sea-level landfill, junked cars, cast-off property, debris destroyed by storms, consigned to the hot sun and corrosive sea air, bulldozed aside to let nature do its work.
Nature would be wise to give up on the place. Civilization had done so.
I said, “Plenty of bicycle riders out here.”
Fennerty finally made sense: “Not a valid driver’s license in the fleet.” He pondered the rearview, then added, “Parts of Stock Island, all by themselves, they’re enough to make good officers not want to be cops.” He lowered his voice, inhaled for self-important emphasis. “Present company included.”
A large, industrial forklift rolled by, its empty forks two feet off the pavement. Its driver a fisherman or marina employee with a work shirt the color of sour-green mud. A white oval above the right pocket, a name embroidered on it. The man waved. For an instant he looked familiar, but his waving hand blocked my clear view of his face. He’d been the first person on Stock Island to show friendliness.
I thought again about the Taurus that had passed. I knew better than to trust my memory or concentration at that point in the day. But I could’ve sworn there was no license tag on the sedan.
5
The house smelled like Antonia’s and La Trattoria combined.
My tired eyes registered a refreshing, knee-length, pale-peach sundress, white sneakers, and a backward Air Mango ball cap. For two dozen weeks I’d been in a trance. She could light my fire just brushing her teeth.
Teresa had condiments and bowls and dishes on every flat surface in my kitchen. She stopped her constant motion and looked straight at me. “I don’t know why that detective acted so cuckoo. He was in his own world all afternoon. I didn’t get free for another hour and a half. I would’ve cooked at the condo, but you’ve got these spices . . .”
She was rambling. I said, “I just had to . . .”
She put down the spatula. Caught her breath. “I know. Carmen told me Liska called. I talked to the county switchboard . . .”
“Ugly. Like Stephen King is scripting my life.” “They’re all ugly,” she said. “But two in one day?” “Yep. How long has Dexter Hayes worked for the city? I haven’t seen him in fifteen years.”
She went back to the stove. “He started the week before Liska went to the county.”
I inspected more closely. Italian sausage in a skillet, a pot of ratatouille, boiling water, ready for fettuccine. Onthe counter, olive oil in a tin, a three-foot Cuban bread loaf, a saucer of crumbled goat cheese. Sauvignon Blanc in a pitcher of ice water.
“I thought I told you about this a couple months ago,” she said. “He was an undercover lieutenant up in Broward or Palm Beach County. He moved back down here. He and his wife bought a place in New Town. He’s got two kids at the Montessori school. His wife, Natalie, stays home. That’s about all I know. He gets along okay at the city. He sure was an asshole today.” She paused again, then said, “I wish we’d gone kayaking.”
Wiped out as I was, I still had the sense not to respond. I put my camera satchel on a chair, picked it up again, put it on the floor, then sat in the chair. ‘Tell me about Hayes.”
She put on her business face—facts only, no emotions—while she tended to her cooking project. “My view, he was right about a few things and wrong about others. He said the body had been dressed elsewhere, then placed at Butler’s construction site. He said there were clues to be found, but someone careful enough to outfit the victim like that wouldn’t be leaving fingerprints. He said photographs wouldn’t help much. He said old-fashioned detective work, like Sherlock Holmes, would break this case.”
“What was he wrong about?”
“His attitude.”
“Maybe it’s a nervous thing. Maybe he laughs when he’s frustrated.”
“We were leaving, on the Caroline sidewalk, a young girl, all hysterical, claimed to be the dead man’s fiancée.
Nature would be wise to give up on the place. Civilization had done so.
I said, “Plenty of bicycle riders out here.”
Fennerty finally made sense: “Not a valid driver’s license in the fleet.” He pondered the rearview, then added, “Parts of Stock Island, all by themselves, they’re enough to make good officers not want to be cops.” He lowered his voice, inhaled for self-important emphasis. “Present company included.”
A large, industrial forklift rolled by, its empty forks two feet off the pavement. Its driver a fisherman or marina employee with a work shirt the color of sour-green mud. A white oval above the right pocket, a name embroidered on it. The man waved. For an instant he looked familiar, but his waving hand blocked my clear view of his face. He’d been the first person on Stock Island to show friendliness.
I thought again about the Taurus that had passed. I knew better than to trust my memory or concentration at that point in the day. But I could’ve sworn there was no license tag on the sedan.
5
The house smelled like Antonia’s and La Trattoria combined.
My tired eyes registered a refreshing, knee-length, pale-peach sundress, white sneakers, and a backward Air Mango ball cap. For two dozen weeks I’d been in a trance. She could light my fire just brushing her teeth.
Teresa had condiments and bowls and dishes on every flat surface in my kitchen. She stopped her constant motion and looked straight at me. “I don’t know why that detective acted so cuckoo. He was in his own world all afternoon. I didn’t get free for another hour and a half. I would’ve cooked at the condo, but you’ve got these spices . . .”
She was rambling. I said, “I just had to . . .”
She put down the spatula. Caught her breath. “I know. Carmen told me Liska called. I talked to the county switchboard . . .”
“Ugly. Like Stephen King is scripting my life.” “They’re all ugly,” she said. “But two in one day?” “Yep. How long has Dexter Hayes worked for the city? I haven’t seen him in fifteen years.”
She went back to the stove. “He started the week before Liska went to the county.”
I inspected more closely. Italian sausage in a skillet, a pot of ratatouille, boiling water, ready for fettuccine. Onthe counter, olive oil in a tin, a three-foot Cuban bread loaf, a saucer of crumbled goat cheese. Sauvignon Blanc in a pitcher of ice water.
“I thought I told you about this a couple months ago,” she said. “He was an undercover lieutenant up in Broward or Palm Beach County. He moved back down here. He and his wife bought a place in New Town. He’s got two kids at the Montessori school. His wife, Natalie, stays home. That’s about all I know. He gets along okay at the city. He sure was an asshole today.” She paused again, then said, “I wish we’d gone kayaking.”
Wiped out as I was, I still had the sense not to respond. I put my camera satchel on a chair, picked it up again, put it on the floor, then sat in the chair. ‘Tell me about Hayes.”
She put on her business face—facts only, no emotions—while she tended to her cooking project. “My view, he was right about a few things and wrong about others. He said the body had been dressed elsewhere, then placed at Butler’s construction site. He said there were clues to be found, but someone careful enough to outfit the victim like that wouldn’t be leaving fingerprints. He said photographs wouldn’t help much. He said old-fashioned detective work, like Sherlock Holmes, would break this case.”
“What was he wrong about?”
“His attitude.”
“Maybe it’s a nervous thing. Maybe he laughs when he’s frustrated.”
“We were leaving, on the Caroline sidewalk, a young girl, all hysterical, claimed to be the dead man’s fiancée.
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