Randy White - Seduced

“Now, now, that’s another delicate point. As a private investigator, you’re aware it’s illegal to plant a GPS on someone’s car. In this case, a bright orange pickup truck. You ever see The Dukes of Hazzard ? Don’t worry, dear, I enjoy this sort of thing. Especially the egocentric types. Did you know Larry has a marketing degree from Penn State?”

“I don’t believe it. Not unless he means the state prison.”

“Would a man who calls himself Buddy Luck lie? Claims he graduated top of his class. That’s why ESPN wants him to host a fishing show, but only if he doesn’t make the final cut for Dancing with the Stars . Until now, producers have failed to appreciate Larry’s marketing genius.”

After a riff of baritone laughter, Martinez became serious. “Your instincts were dead-on. The guy’s a freak. And he is dangerous. I’d say either coke or speed. He sniffs a lot, and his bubba accent is atrocious. I don’t doubt he’s from Florida, but I’m thinking he spent a lot of time outside the country.”

“I’m the same way. His accent, I couldn’t place it. Germany came to mind. Harsh, you know?”

“Not harsh enough. Basque, could be, or Portuguese. That’s guesswork, but I know for certain he’s wanted for questioning in Pennsylvania. Actually, the cop term is a person of interest , but that might be all the leverage I need. It has to do with the disappearance of a teenage girl a few years back. The pattern makes me think that Larry Luckheim isn’t his real name, either.”

I told him what Birdy had discovered, then said, “He plays the role of a Southern hick, gets this wild look in his eyes. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s killed more than one girl.”

“Odds are good.” This was said in a way that suggested Martinez knew more, or suspected more, than he was willing to say.

“Is that what you’re going to do? Threaten to contact the police if he doesn’t back off? I’d just go ahead and turn him in, if you think he’s dangerous.”

Sabin Martinez warned me to back off, saying, “Harney was smart in a lot of ways. He’d give me a project-protecting you, for example-and that was the end of it. He never said another word as long as I got the job done.”

“Sorry,” I said. “You’ve done a lot for my mother and me, and I appreciate it. I won’t pry again, Mr. Martinez.”

“Call me Beano.”

“I don’t think I can do that.”

“Okay, Sabin will have to do. Tell you what”-he became confidential-“you’ve got your PI license. I never bothered with that, but I’ll share a trade secret: I’ve been doing what I do for thirty years and I’ve never threatened a man or fired a warning shot in my life. Know why?”

I said, “Because it’s illegal?”

Martinez laughed at that. “It gives the other guy an advantage. Do you stomp your feet before casting to a fish? If I’m not there by six a.m., that means I couldn’t rearrange my schedule.”

It took me a moment to comprehend his meaning. “That would be great.”

“But don’t count on it,” he replied. “I’ll either be there or I won’t.”

That evening, I was dressed, ready and waiting, but there was no sign of Kermit, who was almost an hour late. After a lot of seesaw indecision, I decided it was better to cancel than to spend another minute worrying I’d been stood up. We could meet tomorrow night, preferably someplace public. A dozen times I’d reached for the phone, intending to say this, but had lost my nerve.

I touched Redial . Kermit’s phone rang and rang before it, too, went to voice mail.

“Hi, it’s me. Are you still coming?” I heard myself say. “I’m open tomorrow night, if that’s better.”

I held the phone up, glared for a moment, then slammed it on the bed. If I’d tried, I couldn’t have combined three more needy-sounding sentences, two of which seemed vaguely suggestive when I replayed what I’d said over and over in my head.

My bedroom is the bow on my boat: a V-berth, with drawers for storage beneath, a tiny closet, and pleated curtains over the portholes. It was a poor choice as a place to contemplate being stood up by a man I shouldn’t be alone with in the first place.

I strode barefoot into the main cabin, switching on lights. On the settee table was a long-sleeved blouse from Target. It was a size too large, made of earthen-brown cotton. Beneath was a heavy plaid pullover with welted pockets and three-quarter sleeves-the ugliest garment I own. I scooped them up and hung them where they belonged.

I was disgusted with myself. Reggie, whom I had cared about, was dead, yet I had spent the last hour changing in and out of clothes for a man I barely knew and was only beginning to trust. I didn’t want to encourage his advances. On the other hand, I didn’t want to look like a bag lady, either.

Now I was wearing stonewashed jeans, ankle-cut, which made me look taller, even in deck shoes. Kermit, who was an inch shorter, would notice. Over a collared shirt of utilitarian tan, my cardigan sweater only hinted at what my guest might be tempted to explore.

What guest?

At nine-fifteen, I flipped on the dock lights and went out to find that a cold north wind had settled beneath a cloudless sky and cold, cold stars. My breath plumed. A bulkhead thermometer read forty-four degrees. This gave me an emotional boost. No wonder Kermit hadn’t appeared. He was too busy. All over Florida, citrus farmers would be awake, using giant fans, or helicopters they’d hired, or old-fashioned smudge pots, to save their crops if the temperature dropped near freezing. Without clouds as insulation, or a strong wind to blow the cold front away, this was a possibility.

I felt better about the evening, and myself. Disappointment and relief are not an uncommon mixture, in my experience.

The question was, what about tomorrow?

Don’t go alone. How many times had I been told that? Didn’t matter. If Sabin Martinez couldn’t rearrange his schedule, I’d find someone else. Or not. What I’d told Kermit was true. I’ve spent much of my life alone in small boats, and it is the rare waterman whose knowledge exceeds my own.

A sense of freedom and confidence are a less common mixture. That’s the attitude I embraced. I had a window of one, maybe two days. Come hell or high water, I would go. It was sixty miles to what I thought of as Choking Creek. The wind had settled, but the Gulf would still be rough. It was wiser to trailer my skiff, drive to Marco Island, and use the public boat ramp. I-or we-would have to be on the water by sunrise. There was no guessing how long it would take to clear the tunnel my uncle had cut years earlier. The same was true of finding an orange tree on an island thick with catbriers and vines. By noon, the sun would be high. Reptiles would be on the move. I wanted to be long gone by then.

Such a trip required preparation. First, though, I needed socks and shoes.

My lord, it was cold standing there barefoot on that dock.

A little before ten, my phone beeped with a text. I’d given up on Kermit so was pleased to see it was from him.

Sorry worked late, then home. I always tell Sara a bedtime story. U mad?

Not after reading his excuse. This began an exchange that felt oddly comfortable. Texting negated the tension of speaking face-to-face yet ensured privacy. Secrecy-another way of looking at it.

Back and forth we went after I wrote:

Not mad. Sarah comes first, business second. Will it freeze tonight?

Probably not. Forecast low is 40 degrees. U on for boat trip?

Think so. Seems smart what you suggested.