Magic City (6 page)

“So what did Buck hear last night?” Thorn had a last sip of coffee.

“Thorn. Don't encourage him.”

Lawton shook his head and turned from the window, looking at his daughter, then at Thorn.

“Gunfire,” Lawton said. “I was asleep, but that's how he was acting. Like he heard a gun going off. Pawed the hell out of my arm.”

“I didn't hear any gunshots, Dad.” Alex finished rinsing the dishes. “Did you hear anything like that, Thorn?”

Thorn shook his head.

“Of course you wouldn't hear anything. Going at it like a couple of overheated goats. All you could hear was the thumpedy-thump of your damn headboard pounding the wall.”

Alex worked her jaw. When Lawton was in one of his moods, there was little to be done beyond summoning patience. The irritability and antagonism would pass, and in the next instant he could be sunny, even comical.

“Bingham's a photographer, you know, like my daughter. Only Alex takes photos of corpses, but Alan, his subjects are still alive. Not that one's better than the other. But I think it's a good match. You got two photographers, between them they cover the whole gamut, alive to dead. Match made in heaven, you ask me.”

Thorn finished the last of his melon, gave Alex an innocent look.

“Picking a date, huh?”

“We went out a few times,” she said. “The rest is Dad's invention.”

“Went out a few times, yeah, and they stayed inside a few times, too,” Lawton said. “If you catch my drift.”

Alex shook her head helplessly.

“Alex and Alan,” Lawton said. “A perfect fit, but does she listen to her own father? Oh, no, I'm just toe jam around here. Roach droppings.”

Lawton rose from the table, then stood still with his head cocked to the side, staring at the wall as if it were a bank of fog he was trying to penetrate.

For the past few years he'd been fading in and out of lucidity on some timetable that was impossible to anticipate. One minute his memory was laser-sharp, the next he was whimpering in frustration, confounded by knotting his tennis shoes. After two MRIs and an array of other tests, the doctors wouldn't give a firm diagnosis. Only way to be sure, one doctor said, was an autopsy.

But it was clear to Thorn that Lawton was fast becoming a new concoction. One jigger of the tough, street-smart homicide cop he'd once been and one shot of some obstinate, bewildered gentleman oblivious to good manners and mortal danger and the simplest forms of logic. Dump that in the blender and liquefy.

“So, Thorn,” Alex said, “what's on your agenda today?”

She had her back to him, loading the dishwasher with the breakfast plates.

“I'm going to start with a little flashing.”

“You're not in Key Largo anymore; up here they arrest people for that.”

She half turned, smiling at him over her shoulder.

“So keep it in your shorts, mister.”

“Flashing is that stuff around the edge of the roofline. In case you haven't noticed, we roofers have a different vocabulary.”

She went over and gave Thorn a kiss, a taste of melon on her lips.

“I have to fluff myself up. Then I've got to run.” She settled a serious look on him. “You're sure about this, Thorn? You can handle things?”

“She means me,” Lawton said. “Mr. Toe Jam.”

“Trust me,” Thorn said. “Lawton and I are buddies.”

Lawton muttered something and marched away toward his bedroom, and Alex lay a hand on Thorn's shoulder.

“I think he's getting worse,” she said. “He's cycling through the ups and downs faster than he used to.”

“He doesn't seem too bad to me.”

“I'm going to cancel the trip. I can't leave him like this.”

“Oh, come on,” Thorn said. “You can't let Buck down. Or yourself.”

At the sound of his name, the Lab thumped his tail against the floor. Alex looked out the window for a moment, then sighed and turned back to him.

“You're sure?”

“I can handle this, Alex. It's only seven days. We'll be fine.”

Her hand slid up the side of Thorn's neck and she cupped his face. She bent and gave him a fuller kiss. This one was good-bye for a week.

Then she turned and walked down the hallway to her bedroom. She must have known he was watching because she put a little extra sauce in her hips, though Alexandra Collins required nothing extra to hold his attention.

Thorn finished his breakfast while Lawton and his lovely daughter readied themselves. He took a look out the window at the house across the street but saw nothing over there the least bit suspicious.

In the foyer a few minutes later, with the suitcase at her feet and Buck standing nearby, they shared another kiss—one so warm and eager, it might have been the prelude to another hour of love if the taxi driver hadn't honked.

Alex pulled free, opened the door, and waved that she was coming. She had on gray linen slacks and a pink sweater set. Somehow managing to look both feminine and tough.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” She gave him a wary smile, snagged her purse from the front table, dug through it, and produced a silver cell phone, flipped it open, and showed it to Thorn. “You ever use one of these?”

“I'm more of a pay-phone kind of guy.”

She smiled and shook her head.

“You're such a Luddite, Thorn. Come on, join the new century.”

“I was just warming up to the last one.”

She demonstrated how to turn the cell phone on, use the speed dial to reach her own cell, then showed him the charging cord and where to plug it in.

“Why do I need this?”

“Do me a favor, okay? One week, it won't corrupt you. Leave it on in case I want to check in, hear your voice, see how Dad is doing. Just in case.”

