Джон Гришэм - Camino Winds

He knew his turf. His résumé was impressive if a bit too self-congratulatory, but Polly and her husband had been mildly impressed. She asked Bruce’s advice on what to do.

He demurred and said that, in spite of the current chaos in his life, he knew very little about the law and really didn’t want to learn much. However, if his brother had been the target of a contract killing funded by a billionaire crook, then, hell yes, he’d want as much blood as he could squeeze. He agreed to quietly check out the Florida lawyer and gauge his reputation.

Polly left him with the news that she and her husband were planning to spend a week on the island to celebrate July Fourth. She needed to meet with the probate lawyer and so on. Bruce was delighted to offer them a guest room upstairs.

5.

On a calm Friday morning in late June, Agent Van Cleve from Jacksonville called Bruce and asked for a meeting. He was willing to drive up late in the afternoon and perhaps have a beer after hours. He wanted Bob Cobb present, if possible. Bruce was surprised to be included in any discussion, since he had heard little in the previous months. He suggested they meet at Curly’s Oyster Bar for happy hour.

Bob was rarely not in the mood for a late afternoon drink, or even an earlier one. Nick got wind of the meeting and would not take no for an answer. The three got a table on Curly’s deck near the edge of a marsh and began with a pitcher of beer. It was Friday, the island was tired of another long week of rebuilding, the air was warm but not sticky, and the crowd was in the mood to blow off some steam.

Bruce had met Van Cleve briefly, but Bob had spent more time with him. The agent arrived in shorts and deck shoes and almost blended in with the crowd. It was 5:30 and he had punched the clock for the week.

Bob introduced Nick as a local friend but laid off any insults about unemployment. They poured Van Cleve a beer as he surveyed the crowd. Bruce noticed he did not have a wedding band. A waiter ventured by and they ordered a bucket of boiled shrimp and another pitcher.

Van Cleve got serious and said, “Okay, here’s the update. As you know, Karen had a partner, guy named Patterson, and she thought she’d killed him. But he hung on a few and even managed to talk. He gave us the goods on three contract killings, including Nelson Kerr’s. A fourth we’re still investigating. Over a ten-day period we managed to pull some facts out of him as he was literally dying. Broken neck, gunshot wounds, a mess. Anyway, they were paid four million by Ken Reed, facilitated by the broker Matthew Dunn, to rub out Kerr. They came here together, rented a condo near the Hilton, monitored Nelson, and made plans to strike. The hurricane was just their good luck. Suddenly they had a chance to pull the trigger while absolutely no one was looking. Karen got inside Nelson’s condo, whacked him, carried him outside in the storm, and you know the rest.”

Nick interrupted with “Excuse me, but what was the murder weapon?”

“One of his golf clubs, probably an iron.”

Nick grinned and raised his arms as if to accept their thunderous applause.

“What’s this all about?” asked Van Cleve.

Bob was shaking his head. Bruce said, “The day after the murder, while we were babysitting the dead body, the three of us were discussing the meaning of life. Nick here, who reads far too many crime novels, said that the woman was not a guest at the Hilton, was probably staying in a rental close by with a team, that she had met Nelson, thus knew him and talked her way into his condo. She did not take a blunt instrument with her but rather used something of Nelson’s.”

“The seven iron to be exact,” Nick said. “Read it in a Scott Turow novel.”

Van Cleve was impressed. “Well, well, are you looking for a job?”

“He damned sure is,” Bob said.

“Please hire him,” Bruce said. “He’s fresh out of college.”

Nick said, “And I work cheap. Just ask Bruce.”

They enjoyed a good laugh and refilled their mugs. The shrimp arrived and the waiter dumped half the bucket on the checkered tablecloth, sort of a lesser tradition.

Bruce asked, “So, how did they get off the island?”

Van Cleve said, “We’ll probably never know. The poor guy shut down after a while.”

“And he’s good and dead?” Bob asked.

“Yes, may he rest in peace. No more contract killings for him.”

“Or for Ingrid!” Bob said, raising his mug. “Cheers.”

They laughed some more, drank some more, listened as a country band got tuned up on a stage across the way, and watched the girls come and go.

Nick looked at Van Cleve and said, “So, when do you think they’ll put her on trial?”

He shook his head in frustration. “Who knows? Lawyers and judges. Could be a couple of years. She might even cut a deal and avoid a trial.”

Nick said, “Oh, I so want a trial. I want to see Big Bob here on the witness stand telling the jury about his wonderful weekend with a cuddly contract killer right before she rubbed out his close friend. Talk about rich.”

Bob smiled and said, “I’ll have the jury eating out of my hands. And her lawyers won’t touch me.”

Bruce said, “You can’t testify, Bob, you’re a convicted felon.”

“Says who?”

Bruce looked at Van Cleve, the only one with a law degree. He said, “Well, generally speaking, they prefer not to put on felons because of credibility issues. But that’s not always the case.”

Bob protested, “I got more credibility than that crazy woman. I want to face her in court.”

Nick said, “And they flew you all the way to L.A. to see her in jail? You gotta tell us that story, Bob.”

“All right, but order another pitcher.” Bruce waved at the waiter as Bob launched into his windy tale. His language deteriorated as his humor gained traction, and soon they were all laughing again. It was almost dark when the shrimp was gone but the party was far from over. They found menus and were discussing the catch of the day when a young blonde in tight shorts and T-shirt approached the table. Heads turned and the music seemed to pause as she stopped by Van Cleve, took his hand, and pecked him on the cheek.

He said, “Hello dear,” as he quickly stood. “Sorry, boys, but I gotta go. This is my friend Felicia.” She flashed a perfect glowing smile at Bruce, Bob, and Nick, all of whom were too startled to say anything. They returned the smile, and Bruce was about to ask her to join them when Van Cleve said, “It’s been real. Thanks for the drinks. I’ll catch the next tab.” They sauntered away, with every eye on the tight denim shorts.

When Bob finally exhaled he said, “Since when do Fibbies get the girls?”

“Well, Bob, he is about twenty years younger than you.”

Nick, still gazing, said, “Wow, that’s impressive. Maybe I will hire on at the Bureau.”

Bruce said, “Down, boys. Who’s hungry? I’m paying, obviously Van Cleve is not. Who wants fish tacos?”

The music cranked up again and the crowd grew thicker. When the waiter brought a platter of fish tacos they ordered another pitcher of beer. As they ate they recalled, with more humor than they had any right to expect, the awful hours after the storm and the scene on Nelson’s deck. They laughed at the vision of old Hoppy Durden, Santa Rosa’s only homicide detective who doubled as its bank robbery specialist, as he stared at Nelson and scratched his head. And then he strung up enough yellow crime scene tape to stop a riot. They laughed at themselves as the three looters making off with Nelson’s thawing meats and pizzas and the best of his booze, in his fine BMW roadster. They laughed at Captain Butler of the state police, strutting around the crime scene in his pointed-toe boots as if on the verge of making an arrest while not discovering anything useful. They wondered if the FBI had informed him that the killer was in Jacksonville, in jail. They laughed and ordered more beer.