taken on when there had seemed nowhere else to go.
If it were not for the fact of his daughter’s ties to Miami, he thought, his life might easily segue to “The Rock,” as some locals referred to Key West. But meantime, Isabel still had vacation time from school coming. She could spend her two weeks with him down here in the beachside apartment he rented, and after that, he would simply continue to manage the commute.
The thought of Isabel’s visit prompted him to set aside the permitting sheets he’d been checking and start a list on a lined tablet. “Stuff for 2nd Bedroom,” he jotted down. “Kids’ sheets, bedspread…cartoon characters?” He paused. Maybe Isabel had outgrown such childish things. He scratched out “cartoon characters” and wrote in “something girly…ask clerk.”
“
Girly?
” He stared at what he’d written, then scratched it out again. What was happening to his brain? Maybe Mrs. Suarez would have some suggestions, if she didn’t come back from the Southwest a New Age convert, that is.
He heard a tapping at the door to his office, then, and glanced up, surprised to find the young woman from the survey and title-search company standing there. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“That’s okay,” Deal said. He put his pencil down. “I must have spaced out. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I used the inside stairwell,” she said, shrugging. “The door wasn’t locked.”
Deal nodded. “I guess I forgot about that. I haven’t been in here much.”
The girl turned and glanced over her shoulder into the outer office where an empty desk sat. “You don’t have a girl,” she said, turning back to him.
“I’m working on it,” Deal said. “The truth is, we’re not really that busy yet.”
She nodded. “You’re the one putting up the Villas Cayo Hueso, out by the airport, right? The place Franklin Stone was going to build before he got killed?”
“That’s right,” Deal said.
She shook her head. “That’s a big job,” she said. “I’d say you’re going to need some office help.”
He smiled. “Are you applying?”
She shook her head. “Oh no, that’s not what I meant. I was just saying”—she gave him a smile of her own—“I couldn’t leave downstairs, anyway. That’s my boyfriend’s place.”
“Ah,” Deal said, lifting his chin in understanding.
“Somebody’s got to keep things going until he gets back.”
“Gets back?” He couldn’t help but steal a glance at those long, tanned legs. The nails at the ends of her toes glistened like ripened berries.
“From Raiford,” she said, with a toss of her hair. “He got caught out in the Straits with a load of square grouper.” She paused, noting Deal’s expression. “That’s Conch for marijuana,” she added.
“I’m familiar with the term,” he said.
She gave him a speculative look. “Ray Bob Watkins,” she said. “Maybe you’ve heard of him.”
“Afraid not.” Deal shook his head. Watkins Title Services was the name stenciled on the windows downstairs, he recalled. Somehow he’d never imagined anyone named Ray Bob in charge.
“It was a major setup,” the young woman in his doorway was saying. “A friend begged him for a favor and then ratted to Customs. Now Ray Bob’s doing three to five and his buddy is walking around scot-free.”
“Ray Bob must be pissed,” Deal offered.
She lifted one of her shapely brows. “I wouldn’t want to be that guy when he gets out,” she said.
Deal nodded. He willed his gaze up from those long and slender legs, only to find it settling on the inviting plane of her chest. Matching dimples at her breastbones, he noted. A gold chain bearing what looked like a miniature diamond-studded conch shell trailing into a dark furrow of cleavage. He had a sudden picture of Ray Bob snarling in his cell, rattling the bars with both his hands and feet.
“I didn’t mean to lay all that on you,” she said.
“Hey…”
If it were not for the fact of his daughter’s ties to Miami, he thought, his life might easily segue to “The Rock,” as some locals referred to Key West. But meantime, Isabel still had vacation time from school coming. She could spend her two weeks with him down here in the beachside apartment he rented, and after that, he would simply continue to manage the commute.
The thought of Isabel’s visit prompted him to set aside the permitting sheets he’d been checking and start a list on a lined tablet. “Stuff for 2nd Bedroom,” he jotted down. “Kids’ sheets, bedspread…cartoon characters?” He paused. Maybe Isabel had outgrown such childish things. He scratched out “cartoon characters” and wrote in “something girly…ask clerk.”
“
Girly?
” He stared at what he’d written, then scratched it out again. What was happening to his brain? Maybe Mrs. Suarez would have some suggestions, if she didn’t come back from the Southwest a New Age convert, that is.
He heard a tapping at the door to his office, then, and glanced up, surprised to find the young woman from the survey and title-search company standing there. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“That’s okay,” Deal said. He put his pencil down. “I must have spaced out. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I used the inside stairwell,” she said, shrugging. “The door wasn’t locked.”
Deal nodded. “I guess I forgot about that. I haven’t been in here much.”
The girl turned and glanced over her shoulder into the outer office where an empty desk sat. “You don’t have a girl,” she said, turning back to him.
“I’m working on it,” Deal said. “The truth is, we’re not really that busy yet.”
She nodded. “You’re the one putting up the Villas Cayo Hueso, out by the airport, right? The place Franklin Stone was going to build before he got killed?”
“That’s right,” Deal said.
She shook her head. “That’s a big job,” she said. “I’d say you’re going to need some office help.”
He smiled. “Are you applying?”
She shook her head. “Oh no, that’s not what I meant. I was just saying”—she gave him a smile of her own—“I couldn’t leave downstairs, anyway. That’s my boyfriend’s place.”
“Ah,” Deal said, lifting his chin in understanding.
“Somebody’s got to keep things going until he gets back.”
“Gets back?” He couldn’t help but steal a glance at those long, tanned legs. The nails at the ends of her toes glistened like ripened berries.
“From Raiford,” she said, with a toss of her hair. “He got caught out in the Straits with a load of square grouper.” She paused, noting Deal’s expression. “That’s Conch for marijuana,” she added.
“I’m familiar with the term,” he said.
She gave him a speculative look. “Ray Bob Watkins,” she said. “Maybe you’ve heard of him.”
“Afraid not.” Deal shook his head. Watkins Title Services was the name stenciled on the windows downstairs, he recalled. Somehow he’d never imagined anyone named Ray Bob in charge.
“It was a major setup,” the young woman in his doorway was saying. “A friend begged him for a favor and then ratted to Customs. Now Ray Bob’s doing three to five and his buddy is walking around scot-free.”
“Ray Bob must be pissed,” Deal offered.
She lifted one of her shapely brows. “I wouldn’t want to be that guy when he gets out,” she said.
Deal nodded. He willed his gaze up from those long and slender legs, only to find it settling on the inviting plane of her chest. Matching dimples at her breastbones, he noted. A gold chain bearing what looked like a miniature diamond-studded conch shell trailing into a dark furrow of cleavage. He had a sudden picture of Ray Bob snarling in his cell, rattling the bars with both his hands and feet.
“I didn’t mean to lay all that on you,” she said.
“Hey…”
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