The cabbie honked again, and they embraced once more. Buck stood close by and pressed his head against the side of Thorn's knee.

Thorn carried her bag while Alex followed with Buck on the lead. The cabbie got out and popped the trunk. He was a young black man in a green guayabera. As Buck approached, he backed away, and though his English was spotty, he let it be known he didn't want a dog in his cab.

“It's a police canine,” Alexandra said, flipping open her department shield and showing it to the guy. “I'd be willing to bet this dog's cleaner than most passengers you carry. Not to mention smarter.”

The man seemed confused, so Thorn gave him a shorthand version in basic Creole. “Police work. You have to do it.”

The man scowled at both of them and got back into the driver's seat.

“Creole?”

“Years of fishing in the islands,” Thorn said.

“Man of many talents.”

They kissed again and Alex drew away and got in the back with Buck.

“Leave the phone on, okay? Humor me.”

“The things I do for love.”

“When I get back I'll find a way to reward you.”

“Kick ass on the test. You, too, Buck. Sniff out the sneaky bastards.”

The Lab wagged his tail and curled up beside Alex, resting his head in her lap.

 

After Thorn rinsed his dishes, he carried the extension ladder outside, clattered it out to its full length, and propped it against the roof edge. He set up his supplies, a roll of black felt paper, a box of roofing nails, and various tools. Toting the cordless drill and thermos, he climbed onto the roof to make his initial inspection.

The pitch of the roof was slight enough that he could work without handholds or ropes. For a while he prowled the aluminum surface, checking for any obvious faults, but found nothing in the panels themselves.

The water stains had recently appeared on the ceiling outside Lawton's bathroom, but as with any roof leak, the problem could have been weeks or months in the making and originate nearly anywhere. Water was devious. It could penetrate the house thirty feet away and follow some gravity-assisted path that was impossible to predict. Given enough time, a steady trickle could rot away the roof timbers or march down the joists like a trail of ravenous termites, softening crucial beams along the way before it ever showed up as a dark patch of crumbling plaster inside the house. Like senility. Like a lot of things.

So Thorn started with the obvious. One by one he pried off the rusty strips of flashing around the three vent pipes. But he discovered no sign of rot. While they clearly needed replacing, the problem just as clearly lay elsewhere.

After half an hour of work, shirtless, wearing only khaki shorts and boat shoes, Thorn paused for a moment to enjoy a rare breeze that tossed the fronds of a nearby royal palm and sent small licks of shade teasing across the roof.

His hair was clumped with sweat and he raked it out of his eyes. From countless hours on the water, fishing the creeks and flats of Florida Bay, Thorn had scorched his hair to the shade and texture of summer straw. At six feet tall, he was still as wiry as he'd been in his teens and as darkly tanned. Although lately he'd been feeling some middle-age creaks, a little swelling in the finger joints, he was still agile enough to spider-walk the roof without strain. And that bedroom incident this morning, something entirely rich and strange, it gave him a jolt of confidence about the aging thing. Undiscovered territory lay ahead. Whole continents yet to be explored.

For the dozenth time since mounting the roof, he touched the alien lump in his pocket. It was silly for the device to make him anxious. But he couldn't dispel the feeling that he was hauling around some living creature that might at any second squawk and demand attention. More than once in the past few minutes, he thought the cell phone had squirmed against his thigh and he'd fought the urge to snatch it out and heave it as far as it would fly.

For the next half hour he replaced the flashing around the three vents. When he was done he climbed to the peak to catch his breath and slug down some water from the thermos he'd hooked to the ridge seam.

With every degree the sun rose, the white aluminum glared more harshly. Sweat dribbled from his flesh and hit the roof and vaporized. He squinted into the brightness for a while, gathering himself for the next phase.

As he gazed out at Alexandra's neighborhood from that height, seeing each house planted neatly in the center of its fifty-by-hundred-foot plot, and the streets running in a grid exactly north and south or due east and west, he felt a twinge of claustrophobia. A milder version of what that doomed man in the Poe story must have felt when he awoke and became slowly aware that he was locked inside a coffin.

He forced aside the pang and reclaimed some of the buoyancy he'd felt earlier. By God, he was determined to make this work. Resolved to beat back the qualms and give the city a fair shot. There was no other option if he and Alex had a chance. A woman every bit his equal in toughness and independence, and one who awakened in him a mix of tenderness and sensuality he hadn't known he was capable of. He felt fresher around her, more confident than he had in years.

So this was his week to adjust, make last-second tweaks to his tranquilized Keys psyche before she returned. Find his place in this seething stew of humanity.

While he rested, a yellow cab drew over to the curb two houses away, parking in the shade of an oak. For an idle moment Thorn watched the taxi and listened to the snarl of several nearby motors. In the past hour three different gardening crews had descended on the neighborhood and were roaring up and down separate lawns like synchronized drill teams with their weed whackers and leaf blowers.

