Suspicion of Madness (27 page)

"Tom never hit you, did he?"

"No! Tom has been nothing but a gentleman. Arnel is selfish, selfish, selfish. Always whining, demanding, trying to make me feel guilty. 'Don't leave me, Miss Sinclair. Please.' It makes me sick."

"This sounds very strange. Joan, is he... all right? Mentally?"

"Why wouldn't he be?" Joan replied.

The rain had begun to fall faster, drumming on the roof.

Gail asked, "Is it true that he saw a man killed in some farm machinery when he was a boy?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Douglas told us that Arnel saw a man ripped apart by a... what was it? A grain auger, and that's why he stutters. Is it true?"

Smoke drifted toward the door. Joan said, "Yes, it's true. His uncle. He deserved it." Rain dripped inside the car, and Joan slammed her door shut. "I don't want to talk about Arnel."

The opposite door opened and Billy slid across the seat. He ran his fingers through his hair, lifting it straight up again. Anthony wrestled his umbrella inside. The shoulders of his jacket were dark with rain. He turned around and looked at Joan's cigarette. She opened the door long enough to throw it out but offered no apologies.

Anthony glanced at Gail, who had allowed this travesty, then started the engine.

By the time they reached the far end of Upper Matecumbe Key, the wind was still blowing in gusts, but the rain had let up. Anthony parked under the long awning that belonged to The Buttonwood Inn. There were not as many vehicles as three hours ago; the staff was being shuttled off the island. The van was there, and the Jeep that Martin had taken to Key Largo to have his heart checked, a Mercedes with a vanity plate that said TERESA
-
G, and two other sedans. Consent or not, the police would soon have their forensics people crawling all over them with their tweezers, magnifying glasses, and vacuum cleaners, looking for traces of Sandra McCoy's DNA.

Anthony locked his car and they walked to the dock, where Billy had tied Martin's Sea Ray. With no extra hands to spare at the resort, Billy had brought them over. The plastic rain panels were in place to keep the seats dry. Billy jumped aboard to help Joan cross the gunwale in her high heels. She vanished below. On the ride to Islamorada she had stayed in the cabin to keep her hair from getting mussed.

When Billy extended his hand to Gail she said, "Just a second," and dragged Anthony away to speak to him.

"Let's go see if the guy at the video store is there. We should talk to him."

He shook his head. "I'll send my investigators on Monday."

"Don't you want a statement before he changes his mind?"

"Gail, a lawyer does not question a potential state witness. You know that. What if he says something to incriminate Billy? We could be forced to testify against our own client."

"How likely is that?"
 

Anthony stared at her. "It isn't proper."
 

"Fine. I quit. I'm no longer your associate. You wait outside, and I'll ask the questions."

"The boat is leaving. How do we get back to the resort?"
 

"I don't know, we'll... we'll call for the shuttle. Arnel can pick us up. Or Tom Holtz can take us."
 

Anthony lifted his eyes.
 

"We have to," she said.
 

He told Billy to go ahead without them.

15

There was so little space in Movie Max Video that two people could not pass each other in the aisles without turning sideways. To brush against the sagging shelves was to risk a cascade of videos and DVD boxes onto the dusty, chewing-gum-speckled carpet. Handwritten signs marked the various sections: the sparse collection of recent releases, long shelves of foreign and independent films, and a great quantity of out-of-date Hollywood movies that could be rented for a dollar-fifty each. Time-faded posters were taped to the walls, and a video game blinked silently in a far corner.

Beyond confirming that his name was Chip, the night manager exhibited a remarkable lack of recall. He said he remembered nothing about Sandra McCoy's visit to the store on the night of her murder. Chip was not impressed by the fact that the two lawyers standing on the other side of the counter were working for a young friend of his.

"Was Billy Fadden here that night too? I can't recall." Perched on his cushioned stool, Chip concentrated on entering returned videos into the computer.

Anthony Quintana had seen witnesses like this, the kind who would venture across the line into petty criminal activities just far enough to make ends meet. They stayed off the police radar screen. This man was in his late twenties with sun-bleached hair, a faded Hawaiian shirt, and a boating tan. Nothing about him would warrant a second glance.

Two teenagers came in, jangling the brass temple bells over the door. Anthony waited until they had walked past on their way to the video game before he said, "I want to know what time Billy Fadden left here. It's not a hard question. Billy hasn't given you up as his source—yet. You should want to keep it that way."

Chip's fingers paused over the keyboard before he finished his entry. "Billy didn't leave here for at least fifteen minutes after Sandra. She left at eight-fifteen, he left at eight-thirty, give or take."

"Did the police suggest to you that you were mistaken, and that Billy left earlier?"

"They suggested, but I told them he left when he left. It was obvious to me that he couldn't have killed her. Sandra was long gone by the time Billy took off." Chip glanced to the back of the store to see where his customers were. "The cops told me he confessed. Is that true?"

"They were playing with you."

That produced a short laugh. "Typical."

"Did you hear what he and Sandra talked about?"

"I don't remember anything specific. I told the detective there was no shouting, no threats. It was a friendly conversation. Billy didn't rush out of here to follow her."

"How well did you know Sandra?"

"I knew her to say hello to, that's about it. She didn't come in here often."

"Did you ever see her with a man?"

"Not that I recall... but she wasn't the kind of girl to be alone, if you know what I mean."

During this conversation Gail had been going through a box of old videos for sale. She looked over at Chip and gave him a little smile. "Do you happen to remember what movie Sandra rented that night?"

"I can check the records." Chip tapped on his keyboard. "McCoy, McCoy. Here it is.
Bride of Nosferatu
with Joan Sinclair. She asked for it by name."

