Джон Гришэм - Camino Winds

Another pause, and Bruce asked, “Okay, anything else?”

“No. That’s all.”

For a long time nothing was said. Bob had settled down but was breathing heavily, his eyes drooping, defeated. “I don’t know how to handle this,” he mumbled.

Bruce said, “Well, you have to tell the police, that’s for certain.”

“I suppose, but I really don’t want to get involved. After meeting Officer Hoppy I don’t have much faith in these cops. Hell, he’ll probably suspect me and I don’t need that.”

“How can he suspect you?”

“I have a record.”

“Come on. That’s history. You can’t be a suspect.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“Did you get her last name?” Nick asked.

“Murphy. Ingrid Murphy, from Atlanta. But I doubt if any of that is true.”

“The hotel will have records,” Bruce said.

“Maybe. Right now the hotel is about to tilt over. You saw it today. They’ll probably condemn it.”

Nick said, “I doubt if she was staying there.”

Both looked at him, confused. “What are you talking about?” Bruce asked.

“If she is the last person known to be with Nelson before he was bludgeoned to death, then let’s assume she is the killer. Indulge me here, okay? I honestly doubt the same tree hit him four times. Someone took a blunt weapon and cracked his skull, right? Given her physical attributes that Bob has so nicely described, she has the capability.”

“So, what’s the motive?” Bruce asked.

“There is none. How did she meet Nelson?” Nick asked Bob.

Bob replied, “Like I said, we had lunch.”

“Was it her idea?”

Bob scratched his chin, thought for a moment, and said, “Well, sort of. She claimed to be a big reader, liked my books and all, and we talked about other writers on the island. When I said Nelson was a friend, she got excited. Clicked off all his titles, seemed to know them inside and out.”

“Odd,” Nick said. “Not exactly girl stuff.”

“I thought the same thing.”

Nick said, “Ingrid just met Nelson and then she killed him, but it wasn’t random. She came here for that purpose. The motive was money, because she was paid to do the job. Where did you have lunch?”

“At the Shack, down under the bridge.”

“Where I’ll bet they don’t have cameras,” Nick said.

“Herman probably doesn’t lock the door at night,” Bruce said.

“Who suggested the Shack?” Nick asked.

“So you’re still the detective, huh?”

“I’ll bet it was her idea.”

Bob scratched his chin more, tried to remember. “Matter of fact, it was her idea. She said she had read about the place and wanted to try it. This sounded true because it gets its share of reviews. Travel magazines and stuff. Keep going, Sherlock. I want to hear your theory.”

“She set you up. She managed to catch your eye around the hotel bar, where you’re known to prowl. She got you in the sack, surprise surprise, and you led her to Nelson, the target. She got lucky when the storm took aim at us and provided the perfect setting. A murder in the middle of a hurricane. She’s a pro, fearless, tough, and waited until the storm had passed and daylight was coming and made her getaway. She’ll probably never be found. I’ll bet you a hundred dollars, which I don’t have, that she was not registered at the Hilton.”

Bruce appeared dumbfounded. “Anything else?”

“Just speculating, of course. But I’ll bet she had a team with her. Probably rented a condo for a week or two. Had plenty of backup and they knew how to get off the island about the time that Leo was leaving. Don’t ask me how.”

“So what was the murder weapon?” Bob asked.

“We may never know, but it could’ve been Nelson’s seven iron. I looked at his clubs this morning when you two were sitting on the patio. There’s a stain and some matter on the seven iron. Could be blood, I don’t know. I didn’t touch anything. When swung properly, a seven iron, or any iron for that matter, can do some real damage to a skull.”

Bruce asked Bob, “And she was strong enough to move his body?”

“Oh sure. I weigh two hundred pounds and she really bounced me around. Of course I wasn’t resisting, mind you. Nelson weighs, weighed, a buck-seventy at most.”

Bruce said, “But there was no electricity. How could she find his golf clubs with no lights?”

“He had at least two flashlights. We used one this morning. Maybe she had been there before. Maybe someone else scoped the place when Nelson wasn’t home.”

“A lot of maybes,” Bob said. “You got quite an imagination.”

“I do. Let’s hear your theory.”

“I don’t have one and I’m not thinking too clearly right now. Hell, we don’t even know if it’s a murder. I say we wait till the autopsy.”

They sat in the darkness and listened to the distant sounds of their battered island. A gas-engine generator was rattling a street or two over. A helicopter was making a night run in the direction of the beach. A siren wailed far away. But none of the usual languid nighttime sounds—neighbors laughing on their porches, music emanating from stereos, dogs barking, cars easing down the street, the distant horn of a shrimp boat entering the harbor.

Bruce slapped a mosquito on his neck and said, “That’s it. Let’s go inside.” He started his generator, closed the terrace door, and they regrouped in the den where the air was a bit cooler. All lights were off but for a small table lamp by the television. Bruce set it on a card table and said, “How about some poker?”

He poured a round of single malt from Nelson’s collection and they toasted their late friend. The alcohol mixed with the fatigue and the poker was cut short. Bob slept on one sofa; Nick on another. Bruce stretched out in his recliner and soon fell asleep to the rickety hum of his generator.

4.

Breakfast was coffee and a cheese sandwich. The gasoline supply was becoming critical and they discussed it as they ate. Nelson’s car had half a tank, and Bob suggested they drain most of it with a section of garden hose. Bruce and Nick confessed to having no siphoning experience, so Bob took charge and managed to withdraw about ten gallons without poisoning himself.

With that project complete, they decided that the next priority was returning Nelson’s car. Bruce checked the doors and locked the house, set the alarm with his remote, and left in his Chevy Tahoe. Bob and Nick followed in Nelson’s BMW, and it took an hour to wind their way around the devastation. Not surprisingly, there was no one at the condo—no homicide team sifting for clues, no neighbors picking up debris. No one had touched the yellow crime scene tape. Bruce lifted it and Bob returned the BMW to its spot. The three met in the garage and stared at the golf clubs, but said nothing. They closed the overhead door, walked into the kitchen, and discussed Nelson’s keys. If they left them behind, there was the chance that someone might break in, find them, and steal the car, but they agreed that this was a long shot. If they took them, the police wouldn’t know the difference and would have no trouble entering. Nick kept them in his pocket.

As they settled into the Tahoe, Bruce said, “I have an idea. We could sit around here today and tomorrow and get nothing done. I’m kinda bored with this hurricane crap. Let’s pack a bag, head to the bridge, and see what the situation is there. If we can escape, we can drive to Jacksonville, visit the crime lab, snoop around and maybe learn something, then we can drive a few hours and find a nice hotel with hot water and phones that work. Who’s in?”

“Me,” Bob said.

“Let’s go,” Nick said.

They drove to Bob’s cul-de-sac and waited for him to gather some clean underwear and a shaving kit. They weaved through heavy debris and made it to Fernando Street, where the two lanes were now passable. The shoulders, curbs, and bike lanes were piled high with debris, and small bulldozers were pushing more of it around. Dozens of utility crews worked frantically. It took another hour to get to the home of Nick’s grandparents, and to his relief it was not heavily damaged. It was half a mile from the beach and the falling limbs had missed the roof. Nick found a trash bag and filled it with perishables from the freezer and refrigerator. The meats and cheeses were already spoiling. Thankfully, his grandparents had been away for two months and there wasn’t much food in the house. He couldn’t cook and lived on cold cuts and carryout pizza. He threw some clean clothes in a backpack, locked the front door, took a photo to send to his grandparents, tossed the trash bag onto the neighbor’s porch, and jumped into the rear seat.