Randy White - Dead Silence

I was trying very hard not to show my relief as she glanced into the mirror again, buckling her seat belt. I was also busy processing what she’d said about Myles not pressing charges. From the way it sounded, the man had covered for me. Why?

Durell was getting out of the car, moving slower than he once had. He’d put on twenty or thirty pounds. “You’re gettin’ kind of smart-assed yourself, Shelly,” he said. “What I think is, you got an itch that’s not been scratched in way too long. It’s making you snotty. Boys at the station don’t say much when I tell ’em. Just sorta look uncomfortable, like I made a bad joke or I might order one of ’em to help you out.” He made a hacking sound of laughter before he slammed the door.

In the game of good cop-bad cop, the pros sometimes take the role that least reflects their convictions about the suspect. Not because it’s fair-even though it is-but because it can broaden the range of inquiry. Palmer had been the good cop all along.

Before we pulled away, the woman told me to get in the front seat, then handed me her cell phone, saying, “The guy in Sarasota County, Nelson Myles. He passed along word he wants you to call. It wasn’t appropriate for me to tell you earlier. While you’re talking, you want me to drive you to Sanibel or back where you started?”

I said, “Give me a minute?” then punched the buttons as she read off the number.

Myles sounded relieved when he recognized my voice, which was unexpected. “I’ve been thinking about the Cubans,” he said. “I don’t know of any reason they’d want to stop at Tamarindo-the island’s only two miles from my property-but I remembered that Fred’s GPS was programmed with the route because the channel’s narrow and it’s not easy even when the tide’s high. The island was probably right there on the screen when they started the boat because it’s the only place Fred goes when he’s in Florida. So I’m heading to Tamarindo-it’s only five minutes.”

Myles told me he had brought the Tiara around to his private dock, next to his house, and was getting it ready.

I said, “I’m surprised.”

“Don’t be. No matter what you think, I’m not a monster. I don’t want anyone to get hurt, particularly a child.”

That isn’t what had surprised me. I’d expected his first words to be about Annie Sylvester. Had I told police?

It made Myles more convincing when he added, “After only an hour with you, Dr. Ford, I think I can say with confidence my standards of moral conduct are at least as high as yours.”

There was no arguing the point.

I said, “I apologize for being surprised. But it’s a bad idea, you going alone, even if it is only a couple of miles from your dock.” I noticed Detective Palmer paying attention as I continued, “You have enough political clout with the local police, probably the FBI, too. Have them send a helicopter. Or a boat, if they-”

“It’s been taken care of,” he interrupted. “The sheriff told me, personally, a helicopter was on its way. They’ll use searchlights, and, if it looks like there’s a problem, they’ll land.”

“They need to put down on the beach no matter-”

He interrupted again. “I’m aware of what should be done, Ford. That’s why I’m meeting them. Please stop instructing and start listening. I looked you up on the Internet. There wasn’t much, but I see you run a little marine-research station. I assume that means you’re good with boats. I’m offering you a chance to go with me if you want. But no more rough stuff.”

I checked the time: 12:15 a.m. By car, it was forty minutes to Dinkin’s Bay, then another hour-ten, hour-twenty, give or take, to Tamarindo. If Detective Palmer was willing to push it, we could be at Falcon Landing in less than an hour.

It was the quickest way to the island, but I disliked the prospect of being aboard someone else’s boat, particularly at night, particularly on an oversized luxury yacht and most particularly when the pilot was an amateur.

I asked, “How many times have you run the Tamarindo channel after dark?”

“A few times,” he said, “several,” but I suspected by the way he hesitated, he wasn’t confident. When he added, “It’s certainly no harder then landing a plane at night,” I was sure of it. The real reason he was calling was because he’d found out I made my living on a boat.

Two factors tipped the scales. At the North Fort Myers substation, Palmer had let me call and check messages at the lab. It would have been helpful to have Tomlinson along, but he’d left a message saying he wouldn’t arrive on Sanibel until nine, Sunday morning. More important, the equipment I wanted to take wasn’t at the lab, it was stowed in the trunk of the rental car, beachside, near Shelter Cottage.

To Myles I said, “I’ll meet you at your place in about an hour. I need to get my cell phone anyway…”-I let that settle before adding-“… plus one or two other things.” I’d shoved the little Seecamp pistol under the seat and I wanted it back.

Demonstrating that he was in charge, not me, Myles said, “I can’t wait that long. You’ve got half an hour…” He stopped, and I heard what sounded like a tapping in the background. Someone at the man’s door? Apparently not, because he then finished the sentence, saying, “… that’s as long as I’ll wait. Call five minutes before you get to security.”

I touched the SPEAKERPHONE button and said, “Repeat that. I’m riding with a police detective, so it’s up to her.”

When Detective Palmer heard, she said, “Buckle up,” and flipped a toggle. Ten acres of asphalt echoed with blue strobes.

We were on I-75, cruising in silence, lights pulsing, doing ninety-five when traffic allowed, sometimes one-ten on empty stretches. As we’d left the mall, Palmer had asked how I got involved in the search for the missing boy. She seemed interested but preoccupied and soon went silent, her mind on something else. We hadn’t exchanged a word in the last twenty minutes.

Now, though, the road ahead was empty, and she spoke again, her tone puzzled, as she asked me, “Was Les always such a jerk?”

I found the question touching. This tough woman was still smarting from Durell’s heavy-handed cut: You got an itch…

I said, “Nope. A real professional, a forward-thinking guy, master’s in law enforcement. Maybe he had a rough week.”

“A rough two years, ” she corrected, “that’s how long I’ve been with the department. I won’t go into his personal problems, but if you know of any close friends, they should take him aside, have a talk, maybe get him back on track.”

“Alcohol? Or diabetes?” I was thinking of the additional weight he was carrying.

The woman shook her head: Confidential.

I said, “I don’t know who the man associates with, sorry,” wondering if Palmer had any friends left outside the profession. Durell had been intentionally nasty, but he was also savvy enough to have ice-pick instincts when it came to veiling an insult. For maximum damage, he would poison his barbs with truth. I suspected the woman had ended a relationship, or an affair, many months ago, probably with another cop. Outwardly, she hadn’t shown much and she’d recovered quickly. But Durell had scored a direct hit.

“He’s an asshole,” she said, barely audible.

“We all have our valleys.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Her tone warned me to keep a professional distance.

“It meant I’m an asshole more than I care to admit. I do and say things that make me cringe later.”

“Homicide, for instance?”

I said, “If you’re still playing the good cop-bad cop game, I’ll sit here quietly until we get to our destination.”