Strip Tease by Carl Hiaasen Page B

said, and pushed the empty wheelchair back to his van, where he waited. On visitation days, he never let Erin and Angela out of his sight. Given an opportunity, Erin surely would try to run away with the girl. Darrell knew it for a fact.
    Erin held her daughter’s hand and they began to walk.
    “How are you, baby?”
    “Just OK.”
    “Are you making new friends?”
    “I spent Friday at Aunt Rita’s. She’s got a real wolf!”
    Terrific, thought Erin. Crazy Rita and her cuddly carnivores. “Stay away from the wolf, Angela. They can be mean sometimes.”
    “She said I can have one of the babies, Momma.”
    “No, we’ll get you a real puppy—”
    “But Daddy said no. He said maybe a bird.”
    “A bird?” Erin said. Just what every four-year-old wants.
    “A talking one,” Angie said. “Like Big Bird, only littler.”
    “Would you like that?”
    “He said we can call it Humpy. Is that a good name?”
    “No,” said Erin. “Not really.”
    They walked the perimeter of the park. Darrell Grant followed slowly in his van. Erin fixed a picnic under the trees. She and Angela ate peanut butter sandwiches and sang songs from “The Electric Company.” A gray squirrel appeared and they fed it Cheese Doodles.
    At ten minutes to three, Darrell began honking the horn. When Erin didn’t react, he leaned on it annoyingly. The blare drowned the gentle sounds of the park. The Canadians stopped playing tennis and began cursing at Darrell Grant in French.
    “For God’s sake,” said Erin.
    “Is Daddy making that noise?”
    “I’m afraid so.” Erin gave her daughter a hug and a kiss. She smelled Darrell’s goddamn cigarettes in the girl’s hair.
    “Momma, I forgot to tell you.”
    “What, honey?”
    “I lost all my dolls.”
    “I’m so sorry.”
    “When we moved. Daddy said he couldn’t find them.”
    “I’ll get you some new ones,” Erin promised. She would never reveal to Angela what her father had done. Such a thing could not be explained.
    “I love you, Angie.”
    “Love you, too, Momma. Can I tell Daddy about the new dolls?”
    “Let’s keep it a surprise.”

    From Agent Cleary, Erin had learned the following basic information about Jerry Killian: he was five-foot-nine, 140 pounds, 48 years old and divorced. He worked as a videotape editor at the local CBS affiliate. He was a registered Democrat. He drove a 1988 Chevrolet Caprice. He purchased his eyeglasses from a discount optician. He subscribed to Newsweek, Harper’s, The New Yorker, Rolling Stone, Consumer Reports and Hustler. His ex-wife recently opened a macramé shop in a suburb of Atlanta, and he co-signed the loan. They had two daughters at Georgia State University. He owned season tickets to the Miami Dolphins. He rented every movie that Debra Winger ever made. He carried a $3,000 credit limit on his Visa card. In the fall he went trout fishing in western Montana, and always rented a compact car. In his entire life he had never been arrested for anything.
    And he lived in Apartment 317 at 4566 Green Duck Parkway, Fort Lauderdale, Florida.
    Erin phoned ahead. Killian was flabbergasted to hear her voice. He put on a coat and a tie to meet her at the door.
    “In my purse,” said Erin, “is a loaded gun.”
    “So be it.”
    “I’m here on business only.”
    “Understood,” Killian said.
    She had expected his apartment to be tidy, and it was. The place smelled of Lemon Pledge. They sat in opposing chairs at an oval-shaped dining table.
    “I just wanted to thank you,” she said. “That music you suggested is great for stage dancing.”
    Killian glowed. “You tried it? I’m so pleased.”
    “You should come by the club to see. I told Shad it’s fine if you do.”
    “Really?” He looked wistful. “Maybe later down the road.”
    “Why later? Why not now?”
    “The deal is cooking. Part of the agreement is for me to steer clear of the Eager Beaver.” Killian paused. “It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I miss you so