The Heat Islands: A Doc Ford Novel (20 page)

Why he had tried to nail Jeth for the murder was anybody's guess. Maybe to get the whole thing settled quickly; draw attention away from why someone like Rios would be out on Pine Island Sound in a storm the night before his own tarpon tournament. Or maybe Sutter had done it out of a natural meanness; saw a chance to hurt a better fishing guide and took it.

There were only two things Sutter had overlooked, and one of those was the length of Primacord, a piece of which Ford had snipped off and brought back to his lab, just to make sure.

From his days at the Naval Special Warfare Center in Coronado, Ford remembered: "Primacord—rate of detonation, 27,000 feet per second. Wire bound for molding and perfectly waterproof. Can be primed electrically, or by using a dual waterproof fire assembly. For underwater work, store the M60 fuse igniter in a knotted condom until needed."

He also remembered: "It's so easy, any fool can figure it out. So never let your issue get out of your hands."

Well, two fools had used it. And for the first time. Ford knew exactly how Marvin Rios had died. And he hadn't died in an explosion. The trouble was, no grand jury would entertain the evidence, and, if it did, certainly no judge would accept it.

The other thing Sutter had overlooked was that a friend of Jeth Nicholes might get to the boat before the law did.

Ford removed the slide from the microscope, placed it with the litmus paper, then turned his attention to the tiny tarpon scale. In his big fingers, the scale was translucent, silver, as delicate as a snowflake and just as beautiful to consider.

By telephone. Ford had contacted Roy Fuller's office. Fuller wasn't in—as usual—so Ford had left a message for Fuller to meet him at the marina as soon as possible. When Fuller arrived, he would help him find the broken rental boat and present him with some of the information—but not all of it. Just enough to put Jeth in the clear and let Fuller figure the rest out from there. That attorney, too, Elizabeth Harper. She hadn't called and probably never would.

"Can you think of any reason why Mr. Nicholes would be abnormally concerned with the amount of time that passed between someone being sentenced to die in the electric chair and actually having the sentence carried out?"

Let her answer her own questions.

He remembered Fuller standing on the dock by Jeth's boat, saying, "This may come as a surprise to you, Dr. Ford, but I get along just fine working on my own."

Well, let Fuller work on his own. Then see how Karl Sutter dealt with the full weight of the law-enforcement bureaucracy when it came down on him.

And it would. Ford had made sure of that.

Early Wednesday afternoon, Karl Sutter was sitting in the big white Lincoln, the air conditioner on full blast because of the damn Florida heat, getting ready to snake his way up the logging trail to the shell road that led to the highway where there was a small sign that read:

MAYAKKATEE RIVER DEVELOPMENT DANGER BLASTING AREA ABSOLUTELY NO TRESPASSING

The gate was open because the dredging crew was working. Not that Sutter had seen them, no. They hadn't seen him either; he'd been careful about that. But he could hear the diesel grumble of the dragline through the trees, a couple of miles down the shell construction road that forked like a wagon wheel when it got to the Mayakkatee River, then dead-ended at the bay.

A few dump trucks had gone by, but there was no way the drivers could have seen him or his car, parked way down the logging trail as he was.

Once a truck had gone by, and Greta had screamed like a madwoman, begging for the driver to come help her.

That was a laugh. Like the driver could hear her over the sound of that big Mack truck engine. Well, bitches were all so damn dumb.

Just like Mom. That's Just the way she sounded. Just like Mom.

Sitting with his huge hands on the wheel of the Lincoln, Sutter had a brief mental flash: Greta, naked, bent over with both hands on the trunk of a tree and looking back as he stood over her, her blond hair matted with leaves and twigs and stuff because he'd made her strip, then smacked her around a little. That wasn't part of the plan, but, Christ, just looking at her made him want to.

God, the way she could whine....

"This is just a joke, right, Karl baby? You don't need a gun, for God's sake. You want to play, let's play."

Finding it hard to talk with her jaw gone puffy from the beating; her whole body trembling and tears dripping down the piggy face that never tanned, acting like she didn't like it, didn't like being bent over against a tree with him behind her.

Well, they all liked it, no matter what they said. No matter how much they screamed and scratched, they liked it just fine. Christ, they begged for it, the way they dressed, the way they acted, then when you try to give it to them, they put on the big act. Especially the pretty ones, the ones with the money and the pretty hair. They'd give him that look, right down their noses, shitting all over him. Like the college girls he tried to talk to when he got out of Denver Psychiatric. Stuck there in the juvenile wing because he was only seventeen and the hotshot quacks didn't know quite what to make of him, the way he handled it after the cops came and found his mom electrocuted in the bathtub.

"Do you have some relatives we should contact, son?"

"About two or three hundred uncles. You won't have any trouble finding them."

"What?"

"Just check the VD wards. That bitch ruined more circumcisions than Hitler."