Thorn had another sip of the icy water, splashed some over his hair, and got back to work. He used Alexandra's Makita drill to back out the screws. A fine tool that fit solidly in his hand and made a throaty purr that blocked out the leaf blowers and the rumble of traffic from a thoroughfare a few blocks to the west. One motor canceling out a dozen others. Maybe that was a way to cope. Get one of those exotic machines that produced the rumble of artificial surf and keep it running in the background.

He worked his way down the first panel, pocketing the stainless-steel screws while his rubber soles squeaked against the hot aluminum.

He slid the first panel aside and spotted the telltale rip in the roofing paper. As he was congratulating himself on his good fortune, a man's voice called out a hello from the front yard.

Thorn rose and leaned forward, peering over the edge.

Standing on the lawn beside the front walkway was a lanky man in a baseball cap and mirrored glasses. He had on tight black jeans and a light blue button-down shirt with the tail hanging out. Coils of smoky gray hair showed at the edges of the hat. His flesh was a chalky brown, the shade of cinnamon latte with a splash of extra cream. He was in his late forties, maybe older.

“Can I help you?” Thorn said.

“I'm trying to locate a Mr. Lawton Collins.”

“Lawton's not here.”

“Might you know where I could find him?”

Thorn had been steeling himself for a heavy dose of the brusque manner he'd come to know from the Miami hordes who invaded the Keys each weekend, bringing with them the buzz and tension of the city. It seemed that this town was brimming with impatient, overbearing folks who were used to brushing past the likes of Thorn.

So he was thrown off by the man standing in the yard below. His down-home drawl and the languor of his movements had echoes of the Deep South, as though he might be a throwback, one of those mannerly crackers who long ago populated the region, hacked away the dense native tangle and made South Florida habitable for the lesser mortals who would soon swarm its landscape.

“What do you want him for?”

The man gave the question thorough consideration, all the while looking up at Thorn with an impassive smile.

“And who would I be speaking with?”

“Friend of the family,” Thorn said. “And who are you?”

Thorn heard another man's voice come from below. He didn't catch the words, but the tone was abrasive—more like the city voice he'd been bracing for. Apparently the second man was pressed against the front of the house.

Acknowledging his partner's words with a slight nod, the man in the mirrored glasses kept his face tilted up toward Thorn.

“This gentleman, Lawton Collins, he is in possession of an item belonging to me. I've come to have it back.”

“As I said, he's not here right now. Won't be home all day.”

The second man's coarse voice sounded again, but this time the curly-haired man ignored his comrade, staring up at Thorn with a steady concentration as if Thorn had finally merited his full attention.

While the man himself was not openly threatening, the situation tripped a switch. The hidden partner, the studiously indifferent manner. Thorn felt the last vapors of his early-morning mellowness dwindle, his mood hardening into annoyance. He had promised Sugarman and Alex he would behave, and he'd prepped himself with calming thoughts, but all that flew away as the man in the yard and his hidden pal worked their game.

The bony man removed his sunglasses and looked down as he cleaned the lenses with his shirttail.

With no conscious thought, Thorn's finger crushed the Makita's trigger and the screw bit whirred. If the man in the yard heard, he showed no sign, just continued to clean his shades.

A few seconds later he tipped his head up in slow stages and finally allowed Thorn a clear look at his eyes—doing it with such dramatic emphasis, it seemed likely he'd used this tactic before to unnerve an adversary. His eyes were an unnatural blue with the silvery glint of one of those expensive martinis made with a dash of Curaçao.

As the man replaced the mirrored glasses, Thorn caught the second man's shadow moving toward the front porch.

Thorn took a step to his right, coming a foot closer to the ladder. It was a twenty-foot leap to the ground. Good chance he'd sprain an ankle or blow out a knee if he tried it. No tree limbs near the house, and no Tarzan vines to swing down on. If he was going to get back to earth without risking serious damage, the ladder was the only way.

“Tell your friend to step out where I can see him.”

The man produced his smile again, showing teeth but no amusement.

“Up there on the roof, you're not exactly in a position to give orders.”

Hearing the cold authority in the man's voice decided it for Thorn. To hell with good-conduct medals. He skipped sideways to the ladder, got a hand on it, and was turning backward to start down when the man muscled it from Thorn's grip. The ladder tipped to the right and fell, clanging onto the cement walkway.

“Now take a deep breath, count to ten,” the man said. “We'll be finished shortly and scoot along. This is no affair of yours.”

Thorn backed away from the edge of the roof.

Across the street at Bingham's house an old Buick had pulled into the driveway and a dark-skinned woman in jeans and T-shirt got out. She opened the trunk and pulled out a sponge mop and a bucket full of cleaning supplies. She glanced at Bingham's car, then went to the front door and flipped up the lid of the mailbox and felt around inside.

But she found nothing, so she rang the bell, then used the clapper. After waiting a few seconds more, she marched back to her car, stowed her gear, and drove away.

The smoky-haired man missed the action across the way because he was focused on the front porch, where his accomplice's shadow was emerging.

“Got it,” the invisible man said.

Thorn waited till the top of the man's head appeared, waited a moment more until he came down off the porch and stepped onto the lush lawn, then dropped feet first onto the shorter man's back.