Dead of Night (26 page)

As I walked her to the marina, I told her she looked very elegant, and meant it. It surprised me that she flushed, embarrassed. “Thanks. I get so flustered when I hear something like that because I was such a gawky nerd for so many years. My body didn’t start to fill out until I was in my thirties, so I’m not used to compliments. I’m just now starting to enjoy what it’s like for men to be interested. Oh, and Doc”—she touched my arm; this was personal—“I’m so sorry about Mrs. Matthews. That I had to be the one to tell you.”

I said, “She was a good woman. You told me I needed to see where she died for myself? I think I’ll drive to Kissimmee tomorrow, and have a look around. Tonight, though, I think Frieda would want us to do what she did whenever she visited these islands. Have fun.”

The party was reaching its cruising rhythm ...

We’d missed sunset, but the earth’s rotation continued to spill color over the horizon. Above a mangrove rim, the western sky was streaked with citreous mesas, bands of key lime and orange. Behind us, high shoals of cirrus clouds were a firestorm of lavender.

Mack had the dock lights wired to a timer, and they’d just come on: pale pearl bands on a bay streaked with bronze. Added to the light show were the marina’s Christmas decorations. Every houseboat, sailboat, cruiser, and sports fishing boat was trimmed with strings of holiday bulbs—red, green, or strobing white. Almost every mast or fly bridge sported a climbing plastic Santa, a lighted Christmas tree, a reindeer frozen in flight, a white cross or Star of David.

I paused outside the Red Pelican Gift Shop next to the bait tanks, my eyes taking it in, attempting to fix the scene, in memory: seeing the docks, the sky, the multicolored lights, the rows of boats. Seeing islanders mingling near picnic tables covered with platters of food; the marina’s Christmas tree—actually, an Australian pine, twelve feet tall—decorated with fishing lures, and greetings cards from clients around the nation. Beneath the tree were stacked piles of presents, brightly wrapped and bowed.

Frieda had liked this place. She would have enjoyed being here now.

Beside me, Rona said, “Gee, what a great little marina. It’s kind of warm and old-timey, the way the shops are built next to the docks. Everything wooden, but like the wood has gotten way too much sun. And I love the Christmas decorations. I can see why so many people are here.”

This edition of P’COT
had
attracted a big crowd, which was not unexpected. Dusk on the islands is a soft, sociable time of gathering. There are subtleties of color, scent, and sound that can only be appreciated outdoors, which is why almost everyone heads for the beach or the bay.

On this Friday evening, along with the couple of dozen marina inhabitants there were also several dozen guests. Everyone roamed the docks, drinks in hand, ricocheting from one convivial pod of souls to another, while Captain Buffett sang about gypsies in the castle, then the Beach Boys sang about St. Nick’s sled of candy apple red, music blasting from speakers mounted atop the fly bridge of Dieter Rasmussen’s Grand Banks trawler,
Das Stasi.

Dieter is the resident shrink, a duly licensed psychiatrist, and an expert on all kinds of things related to the human brain. He and his stunning live-in Jamaican girlfriend, Mira, were sitting aft in swivel chairs. They waved. I pointed to my watch, telling them I’d stop by in a few minutes.

I searched the crowd, looking for the Internet guru. He was standing with a group of locals that included Laken. Lake was wearing shorts and an oversized Red Sox baseball jersey. Tomlinson was dressed in ... a suit? Yep. One of the white silk suits he’d mentioned. Looked like a rock star. Or a homeless drunk who’d gotten lucky at some Salvation Army store.

The two of them had become buddies. It was easily read in their brotherly chiding, the private laughter. They did things together when they could: batting practice, sailing; a lot of time hanging out—which was worrisome until Lake took me aside and asked me to tell Tomlinson to knock off the antidrug sermons.

Straight-faced, I’d replied, “We’re talking about the same Tomlinson?”

Yes, the same.

Tomlinson was worried about being a poor role model, so he’d been overcompensating, hammering out lectures on the dangers of cannabis and similar evils. It was getting tiresome, Lake informed me. He had no interest in the stuff to begin with, and asked me to tell Tomlinson to resume his own drug use—or whatever it was he did—because, lately, the man had been a pious, strung-out pain in the ass.

His new role as entrepreneur had something to do with it, too, I was sure.

But Tomlinson looked relaxed and at home on this night. His eyes had a contented, sedated glaze. He was barefooted; had a red hibiscus blossom tucked into the lapel of his white silk jacket. Both added to the impression of tropical elan.

I hadn’t been in a mood to socialize but was now glad that I’d come. There was nothing I could do to change what happened to Frieda. Later, I’d give the e-mail documents a more thorough look. Maybe invite Tomlinson to focus his big brain on the puzzle. Lake, too, of course. He’d be flying back to Central America on Sunday, the same day I was leaving for Iowa. So I wanted to spend as much time with him as possible.

I suspect all parents enjoy secretly watching as their children interact socially. That’s what I did now, taking pleasure in the easy way the boy handled himself; in the shape of his face, his mannerisms, the snatches of his laughter that filtered through the party din. I was so lost in thought that I couldn’t help but stumble a little when I heard:

“I don’t want to be nosy, but I’ve got to ask: Where’s your girlfriend?”