The cops hadn't dug that at all. And they didn't dig what they found when they starting piecing his school record together, making phone calls to other towns, other states. Which was his first lesson in the value of a healthy change in identification. A thing that was very easy to do. You just watch the obituaries, pick out a name, then apply for a duplicate Social Security card. After that, getting a driver's license and the rest was easy, as long as you moved to a new state. Which is what he had done after that college bitch gave him that look, and he'd bashed her in the face and dragged her into the car and gave her just what she was asking for, though she pretended like she didn't want it.

Well, they all wanted it. Like his mom, and he'd given it to her, too.

"... ruined more circumcisions than Hitler."

Christ, that was a good one. One of the cops had even laughed a little bit. And he was only seventeen.

"You scored very high on the intelligence tests, Colin. You can do whatever you want with your life. It's just a matter of applying yourself."

His counselor at Denver Psychiatric had told him that. Colin ...

Cohn Kane, which was the name he was born with, but there was no telling if that was right, cither, the way his mother had moved around and changed names, the bitch. Well, he'd been through a lot of names himself. He'd been Keith Raybourne in L.A., and Kenny Mikovich in Seattle and Gainesville, then he'd gone back to Colorado and become Karl Sutter, which is where he'd met Marvin's sister, Judy, in Aspen, sitting in the Hotel Jerome, drinking Rusty Nails and chain-smoking, looking to get picked up.

Karl Sutter was easy; he liked it. It was best to pick out a name that sounded a little bit like your own, which is something he discovered when he took his first new name, Abe something. Christ, it was hard to even remember now, it'd been so long. The name of some old Jew he'd taken from the
Times
when he was living on the streets of Sunset Strip. The others would have to say "Hey, Abe!" about a dozen times before he realized who they were talking to, laughing at him like he was deaf, the bastards. So he got rid of that name, first chance he had, and after that he waited until he found one that fit easy.

Karl Sutter was a good one, maybe the best one so far. But, if things didn't work out here, he could always move on and find a new one. It wasn't that he liked moving around and picking out new names. It wasn't that he wanted the pretty women with nice hair to fight him. If they wanted to shit on him, that was their problem. He just gave them back exactly what they deserved. And he'd done it too many times to remember now.

Sitting at the wheel of the Lincoln, with the air conditioner blasting, Sutter made himself go over his little mental checklist once more. Had he worn gloves the whole time? Yes, he'd worn gloves. And he'd pulled a big green Hefty trash bag over his head like a poncho before he shot her; shot her in the back of the head, right at the base of the skull. He'd worn the poncho just in case blood splattered, but it didn't, not much, anyway, so maybe she was already dead. Then he'd put Greta in another Hefty bag with the poncho and her clothes, wrapped it all tight, and rolled it into the hole he had dug. He'd covered the hole with dirt and palmetto fronds, then wrapped the shovel in another garbage bag and slowed it in the trunk. The cops could match soil samples—Sutter knew that—so he'd have to clean the shovel, and he didn't want any dirt samples in the car. He'd also have to dump her purse and her luggage someplace safe. And store the 9 mm Taurus on the boat, just in case he had to sink it quick.

You have to go through so much bullshit for something like this. Why can't people just mind their own goddamn business!

Sutter put the car in gear and pulled ahead until he reached the section of logging trail where there was no sand, just mulch and twigs. He got out of the car and used a pine branch to sweep away his tire tracks—the cops could match tread marks, too—then drove on toward where the logging trail intersected with the shell road. He waited for a moment to make sure no dump trucks were coming ... began to edge forward ... then stomped the brake hard and ducked down.

Shit!

An old blue pickup truck was coming, bouncing along, going fast. Sutter waited, then peeked one eye over the dash. The truck was already past, but he could see it plainly through the trees. An old Chevy that had been restored with nice new paint. And carrying a man and a woman.

Son of a bitch!

He recognized the truck. An old truck like that stood out. He'd seen the goddamn thing at Dinkin's Bay Marina on Sanibel. What in the hell was someone from Dinkin's Bay doing up here? Who in the hell could have made the connection so quickly?

Sutter's heart was pounding, that trapped feeling all over again, and he knew it might be time to go looking for a new state and a new name; just have to go off and leave that beautiful deal with the senator and all that money and security, screwed by life one more time.

He pulled out onto the shell road and sped toward the main highway. Sutter was thinking.
Ford...

Detective Roy Fuller came strolling up the boardwalk to Ford's cottage, his huge shoulders cramped beneath the same brown blazer he had worn the day he'd come to interview Jeth. Standing at the screen door. Ford said, "So you really do go to the office and check your messages. I was beginning to wonder."

Fuller was smiling, but not friendly—an official smile, as if he didn't appreciate having to get out of his unmarked car into this heat. Ford held the door open, but Fuller stopped on the porch, hands in pockets so that Ford could see the little revolver clipped to the waistband of his pants. Fuller said, "I got the one about Karl Sutter's Social Security number, which I've checked out. Then the one about coming out here right away because it was important. Which better be good, me spending so damn much time in traffic. I'm telling you."

