like Mr. Cool palming a cash roll. Snapped it open like hotshots used to do with Zippos.”
She’d spent time with American Movie Classics.
“Sometimes he carries it in his holster,” I said.
“Anyway, he said, ‘Oh, fuck,’ four times, snapped his phone shut, slammed his hand against his car roof—I mean, hard enough to warp it—and he drove away. Marnie made a call to the city. What that deputy just said about heavy cases? The sheriff claimed jurisdiction on the Boudreau investigation.”
Zack Cahill’s problems had ratcheted ten notches higher.
Teresa stared through the windshield, waited for the light near the Key West Yacht Club. She began to talk in a tone she hadn’t used when discussing police business. On the day she graduated from high school in Red Bank, New Jersey, her mother, Estelle Barga, had flown from Newark to Vegas to obtain a divorce from her natural father. Then Estelle had gone directly to Key West to indulge herself in sunshine and rum and Coca-Cola. She’d met Paulie Cottrell on the airplane down from Miami. Four months later, during a hurricane alert on a Saturday morning, Estelle and Paulie were married on the Casa Marina Beach.
“So you came for the wedding?”
“And I visited Mother four or five times after the wedding. I flew down for short trips. Then I applied to get on with the police department.”
She knew the town had a “fascinating history.” She had heard stories from Paulie Cottrell and his political friends with the weird nicknames. Names like Coochie and Little Dick and Water Pickle.
“So now you’ll be part of the town’s history.”
She winced, not sure whether to be happy about the idea.
The morning storm had blown over. Monotone clouds remained. Broken sidewalks, weathered buildings and cars,
chipped and faded business signs, rusted trash cans, all normally forgiven their tawdry appearance and called “funky” in bright sunlight under a cyan sky, were simply ugly in the blue-gray light. I fought to keep the weather from slam-dunking my frame of mind. I wanted my lunch date to go well.
I also wanted to sit in the open at B.O.’s Fish Wagon. If the sun came out, it might replenish my energy. Teresa argued it was too hot to eat outside in the first place. I offered to go to another restaurant, but she selected a table in the shade. My seat gave me a clear view of the Taurus parked next to the Red Doors Inn. I’d left the prints and negatives under the front seat and wanted to be sure they didn’t vanish. We shared a plastic-sleeved menu, picked at our damp clothing, played bump-knee, and ordered mahi-mahi sandwiches, aka dolphin. Restaurant owners, years ago, opted for the fish’s Hawaiian name so customers would think the dish more exotic and not accuse chefs of serving Flipper fillets. A Rolling Stones song on an invisible stereo lauded emotional rescue. Rock and roll again provided an accurate sound track for my life.
Teresa studied my face. “You’ve got the worry wrinkles of a hundred-and-fifty-year-old man. This lady you met last night almost took a bullet through her face. I hope her luck didn’t rub off on you.”
I couldn’t imagine how to explain Abby. “Nothing of hers rubbed off on me,” I said. “But there’s another problem.”
“I heard. A fingerprint on a murder weapon?”
“His worst previous offense was over-celebrating a Chicago Cubs doubleheader sweep. He wore a team ball cap to the arraignment hearing. The judge dismissed the charges.”
“When’s the last time a case got solved by one perfect print?”
“I have no idea.”
Teresa regarded me as the dumbest frog in the pond. “First off, they’re rarely perfect. But this print is too thin. It reeks of third-generation imagery. A copy of a copy of an actual print.”
“A setup.”
“Or a complicated cover to indicate a setup.”
“He’s not a murderer.”
She eased off. “I’m sure you’re right. I was extrapolating out to the worst possible case.
She’d spent time with American Movie Classics.
“Sometimes he carries it in his holster,” I said.
“Anyway, he said, ‘Oh, fuck,’ four times, snapped his phone shut, slammed his hand against his car roof—I mean, hard enough to warp it—and he drove away. Marnie made a call to the city. What that deputy just said about heavy cases? The sheriff claimed jurisdiction on the Boudreau investigation.”
Zack Cahill’s problems had ratcheted ten notches higher.
Teresa stared through the windshield, waited for the light near the Key West Yacht Club. She began to talk in a tone she hadn’t used when discussing police business. On the day she graduated from high school in Red Bank, New Jersey, her mother, Estelle Barga, had flown from Newark to Vegas to obtain a divorce from her natural father. Then Estelle had gone directly to Key West to indulge herself in sunshine and rum and Coca-Cola. She’d met Paulie Cottrell on the airplane down from Miami. Four months later, during a hurricane alert on a Saturday morning, Estelle and Paulie were married on the Casa Marina Beach.
“So you came for the wedding?”
“And I visited Mother four or five times after the wedding. I flew down for short trips. Then I applied to get on with the police department.”
She knew the town had a “fascinating history.” She had heard stories from Paulie Cottrell and his political friends with the weird nicknames. Names like Coochie and Little Dick and Water Pickle.
“So now you’ll be part of the town’s history.”
She winced, not sure whether to be happy about the idea.
The morning storm had blown over. Monotone clouds remained. Broken sidewalks, weathered buildings and cars,
chipped and faded business signs, rusted trash cans, all normally forgiven their tawdry appearance and called “funky” in bright sunlight under a cyan sky, were simply ugly in the blue-gray light. I fought to keep the weather from slam-dunking my frame of mind. I wanted my lunch date to go well.
I also wanted to sit in the open at B.O.’s Fish Wagon. If the sun came out, it might replenish my energy. Teresa argued it was too hot to eat outside in the first place. I offered to go to another restaurant, but she selected a table in the shade. My seat gave me a clear view of the Taurus parked next to the Red Doors Inn. I’d left the prints and negatives under the front seat and wanted to be sure they didn’t vanish. We shared a plastic-sleeved menu, picked at our damp clothing, played bump-knee, and ordered mahi-mahi sandwiches, aka dolphin. Restaurant owners, years ago, opted for the fish’s Hawaiian name so customers would think the dish more exotic and not accuse chefs of serving Flipper fillets. A Rolling Stones song on an invisible stereo lauded emotional rescue. Rock and roll again provided an accurate sound track for my life.
Teresa studied my face. “You’ve got the worry wrinkles of a hundred-and-fifty-year-old man. This lady you met last night almost took a bullet through her face. I hope her luck didn’t rub off on you.”
I couldn’t imagine how to explain Abby. “Nothing of hers rubbed off on me,” I said. “But there’s another problem.”
“I heard. A fingerprint on a murder weapon?”
“His worst previous offense was over-celebrating a Chicago Cubs doubleheader sweep. He wore a team ball cap to the arraignment hearing. The judge dismissed the charges.”
“When’s the last time a case got solved by one perfect print?”
“I have no idea.”
Teresa regarded me as the dumbest frog in the pond. “First off, they’re rarely perfect. But this print is too thin. It reeks of third-generation imagery. A copy of a copy of an actual print.”
“A setup.”
“Or a complicated cover to indicate a setup.”
“He’s not a murderer.”
She eased off. “I’m sure you’re right. I was extrapolating out to the worst possible case.
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