Джон Гришэм - Camino Winds

“Sure looks like it but it’s too early to be certain. I suppose it’s possible that a man moving around outdoors in a catastrophic hurricane could get hit by debris more than once.”

“But unlikely.”

“I agree. I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Cable.”

“Thank you. And I won’t breathe a word of this.”

“Please don’t. And you say you have additional information.”

“I do. A friend of mine, and also a friend of Nelson’s, knows something. We need to chat with your investigator as soon as possible.”

“Are you headed back to the island?”

“Yes, but we’re in no hurry. My friend is downstairs in the lobby.”

“Does he have time to talk?”

“We have plenty of time these days.”

8.

Things thawed considerably over the next hour as Bruce, Bob, and Nick were escorted to a conference room and served coffee and doughnuts. As they waited, Bob griped at Bruce for being so gung ho.

“You could’ve at least asked me if I wanted to chat with the cops,” he growled.

“Oh, you’re talking to the cops, Bob, now knock it off. You’re a key witness whether you like it or not.”

Nick snorted and chimed in, “You knew the killer and had been sleeping with her for days before the murder. You’ll be the first witness called at trial.”

“What do you know about trials?”

“Tons. They’re in all the crime novels.”

“Well, I’ve sat through one, okay, and I’ve heard the jury say ‘guilty as charged,’ so I’m not afraid of the courtroom.”

“You did nothing wrong, Bob, relax,” Bruce said. “Don’t you want to find the killer?”

“I don’t know, maybe not. If she’s a professional, then some very nasty people paid her. Maybe we should leave them alone.”

“Not going to happen,” Bruce said. “You’re in up to your ears.”

“Thanks for nothing.”

The door eventually opened and an officer in a suit strutted in. He introduced himself as Captain Butler, and passed around business cards. WESLEY BUTLER, FLORIDA STATE POLICE. He found the coffee and joined them at the table. Without removing a pen he asked, “Now who’s who? Who have we got here?”

“I’m Bruce Cable, friend of Nelson Kerr. Same for Bob Cobb, who’s a writer on the island.”

“And I’m Nick Sutton, senior at Wake Forest, summer flunky at the bookstore. Also a friend of Nelson’s.”

“Okay. I just saw the autopsy report. Looks like your friend got banged up pretty good. I’ve talked to the police chief on the island and he’s described the evidence at the crime scene. We’ll get there as soon as we can, hopefully in the morning. I understand it’s pretty crazy down there.”

All three nodded.

“But the crime scene is intact, as far as you know?”

“As far as we know,” Bruce said. “There is no one around. In the spirit of full disclosure, the three of us have been in the apartment more than once. Nick here noticed the stains on the wall and in the downstairs bathroom. I walked around upstairs.”

“Why?”

“Well, at first we were looking for Nelson’s dog. Didn’t find him. We were not suspicious until Nick saw the stains.”

Bob said, “Then Nick noticed more than one head wound and we became suspicious.”

Bruce said, “And just so you’ll know, we borrowed his car two days ago to return to my home, and we cleaned out his refrigerator and liquor cabinet. Didn’t think he would mind.”

“A bunch of looters,” Butler said with a grin.

“Book us. We’re guilty. But rules change after a storm when you’re worried about survival.”

“Okay. You think your prints are in the house?”

“I’m sure they are.”

Nick said, “We thought about wiping things down but didn’t want to wipe off too much.”

“Good move. Not sure I’ve ever investigated a murder in the middle of a hurricane.”

“It’s my first and last,” Bruce said.

Butler sipped some coffee and said, “Now, the Director says there’s more to the story.”

“It’s likely,” Bruce said.

“Okay, let’s just have a chat without recording anything. We can do that later. I’m fresh on the case and know nothing. Tell me what happened.”

Bruce and Nick looked at Bob, who cleared his throat and began, “Well, there was this woman, said her name was Ingrid.”

9.

Halfway through Bob’s narrative, Butler began taking notes. The story was too rich not to. He never interrupted, but was obviously intrigued by the details. When Bob finished, Butler asked, “And what day did you meet her?”

“What’s today?”

“Friday, August ninth.”

Bruce said, “The storm hit late Monday night, August fifth.”

Bob stared at his phone and said, “I met her a week ago today, Friday the second.”

“In the bar at the Hilton?”

“The outdoor bar. There’s a big pool scene with a couple of bars.”

“And you hang out there?”

“I do indeed. Plenty of action.”

“Any discernible accent?”

“Not really. Nothing that I noticed, and, being a writer, we usually notice accents.”

“No accent at all?”

“No sir. Flat, Middle America. Could’ve been Kansas or California, not the Bronx or East Texas. Definitely nothing foreign.”

“How much time did you spend with her?”

“Too much, I suppose. We met Friday afternoon, had drinks, then retired to my condo, it’s a five-minute walk, and had leftover lobster salad. Went to bed, did our thing, and she slept over. We were having coffee Saturday morning, and that’s when Nelson’s name came up. She saw one of his books on the shelf and claimed to be a big fan. I had her pegged as a nonreader or a chick-lit fan at best, and I thought it odd that she would enjoy his books, but I said nothing. The conversation went on and she said she would like to meet him. She suggested the Shack, a dive out by the bridge with really good food.”

“Been there too.”

“So, I called Nelson and we met him there for a late lunch on Saturday. They hit it off okay and we had a nice visit. Later that afternoon, she and I hung around the beach, then had dinner again. Back to my place. She wanted to have a go Sunday morning but I needed a break. She left and said she was going back to the hotel.”

“Any chance she slept with Nelson?”

“Oh, sure, always the chance. Hell, I didn’t care. I wasn’t thinking about marriage. Tried that twice.”

“Did you see her Sunday?”

Bob sipped coffee, scratched his chin, thought hard for a moment. “Yep, we set up on the beach near the hotel and enjoyed the sun. That night I had dinner at Bruce’s but didn’t take the woman. Nelson was there. Then the hurricane changed its course and all hell broke loose.”

“What about a physical description.”

“Five-ten, one-thirty, helluva body. She’s about forty years old, likes string bikinis, and on the beach got more looks than eighteen-year-olds. Said she lives in the gym and has a black belt. I believe her. Not an ounce of fat anywhere. Brown eyes, long fake blond hair, no tattoos, scars, birthmarks, and I saw it all.”

“I don’t suppose you took a photo of her. Maybe a selfie?”

“No, I don’t do selfies and I don’t run around snapping photos. Nor did she.”

“Can you think of a spot where she may have been captured on surveillance?”

“I’ve thought about that a lot. I’m sure the Hilton has cameras all over the place, including the outdoor bars and pool area. There’s probably some footage, if it still exists. Right now the Hilton is a mess. It took at least eight feet of storm surge and the ground floor is gutted. The decks, restaurants, patios, terraces were all blown away. Most of its windows are gone. If there were outdoor cameras they were probably ripped off by the wind. The place is barely standing.”