Brett Halliday - Million Dollar Handle

“Then why is Castle’s name in Geary’s book?”

“I didn’t know it was. It shouldn’t be.”

“Painter’s holding it back, to keep the story alive another day.”

“That’s in character. But I’m not trying to explain everything, Mike. If I understand your idea, you want to lay down enough smoke so people will forget to ask you about that three thousand a month. Castle is still a big name in Miami. If you bring in his head, you’re home free. The trouble is, he’s got sense enough to stay out of Miami.”

“Everybody makes mistakes. Yeah-I’d like his head. He put a team on me last night, and as far as I can tell, the contract is still open. But I don’t want to narrow this down to one man. I really want to take the lid all the way off. It’s like stopping an oil-well fire with dynamite. One bang, and it’s over. And of course I’d want everybody to know that I couldn’t have done it without full cooperation from Mr. Bobby Nash.”

“Who was delighted,” Nash said more happily, “to help expose the rascals who are threatening the integrity of the sport. Cameras? You’ve got them. But we’d better get together so you can tell me exactly what you need.”

Shayne arranged to meet him later, and continued to work through his calls. He took on a Spanish-speaking private detective named Gonzales and told him to go to work on the Surfside assistant kennelmaster, Ricardo Sanchez. Then he called Rourke again to see if he had heard from Frieda.

“She just hung up, Mike. I gave her your number, and she’s probably calling you now. I’ll get off the line.”

The phone rang the instant the line was open. “Michael,” Frieda said. “I’m in Castle’s casino. I’ve been playing roulette. So far I’m two hundred ahead, and I think it’s a good omen. The box was just delivered, and everybody’s behaving according to the script.”

“You’re being inconspicuous, I hope.”

“They welcome the public. Of course it’s a little dead right now, but I’m with some friends I made on the plane. We’re all drinking Bloody Marys.”

Her voice changed, becoming completely serious.

“Which isn’t the reason I’m calling, is it? I hired a boy to hand the box to the doorman and run like hell. Your name seems to be known down here. The doorman gave it to another flunky, and when he carried it in to Castle, he was holding it as though he knew there was something bloody inside, like an ear. I think Castle had already heard the news from Miami. He’s had people coming and going. A long pause after the box went in. Then three new men arrived from somewhere outside the casino, at a fast walk. I’d better get back now, because I can’t see the door of the office from here.”

“Sounds very good so far. Do you have a car?”

“Yes, but the parking is murder. If he leaves in a hurry I may not be able to get out in time to see where he goes.”

“To the airport, I hope. Do what you can, and go easy on the tomato juice. Don’t forget you’re outnumbered.”

“I’m aware of that, believe me.”

Shayne called Rourke back to report that the ear had been delivered, and to ask him to stay at his office phone so Frieda could call if she had more news. Then he called the Miami Beach police and was put through to his one friend on that force, a black detective named Barnes.

The identification had just come in on the man Shayne had shot in the Surfside men’s room. He was from California, and had earned a long list of demerits there, mainly for robberies with violence. The other two men involved in the skirmish, Shayne was told, hadn’t stayed around to give an explanation of themselves. One had been tentatively identified as a local problem named Angelo Paniatti.

“And that takes off some of the pressure,” Barnes told him, “but Painter still wants to hear it from you. When he couldn’t find you at the hospital he broke a perfectly good cigar into three pieces. I know he’d appreciate it if you stopped in.”

“That would just be a replay of yesterday,” Shayne said, “and we both have better things to do with our time.”

“Mike, about this sudden turnaround by Parker and Hamzy, this second car they think they remember. It turns out you and Tim Rourke were in asking for them last night. Is this just to get Painter thinking about something else, or is there anything to it?”

“I have a witness, of sorts. I don’t know whether to believe him or not. It might help to have a cop along when I talk to him again. Can you meet me in the St. Francis parking lot in about twenty minutes? He should be waking up just about now.”

Barnes had to agree, but it didn’t seem to make him happy.

Shayne checked out of the motel and drove back to Miami, where he picked up I-95 and crossed the bay on the Julia Tuttle Causeway. Barnes was waiting. Inside, Barnes identified himself and they were told they would find their patient in the accident ward.

But Dee Wynn was gone.

The bed he had been in was the way he had left it, with the sheets tumbled and the pillow on the floor. Of the other two patients in the four-bed ward, one was almost completely wrapped in bandages, being kept alive through tubes. The other, a young black in a head bandage, was watching a game show on a portable television.

“What happened to the patient who was here?” Shayne said, motioning at the empty bed.

The black returned reluctantly to the real world. “You say something?”

Barnes turned down the TV and Shayne repeated the question.

“Oh, he went chasing off. He had a cast on his leg, but that didn’t bother him after the first time he fell down. Things to do, man, he couldn’t lie around in bed all day.”

“When was this?”

“Today show was still on.”

The floor nurse, who had just come on shift, was unable to help. Wynn’s clothes were gone. All this was extremely upsetting to everybody, because he had managed to slip out without paying his bill.

Barnes had stood out of the way, letting Shayne ask the questions. Outside, he said abruptly, “Mike, now we’re going in to talk to Painter.”

They were standing on the asphalt in bright sunlight. He had put on dark glasses, and Shayne looked at his reflection in them.

“Why? He didn’t know Wynn was here, so he won’t know he’s missing.”

“Sometimes I’m willing to go outside the book,” Barnes said. “Not today. This is Miami Beach, and we have the home court advantage. I can’t go in and report this secondhand.”

From the way Barnes was standing, Shayne could see that if he turned to walk to his own car, the gun would come out, and other cars would be called to escort them. His name next to the sum of $80,000 in Geary’s book had made that difference.

“I don’t have anything to tell Painter except that the guy said he was in the back seat of Geary’s car when it happened, and there was a second car. He was drunk that night, and he was very drunk when he told me. That’s all there is.”

“Not quite, Mike. It came in as I was leaving. An old guy was found drowned in a canal off the Trail. He was out there alone, fishing and drinking whiskey. And he wasn’t able to pull himself out because one leg was in a cast.”

Shayne wasted the next few hours.

They met Painter at Jackson Memorial. The cold-room attendant pulled out a drawer of his big filing cabinet and showed them a corpse. Shayne said bleakly, “That’s Wynn. He tried to do business with the wrong man.”

The medical verdict was definite, death by drowning. There was more than enough alcohol in his blood to explain why he had lost his balance and fallen in. The props were in order-a half-empty bottle of blended whiskey, a fishing rod snagged in the reeds, claw marks on the bank. His car was nearby.