Randy White - Shark River

She sounded disappointed but not surprised. Like that sort of thing had been a part of her life before. She told me the whole operation, chopper and all, had been arranged by her father, and would I mind meeting her at the helipad because the cops weren’t going to let her out of their sight even for a few minutes.

While I was brushing my teeth, the phone rang again. It was Tomlinson. It must have been a good night for him, too, because there was renewed energy in his voice. “Marion, holy moley! that sister of yours is something. Has an absolutely fabulous spirit, man, lots of heavy mojo vibes. No sex; didn’t even try. But she has a real godliness about her, plus she is built like a brick shit house! We got in the hot tub. She brought this little, tiny, tiny bikini, and we stayed up talking until five. Smoked a couple fatties, drank some wine-you know, really getting to know each other, exploring each other’s heads. That woman is smart, she’s funny, she’s unspoiled-got what we Zen folks call ‘the crazy wisdom.’ ”

I said, “Crazy, huh? Then at least the two of you have something in common. And Tomlinson? Please don’t refer to her as my sister.”

He hooted. “Lighten up, Doc! We need to get together so you can go over these papers Tucker left her. I’ve read through them a couple of times. Kind of interesting, really. Old Florida stuff, from back in the cowboy and rumrunner days. The feel of it I’m talking about. Hey, Doc, I don’t remember-when the old man died, did he leave a will?”

I said, “No. Tucker died intestate. His ranch, most of it he’d already sold off to residents of a trailer park down in the Glades. Nice people-you met them a couple years back. They’ve really fixed it up from what I hear. The ranch house and the barn went to me because I was his only heir. Supposedly his only heir, anyway. I’ve never even gone down to look at the place. The trailer park people take care of maintenance. In return, I pay them a fee.”

The tone Tomlinson used was as close as he can come to being businesslike. “Okay, then I think one of the letters Ransom received can serve as his actual will. If someone decides to get attorneys involved, I mean. It’s a handwritten instrument, and it’s kind of fun, really. What it amounts to is, Tucker left some money for you two, but you’ve got to find it first. He hid it because he was paranoid about this old enemy of his, an island dude named Benton, beating you to it. Sounds just like that wild old gunslinger, doesn’t it?”

Oh yeah. Trying to manipulate people from the grave-that sounded just like Tuck.

I told him, “Trouble is, Tomlinson, I don’t want anything to do with it. I think you know why. So do me a favor and tell Ransom that the money’s all hers. Whatever it is he left. And I’ll give her the house and barn down in Mango, too. You think we ought to take her word that she’s Tuck’s daughter? Or maybe I should ask her to do a DNA before I transfer the papers.”

“If those eyes of hers aren’t proof enough, the conversation I had with her last night was. Isn’t it weird how people from the same family have similar vocal inflections, move and walk and even write like one or both of their parents? She wrote her address for me-Cat Island in the Bahamas. Used Tucker’s sloppy, curvy block print.”

I didn’t think there was anything weird or unexpected at all about genetics determining characteristics and behavior, but I said, “Oh yeah, the similarities can be eerie.”

“Believe me, compadre, she’s Tucker Gatrell’s daughter.”

“Okay. Then she can have the house if she wants. I’ve got the deed in the fireproof box in my lab. But I’m not going on any of Tucker’s snipe hunts. I still have that fish count to finish up”-I glanced at my left arm; it was throbbing again, but not bad-“and I’m not in the best of shape.”

“She’s counting on you, Doc. The woman’s got enough psych-up energy for ten people. The way she looks, the way she acts, can you believe that she’s got two kids? She was a middle-aged housewife, for God’s sake, before she kicked out her good-for-nothing husband and took her life back under control. What I’m saying is, she’s strong, man, very strong. In other words, partner, I don’t think she’s going to take no for an answer. And keep in mind, she really did come through when you needed her yesterday. If you catch my drift.”

I said, “You’re not suggesting that she’d try to leverage me, are you? Threaten to go to the cops and tell them the truth?”

Listened to Tomlinson say, “Probably not,” but I was thinking: Of course she would. She’s Tucker’s daughter.

Thirty minutes later, standing, waiting on luggage to be stowed aboard an orange, multipassenger Bell helicopter, I perceived an unmistakable chill from the two women deputies who’d stayed the night on Guava Key and stood guard over the girl.

Well, they’d supposedly stood guard.

One of them was Deputy Walker, who hadn’t exactly been my advocate during the interrogation the night before. I’d avoided her questions, true, and we certainly hadn’t struck up even a conversational friendship, but that didn’t explain her behavior or the behavior of her fellow officer.

As Lindsey and I approached the helipad, they seemed to make a point of ignoring me, and when I asked, “Is Waldman still around?” Walker shrugged and turned away.

I’m not a stickler for mindless social ceremony, but neither do I allow rude behavior to go unquestioned.

I moved close enough so she couldn’t ignore me. “Maybe you didn’t hear my question. Is Doug Waldman still on the island?”

There was something in her expression and her tone akin to contempt. She braced both hands on the gunbelt around her waist and said, “Why? You had your chance to cooperate last night.”

I took a couple of slow breaths before I said, “So maybe you got a lumpy bed and couldn’t sleep. Or the husband and you had a fight over the phone. What I’ll do is give it one more try. Is Waldman around? I want to ask him something about the investigation.”

The deputy told me, “We can handle it, believe me. We don’t need your assistance,” and walked away.

I received the same strange, inexplicable animus from Gale Storm, who touched me on the shoulder and, when I turned around, said, “Thanks for the help yesterday. I appreciate it.” But her tone said she wasn’t thankful and her quick, limp handshake told me she couldn’t wait to get away.

“No need to thank me,” I replied. “From what I saw, you handled yourself pretty well in a situation most people can’t even imagine. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed about.”

That seemed to infuriate her. “Ashamed? Why the hell would I be ashamed?”

I was tempted to say because she froze and lost her weapon, but instead I said, “Exactly the point I was making. No reason at all.” My shrug tried to tell her, How would I know anyway?

But she wouldn’t drop it. She was wearing navy blue shorts, gray Izod shirt, and a golf visor, plus the same little gray belly bag. She’d either retrieved her weapon from the dock or she’d found a backup. She removed the visor, wiping her forehead, as she said, “Look, before I went into the private sector, I graduated from the FBI academy at Quantico and three or four other schools you wouldn’t even know about. If there’s one thing I don’t need it’s some fisherman trying to insinuate that I somehow blew an assignment. So please don’t.”

Was everyone on the island in a foul mood? Or maybe Storm had received some kind of royal ass-chewing from Lindsey’s father. No way of knowing, but this time I wasn’t going to let it pass. I said, “One thing I can say for you, Ms. Storm, is you’d be a great train engineer.” When she raised her eyebrows quizzically, I added, “You’re always on time and on schedule. Your afternoon runs? I could set my watch by them. Plus you never varied your route. Not once. Just like you were on tracks. Very dependable. And predictable. I guess I wasn’t the only one who noticed, huh?” Then I looked into her face until she turned away.