we stepped outside, she glanced toward her boys with unseeing eyes. Her mind was already at work, mapping out strategies. “What do the cops think happened to Neal?” she asked.

I watched as Andrew leaned far out on a branch and tried to impale his brother with his plastic sword. I remembered Neal’s smile: the white teeth set in a brown leathery face, the deep cleft in his chin, the intricate patterns of crisscrossing lines around the corners of his eyes. “The cops? They’re out there now with divers, helicopters, the works, searching for a body. That’s what they think.”

V

When I left Jeannie’s it was still too early to meet B.J. at the Downtowner, so I drove down Las Olas to the beach. As I crossed over the Intracoastal drawbridge, I could see a helicopter working a search pattern offshore.

I turned south at A1A and cruised slowly down the beachfront. The tourist season was nearly over, and the only people out at the beach midweek were the old and the unemployed. They walked A1A checking the trash for aluminum cans and rattling the coin returns at the pay phones. I supposed it was better than the days when I first started lifeguarding, and the spring-breakers came down from the north and tore up the town. Those were the days before the city commissioners decided, in all their wisdom, that no tourists were better than the drunken, debauching variety. They used the cops to drive away the spring-breakers, and with their business gone, slowly the small mom-and-pop motels closed, nailing plywood over the windows and putting up For Sale signs in the dry, unkempt grass. Corporate America went on a buying spree then, with the beach looking like a ghost town, and now the big chain hotels, franchise restaurants, and chic boutiques were popping up all along the newly redesigned beachfront. The Fort Lauderdale Strip would soon have as much character as any middle-America shopping mall.

When I was a teenager we used to come down to the Lauderdale Strip and cruise, six or seven kids packed into my brother Pit’s old Ford Galaxy with the surfboard rack on the roof. Pit would oblige us, though he wasn’t really into the hooting and hollering and acting crazy like the rest of us. He’d scrimped and saved to get his car so he could get to the beach to surf after school. That boy just lived to surf, and sometimes, when we were cruising like that, with the bright neon-lit crowds on one side of the street and the glowing, foaming surf on the other. I would watch my brother from the backseat, where I was wedged between pimply-faced boys. He would completely ignore the scantily clad crowds the other kids found so enticing. Instead, Pit’s eyes measured the breaking waves as he surfed down them in his mind, a half smile dancing around his lips. I remembered how I envied him his distance, his independence, and how I wanted to get to the point where I would not be hurt by every teasing remark about my height or the breadth of my shoulders.

I drove up Seventeenth toward U.S. 1 and passed the Top Ten Club, the flagship of Crystal’s fleet of strip joints. The club was sandwiched between a luxury auto rental store and a mirrored office building. From the outside, the place looked pretty posh with a modem, multilevel design, gold trim, and neon. The grounds were beautifully landscaped to fit right in with the yacht brokerages and the high-end restaurants elsewhere on the street. It was a case of sleaze trying to go classy. An innocent observer would never guess it was a girlie joint, that day and night they had ten women dancing nude. The club motto was “All our girls are tens on top.”

The Downtowner was the kind of place I knew wouldn’t be around much longer, given the way waterfront property values were mounting along the river, but I hoped it could somehow hold out against the twin demons of taxes and gentrification. Both a bar and a restaurant, the memorabilia that covered the walls was not fake junk collected by a professional decorator, but rather old life preservers with real boat names that the old-timers still remembered, street-name signs from the days when people earned a street instead of buying one, old dinghies and ancient outboards, black-and-white photos and stuffed fish and wild-pig heads with yellowed tusks, all collected during the past fifty years from river folk coming and going through the doors of this place. The dark varnished wood interior had been built by boat builders and still retained that well-fitted feeling in spite of years of abuse. Behind the bartender’s back, plate glass windows ran the length of the bar and provided a view of the constant parade of river traffic, an ever-changing tableau of motor yachts, shrimpers, sailboats, barges, dinghies, and water taxis.

When I arrived, the place was abuzz with the gossip of the murder or murders, and Jake, Nestor, Wally, and a bunch of the others crowded around me when I came in. I told them an abbreviated version of my part in the morning’s events so they would leave me alone. I told them nobody knew what had happened to Neal, but the Coasties and the cops seemed to think he was dead.

Nestor, another of the charter captains, said, “You know, Sey, I’m not surprised that something strange like this happened to Neal.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he’s just been acting weird lately.”

“That’s right, Sey,” Wally said. “He’s changed since he got that job on the Top Ten. He doesn’t much talk to his old pals anymore, keeps to himself more.”

Suddenly I found myself very conscious of the language they were using. They were talking about him in the present tense, and I was glad. “Why do you think he’s acting like that?”

“Some of the other guys think his head’s got as big as that boat he’s driving,” Nestor said, “but me, I think he’s into something, something he doesn’t want anybody to know about.”

“Like what, Nestor?”

