Randy White - Dead Silence

Durell’s expression said no, so before he answered I asked, “How about the exact time the body was found? Six days drifting in the Gulf, his body should have been closer to the Dry Tortugas, not Naples, if he started off Sanibel… unless he got swept in by a vortex current. But if he went in the water off Tampa Bay, that would be about right.”

“Tampa, huh?”

“I’d check with the port, ask about tramp cargo vessels and shrimpers that left Thursday or Friday. Or… Heller could have been killed on Naples Beach, above the tide line. This phase of the moon, the tides get progressively higher every day, so it could have taken a while before-”

Palmer interrupted from the front, saying, “Heller was living on a forty-two-foot yacht parked at the marina he used to manage. We know for sure he was aboard the boat early Friday morning. If his body was drifting, how much difference would twenty-four hours make?”

I said, “You mean, if he went into the water on Saturday, not Friday?”

“Yes, off Sanibel.”

She was thinking about the watch with the broken crystal.

I said, “That works. Five days, the body would be off Naples or the Ten Thousand Islands. Again, depending on the vortexes.”

Durell slid his pen under the clipboard spring and sighed. “What do you think, Shelly?”

The woman said to Durell, “Can we verify what he just told us?”

Durell said, “Well, I dunno…,” as I asked, “What did the Coast Guard say?”

There was a silence, the two officers wondering if the other was going to answer. Finally, Palmer said, “They give us similar information. And… they also suggested we contact a local firm named Sanibel Biological Supply. Which is you.”

“Me and one part-time employee.”

“They said you’ve got charts and graphs, every missing boat and person, for the last ten years.”

I said, “It’s a hobby. Currents in the Gulf are tricky, and there’s never been a long-term study. I just told you what I think. If you provided more information, maybe I’d have a different opinion.”

Palmer said, “Even if we hired you, I couldn’t share-”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “I wouldn’t work as a consultant in this case.

Aside from the ethical conflict, there’s a personal conflict: I’m glad the guy’s dead. If he was murdered, I agree with the locals: Someone did the world a favor.”

The woman’s smart, dark eyes filled the rearview mirror, looking into mine. “You realize you’re being recorded?”

I replied, “Yes.”

“Then I suggest you keep your mouth shut until we do the roll-by. I want to add, just for the record, that you don’t have to do the roll-by. Say the word, Dr. Ford, and I’ll cancel it. Or we can wait while you consult your attorney.”

Once again, I checked my watch. Eight hours ten minutes until deadline. I said, “I signed the papers. As long as we get this done as fast as possible, I’m willing. But, just for the record, Detective Palmer, whatever your witness says won’t change the fact I’ve been telling the truth.”

At midnight, I stood in the ten-acre parking lot of a retail minicity, Edison Mall, hoping either mercy or bad memory would prevent the woman, whose killer I had killed, from sentencing me to a murder charge or, worse, a night in jail. If Will Chaser was still alive, his death was only eight hours away.

The lot was empty except for security carts and three squad cars sitting at angles beneath yellow sodium lights. I also noticed a fourth car. It was parked on a curb, in shadows, behind monoxide-poisoned shrubs. Its rear window was cracked a few inches, the glass tinted.

Durell had told me to walk to the nearest lamppost, turn left, turn right, then stand until he waved me back to our black sedan. Because he said it was okay to look at the squad cars, I did. But I focused on the less obvious car, using peripheral vision.

When I got to the lamppost and pivoted, I saw a facial oval-female eyes, a portion of nose and forehead-studying me from the unmarked car. As instructed, I turned, turned again, then stopped. I wasn’t looking directly at the car but could see the rear window. Durell had also told me to remove my glasses, so I did. Cleaned them on my shirt before straightening them on my nose.

The window dropped another two inches. In the sterile light, filaments of hair appeared, framing the woman’s face. Something odd about the left eye. It was swollen the size of my fist, I realized, the eye a solitary creature within, as if peeking out from a cave. Six days since Heller had beaten her. No wonder the woman was afraid to be alone at night.

The face disappeared for a moment-the witness was saying something to the driver-then reappeared. Because of the tinted window glass, the face took the shape of an antique cameo. The woman’s eyes were intense, unwavering. They invited contact. I refused.

The woman said something else to the driver. A moment later, I heard the radio squawk, then Durell talking before he called to me, “Walk toward the highway.”

I started for U.S. 41, with its lighted stream of Saturday-night traffic, pickup trucks, tourist rentals and tricked-out pubescent coupes. When I was within ten yards of the woman’s window, Durell hollered, “Far enough! Come on back.”

As I turned, the woman and I locked eyes for the first time. The human iris does not communicate, but facial components do. I watched her one good eye focus, then widen… and I felt a sickening dread. She recognized me. No doubt about it.

The window dropped another inch. I saw a healthy conformation of cheeks, full lips, hair that was sun-streaked, glossy, one side of her face articulate, thoughtful, but the other side a bloated mask. The woman wanted me to know she recognized me, I realized, just as she wanted me to get a glimpse of her face. Her focus was tunneled, my personal conduit into whatever it was she was thinking or had suffered.

Still staring at me, the woman nodded-a slow-motion assent or signal of some unavoidable honesty, I couldn’t be sure. She spoke to the driver once more, then disappeared behind the glass.

When I returned to our vehicle, Durell was in the front seat. “Think the witness recognized you?” he asked.

The man already knew if the woman had recognized me or not. He was baiting me once again, and I was tired of it. “Something wrong with your radio, Les? Wait here while I go tap on the window and ask.”

“No need to get smart-assed about it.”

I’d closed the door but now opened it to get out. “I don’t know what your problem is. Too many years, not enough promotions? Whatever it is, I’m done with your chess game. Either arrest me or I’m calling a cab.”

Detective Palmer said, “Hold on.” She reached to make certain the recorder was off before saying to Durell, “Why not have one of the uniforms take you back to the station? We’re done here.”

I liked the sound of that but listened closely, hoping for a more definite acquittal.

“What’s the problem, Shelly? You got a hot date waiting?”

“What I have is a professional obligation to take Dr. Ford wherever he wants to go. That’s why you need to catch a ride… Les .”

“You’re not taking anyone anywhere, Detective,” the man snapped, “until I say the word.”

Palmer’s eyes filled the mirror once again, and I was startled when she lifted her eyebrows, sending a message-a private and personal message just for me.

“Captain, what’s going on here?” she said. “I don’t want to have to note in my report that in my opinion we risked a harassment charge. The witness just told us Dr. Ford’s not the man. Absolutely sure of it, no room for error. And Sarasota says there’s no reason to hold him. Their resident confirmed he accidentally hit a security alarm, a big misunderstanding. So what I’m going to do now is thank Dr. Ford for his cooperation and take him home-with your permission of course, Captain.”