I turned to look at Rona. She’d drifted off, but was back again. I stammered for a moment before managing to say, “Huh?”

“I’m asking about your girl. You’re involved with someone; it shows. But here it is Friday night, and she’s not around. She wasn’t with you in Kissimmee, either. What’s the deal?”

The lady investigator had recombed her wild surfer’s hair to the side—different but interesting. I noticed that her eyes were a lucent amber in the late light.

“Her name’s Dewey, and she’s living in Iowa. We were good friends, then it became more than that. She’s pregnant. My child. The baby’s due mid-May.”

Pregnant.
That jarred her, but not for long. “An Iowa girl? You’re not the kind of guy who preys on tourist ladies looking for a fling. They’re plenty like that in Florida, but you’re not one of them.”

“Thanks.”

“How’d you get together?”

“Dewey’s not a tourist; she’s local. Owns a house on Captiva, but Iowa is where she wants to be right now. It’s a little farm; been in her family for generations. Nesting instinct?” I shrugged. “Tradition, maybe. I visit when I can. I leave Sunday to spend Christmas.”

“She moved away?” I found the undertone of disapproval unsettling. “You two are having a child, but she’s halfway across the country? That’s an ... interesting arrangement.”

“She’s got midwestern roots; sees Iowa as a healthier, safer place. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Safer. I see.” Her flat tone said I was being stupid.

“Yes,
safer
.”

“Whoa, whoa. Don’t get pissed off, Doc. I saw that flash in your eyes. Holy cripes, like sparks. No offense intended.”

“I’m not offended. Unusual people sometimes make unusual decisions. That’s one of the reasons I like her.”

Rona stared at me intensely for a moment with her Polynesian-colored eyes, her expression puzzled: What makes you tick?

“I don’t know your girl. I’ve never been in her position. Don’t go getting bigheaded, but it’s hard to imagine being with a man who makes a woman feel safer than you. On Night’s Landing, the way you handled yourself. Dealing with that shark. What you’ve just described between you and your girlfriend sounds more like a test than a relationship.”

I glanced away as she added, “I’ve been tested a time or two. Personally, I don’t think lovers give tests unless they secretly expect their partner to fail. Or want them to fail.”

I found her quick assessment unfair, but I avoid debate when the subject’s personal and private. I heard myself chuckle in the way men do when they want to dismiss the complicated subject of relationships by trivializing it. “I don’t pretend to understand women. Especially pregnant women. I do whatever it takes to make her happy.”

Rona replied cryptically, “When men say things like that, they think they’re kidding. They’re actually right. But only
half
right.”

She looked toward the docks then and waved. “Hey, there’s your friend Mack. I think I’ll go join the party.”

Standing behind me, looking over my shoulder as I sat at the computer, Tomlinson said, “Laken and I aren’t going to be shocked if you admit you know something about cryptography. Scout’s honor, no need to play innocent. Tell us the difference between secret code and a cipher. Or maybe they’re the same thing.”

It was nearly midnight. The party was still going strong. Only a few hundred feet of water separated us from music and loud laughter—Christmas carols in Spanish now. I could see silhouettes of people dancing on the docks, doing the salsa or merengue through the screened windows.

I’d left Rona chatting with Mack and the guides, men clustered around. She told me she had a hotel room, not to worry, she’d be just fine. I didn’t doubt it. For a woman who claimed to have grown up gawky, she enjoyed being among men, and knew how to hold court.

Despite her prying questions, it didn’t take long for us to get back on friendly terms, which was a relief. So, in good conscience, I’d returned home.

Tomlinson and Lake agreed to follow when they were ready.

When they joined me in the lab, I told them what had happened to Frieda, and Applebee. Tomlinson focused in when I mentioned Asperger’s syndrome, which suggested he knew something about it. Then I opened the computer documents, including Frieda’s note to me.

He’d met Frieda, and he’d seen Applebee’s remarkable diorama, so Tomlinson was moved by what she’d written:

I would not be seeing her soon. The lady was now sealed away in a refrigerated locker at the county medical examiner’s office ... or maybe already on a stainless steel table. She would soon be further diminished by a hole in a Tallahassee cemetery, or an um, into which she would shrink and shrink and shrink in memory until she vanished into infinity.

Frieda Matthews was a good one. A fine person who was dear and bright and solid. I admired her intellect. I liked the sound of her laughter. I valued her as a person. The transition from animate to the inanimate occurs in a microsecond. It is the interval of a flame extinguished, but it is an eternal microsecond. I would never see her again.

I kept her message on the computer screen long enough to read twice. Then I opened the documents from a folder labeled: TROPICANE/EPOC.

At the top of the first page, first document, was written: DO NOT LET THEM FIND THIS!

A note from brother to sister.

Someone had been after his computer.

Otherwise, the pages consisted of nothing but numbers. Digits were sometimes separated by spaces, rarely punctuation. An occasional period or colon.

Studying the screen, Tomlinson and my son both reacted with the muted grunts and sentence fragments that signal confusion.

“That message at the top—
who
doesn’t he want to have this?”

I said, “The people who were trying to beat information out of him the night I came along. The ones who also maybe killed his sister. I’m speculating.”