“Last time I talked to him, I felt like Neal was hiding something. Kinda reminded me of how the guys used to act back in the eighties when pretty near every captain on the water was in the drug trade. People didn’t get real friendly with each other in those days. They kept their mouths shut.”

“Come on, Nestor, I can’t see Neal involved in drugs. How could he? I mean, the Top Ten almost never went out except for the occasional charter up and down the waterway or for a sunset cruise offshore.”

“I don’t know, Sey. I’m just saying it’s something he’s keeping a secret. I tell you, he’s been acting weird lately. That’s all. I guess the cops will figure it out.”

I told them then that I needed some time alone, so they bought me a draft and moved down to the far end of the bar. I figured they wanted to discuss what they thought really happened out there. The Lauderdale waterfront community was a tightly knit group that loved nothing more than gossip, intrigue, and conspiracy theories. I remembered one time a local captain had taken off to the Bahamas for a couple of weeks with a charter group, and gossip flew round the Downtowner that the captain had died of a heart attack as he took his first dive into the aqua Bahamian waters. A week later the same fellow came driving his sailboat up the New River past the Downtowner’s windows, and several of the regulars nearly had heart attacks, believing they’d seen a ghost. Turned out it was a charter guest who died, and the waterfront gossip machine had twisted the facts once again. By evening, they surely would have found Neal guilty of smuggling drugs, illegal aliens, exotic animals, or God knows what.

I’d been thinking ever since leaving Jeannie’s about how good a beer would taste, but now, somehow, I found it couldn’t wash away the bad taste in my mouth.

As soon as I emptied the first glass, Pete brought me a fresh one on the house. He leaned across the bar.

“She seemed like a nice girl,” he said.

“You knew her?” I asked.

“Yeah, she filled in here a couple of times when Lil’s kid was out sick.”

“Who was she? What was she like?”

“Patty Krix was her name. Pretty girl, too, though mighty headstrong. Once she set her sights on Neal, he didn’t have a chance.”

I smiled at him. I’d known Pete a long time. He was an ex-single-hander. On his way up from the Virgins, he’d gone to sleep one night on watch. His autopilot had driven his pretty little Swedish-built cutter right up on the beach in front of the Fountainbleu in Miami. The boat was holed, and he lost everything. He’d been tending bar in the Downtowner back in the days when Red used to bring me in for Shirley Temples and regale the other regulars with his stories about the great little boat handler his daughter was turning out to be.

“Don’t worry about trying to make me feel better Pete. I knew Neal had been seeing somebody else. He and I broke it off a while ago. He was free to do as he pleased.”

“It wasn’t that, Seychelle, honest. It just seemed kinda strange at the time. She came in here all alone one afternoon, about three weeks ago. I carded her, so I know for a fact she was just barely twenty-one, but she looked mighty at home in a bar. A bunch of the guys hit on her, and they all struck out. Then Neal came in and sat at the bar. He was thinking about something, keeping to himself, and didn’t hardly seem to notice her. She called me over and asked me his name. Then before I knew it, she was over there sitting by him, laughing at his jokes, staring up at him with those big blue eyes. Like I said, he didn’t have a chance.”

Another customer called Pete over, and I was left to wonder why such a gorgeous girl would have singled him out. Neal was an attractive guy, all right, but why would he have appealed to a girl like Patty Krix? Really beautiful people were a different breed, and they always made me slightly uncomfortable.

Hiking my purse onto my shoulder, I slid off my stool and walked back to the corridor where the bathroom was. The beer was making me sleepy. I splashed cold water on my face and looked at myself in the mirror. What a mess. I hadn’t changed clothes since I’d thrown on shorts and a worn T-shirt in order to work on the damn broken marine head. Loose, windblown hairs stood out around my head in a sort of sun-bleached halo. I pulled the rubber band out of my shoulder-length light brown hair, used my fingers to comb out the snarls, and decided to leave my hair down. Although I usually sport a fairly dark tan from working outdoors, my skin looked pale, as though it were drawn too tightly over my cheekbones. Evidently, discovering dead bodies is not a recommended beauty treatment.

When I returned to the bar I was surprised to see that Collazo had come in and was sitting on my stool. He leaned across the bar talking to Pete, his notebook open, gold pen in hand.

“Buenas tardes, Detective. What brings you to this place?” I slid onto the stool next to him and reached across for my beer.

“Miss Sullivan.” He nodded at me, something like a little bow, but ignored my question.

I tried another question. “Any word on Neal yet?”

“No. It doesn’t look likely we’ll find anything at this point. The Gulf Stream, you know.” He tapped his pen on the cover of his notebook. “But we’ll give it one more day. You haven’t gone downtown to sign your statement yet.”

“No. I had some personal business to take care of this afternoon. You didn’t say I had to do it today.”

He nodded. “Tomorrow morning, then, first thing.”

I reached for my glass and took a long drink. “Care for a beer, Detective?”

Pete shot me a look that told me to shut up. He’d had a strong distrust of cops ever since the Miami Beach police had stood by and watched as looters stripped his boat of everything he owned.