"Come in, get some tea."

"If it's so important. I doubt I'll have time." Still smiling, Fuller was letting Ford know just exactly who was in control.

"You checked out Sutter?"

"Like your message said, the Social Security number and name belong to a guy who died in Colorado. I'd ask how you happened to find that out, but Major Durell told me not to bother."

"Les Durell. I knew him before he was a cop. Back in high school. Nice guy."

"About you. he says you're an ex-fed weirdo. Or was it spook?" Fuller had moved a little, so that he was standing in the shade of the porch roof.

"Well. Les always had an opinion on things. But that cuts me to the quick."

"Actually, he said eccentric. Same difference. But the ex-fed part's right, huh?" Looking at him, not expecting Ford to answer.

Ford didn't. He said, "So do you still consider Sutter a reliable eyewitness?"

Fuller gave him about a four-count I-don't-believe-this-shit stare. "Who the hell you been talking to?"

"Like my buddy Les said, don't bother asking. Did Sutter give a deposition, or was it just a hot telephone tip?"

"We're going to have a chat with Mr. Sutter, don't you worry your head about that. But not until we get answers to the rest of our inquiries. And I hope to hell you didn't make me come clear out to the islands just to ask me that." Ford said, "Do you have time to take a boat ride?"

"Hell no, I don't have time."

"I think I know where Rios's boat is. The boat he was in the night he was murdered."

"You think so, huh?"

"Yep."

"But you haven't seen it yourself?"

Ford said easily. "I was waiting on you. If it's a crime scene, you should see it first, right? The person who found it said it was a rental boat from Two Parrot Bight, hidden back in the mangroves. Spotted it when he was out looking for shells." None of it a lie.

"Who found it?"

"Someone who knows what the Parrot Bight rental boats look like."

"But there were no rental boats missing the day Rios was found. I checked with the—" Fuller hesitated for a moment, and Ford finished for him: "You checked with the acting manager, who was Karl Sutter."

Fuller said. "Shit. I talked to the guy on the phone, so, yeah, maybe it was Sutter."

"It was Sutter."

Fuller looked at his watch. "Can you go right now?"

"Don't you want a crime-scene team to join us?"

The detective's jowly face described irritation. "How about I see the boat first, then decide if I need a scene team? That okay with you?"

"Sorry. Didn't mean to be pushy. I have a date to go fishing late this afternoon. Just trying to save time."

"You know where the boat is?"

"Not exactly, but I think we can find it. We'll have to get out and wade around. Do you want to borrow some boots?"

Fuller looked at his shoes, worn maroon wingtips. "I can't go barefoot?"

"I wouldn't. Oysters will cut the hell out of your feet."

"I thought you said you hadn't seen the boat. How do you know they're oysters out there?"

Ford let the screen door close and said through the screen, "God, you're suspicious, Fuller. All mangroves have oysters on their roots. Everywhere. I probably should let you go just the way you are. Ruin your whole outfit. Then you'd have to go back to Scars and spend another forty, fifty bucks."

"Major Durell said that about you, too. Don't expect any respect."

"And you better put on a pair of my shorts. Save those pants. Polyester probably doesn't last any longer than your average Hostess Twinkie. Couple decades, and you've got to go right out and buy them again."

Fuller opened the screen door and stepped into the house, squinting to see Ford. "Like you're some kind of damn fashion expert."

Ford considered his own dress absently, as if he hadn't even noticed what he'd put on that morning—which he hadn't. Khaki fishing shorts, a gray long-sleeved cotton shirt to keep the sun off, and white rubber boots but no socks.

"Jeez," he said. "You're right." He held out shorts and his spare pair of boots to Fuller.

"We both look like hell." Fuller said. "That's more like it."

Dewey Nye was groaning, saying, "You're killing me, for God's sake. My hamstrings are about to tear!"

"Complain, complain, complain. That's all you do!"

"Just don't push any more. I feel like a wishbone."

"A wishbone? What is a wishbone?"

"God. don't they teach you people anything in Romania?
Not so hard."

Dewey sat on the wooden deck of the Punta Rassa Tennis Club's steam room, legs spread wide, nose almost touching the towels beneath her. while Walda Bzantovski leaned her weight onto Dewey's shoulders, helping her stretch. They both wore nylon Speedo swimsuits, soaked by sweat and the steam cloud gathered at the tile ceiling of the little room. They had been in the room for less than five minutes—the final station in Bets's elaborate prepractice stretching routine.

"Have you ever known me to have a muscle injury?" Bets liked to preach. "No. Never one. Never one muscle pull or torn tendon. It is because I stretch for an hour before each practice. I go into a sauna or steam room, no matter where I am, and stretch. Every day of my life. But you, you always have the injuries. So now I put you on my program."