"Why that particular video?"

"Who knows? Oh, I do recall one thing she said—that it was probably the last video she'd be renting from us."

"The last video?"

"She was moving to Miami Beach and buying an apartment right on the water. So she said." Chip shrugged.

"Buying
an apartment?" Anthony asked. "Or renting?"

"Buying. As in... purchasing?"

"Did she say where she was going to get the money?"

"No, and I didn't ask." The bells over the door jangled again when the teenagers went out. "In the Keys, people mind their own business. That's one of the benefits of living here."

Gail asked, "Do you have that same video in the store now?"

"I believe we do. The police found it in the parking lot and gave it back." Chip came around the counter and walked to the section marked
HORROR. A small plastic skeleton and a bat dangled from the sign. Chip studied the densely packed shelves for a few seconds before locating
Bride of Nosferatu
and handing it to Gail. On the box a young Joan Sinclair gazed hungrily at the viewer. Gail turned the box over and read the other side as though she expected to find something she had missed before.

Chip said, "If you give me your credit card information, you can rent it."

She smiled and gave it back to him. "No, thanks. We have this one."

It was almost six o'clock, and heavy clouds lumbered northward. A beam of sunlight broke through with such force that Anthony had to pull down the visor. Reaching into his pocket for his cell phone, he told Gail to call Arnel Goode to come pick them up at the marina. "You'll find his number in the directory."

Anthony let his head fall back on the head rest. Had it been only two days since they had arrived here? Not even two days, and he was exhausted. Why? Lack of sleep? More likely the lack of progress. It didn't bother him particularly that Billy Fadden's alibi witness had lied, or that Billy had lied, or that the video store clerk's statement couldn't be trusted either. Such things happened too frequently to be surprising. What irritated him was the looming certainty of an arrest, and his own inability to prevent it. Jack Baylor would scratch around until he found some combination of facts that he could take to the state attorney for a first-degree murder indictment. Billy had confessed; they would start there and work backward, discarding the facts that didn't fit the conclusion.

Tonight the Greenwalds expected them for dinner at The Buttonwood Inn. Anthony had hoped to have some good news. Instead, they would all sit there and discuss the weather.

Gail said, "I left him a message to call us back."

"What?"

"Arnel didn't answer, so I left a message. Want me to call Martin?"

"No, I don't want to bother Martin." Anthony turned into the Blue Water Marina and brought his car to a stop under the Buttonwood awning.
"Carajo."

"Call Billy, then," she said.

"I've seen enough of Billy Fadden."

"How about Lois?"

"Forget it. Come on, I'll pay someone at the marina to take us." He opened his door.

"Wait. What about Tom Holtz? If he's having dinner with Joan at the hotel tonight, he can take us. We can ask him about Sandra McCoy." Gail's blue eyes were alight with an enthusiasm that Anthony found incomprehensible.

He said, "Ask him what?"

"Where Sandra got the money to buy a place on South Beach. She must have said
something
to him, don't you think?"

"Gail, I can't bring it up in your presence. He doesn't know I told you about his relationship with Sandra. It would embarrass him."

"I see. Well... call him anyway. We need a ride."

"It's only six o'clock. Tom wouldn't be going to dinner this early."

"For God's sake. What's his number?"

"Give me the phone, I'll do it," Anthony said.

There was no answer at Holtz's office. Anthony got his home number from information, and Holtz picked up on the second ring. He said it would be no trouble to come by the marina, which was on the way from his house on the bay side of Lower Matecumbe. "I'll be there as soon as I can," he said. "Go have a drink."

Anthony would have been content to tilt the seat back and close his eyes until Holtz appeared at the dock, but Gail said she was cold and wanted some tea. Through a crack in the clouds, the setting sun put an orange glow on the windows of the restaurant. The weather had kept the boaters at home, so the place was nearly empty. The booths were of knotty pine, and a net in the ceiling had caught all manner of glass floats, life preservers, plastic lobsters, and assorted nautical junk. Behind the bar was an immense, bubbling aquarium with reef fish as bright as neon. They found a booth overlooking the water and were able to see the rain-misted spot of land called Lindeman Key.

When the waitress came to the table, Gail ordered a basket of fried shrimp.

Anthony objected. "We're going to have dinner at the hotel."

"Oh! That means you don't want any of my shrimp. I get to have them all to myself." She asked the waitress to bring some hush puppies too. "I'm starving."

"Just coffee for me," Anthony said, and handed the waitress his menu. Slumping against the corner of the booth, he squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his forehead.

"Do you need some aspirin?"

"No."

"Eat something. You're such a grouch when you're hungry."

He said, "They're going to arrest Billy. No matter what I do, they will arrest him. There will be an arrest and a trial... and probably an acquittal. Yes, I think I could pull that off. I never tell my clients, of course, because you never know what a jury will do. But assume an acquittal. By then, Billy will have been in jail for six or eight months, if he hasn't hanged himself. No, no, that won't happen. He'll be on suicide watch."

Anthony felt Gail's slender fingers curl around his wrist.

"You're doing all you can," she said.

"He
confessed.
I could kick him from here to China. Even if he's acquitted, people will believe he's guilty. He'll have to move. Where should he go? Miami is a very forgiving city. He could live on South Beach, like Sandra wanted to do."

"Anthony—"

"Or he could stay on the island. Yes. He could become like Joan Sinclair, half-mad, a hermit, watching movies day and night. What gets me is that I
don't know,
I have not the least idea, if he is guilty. No idea. If you're a defense lawyer, most of your clients are guilty of something, maybe not what they were arrested for, but they aren't exactly innocent, and you can live with that. It's part of the job. But Billy Fadden... I don't know what to think about Billy."