Which is maybe why an old cop like Henry needs a crime to look into, and the truth is, other’n tourist con games and an occasional fight, there ain’t much crime here on Key Montaigne. Maybe Henry shoulda gone back to Milwaukee or retired to the South Bronx.”
“So you didn’t do anything to investigate his suspicions?”
“Oh, I didn’t say that. I asked around a bit. Even drove up to the Rainer place and talked to Walter Rainer. He was surprised. He don’t even know Henry. I think his feelings were a little hurt; it ain’t pleasant to be suspected of God knows what. He even offered to let me search the house grounds.”
“But you didn’t.”
The chief lifted his broad shoulders helplessly. “I honestly had no reason, Mr. Carver.”
“Other than the Walter Rainer matter, is there anyone on Key Montaigne who might have reason to do Henry harm?”
“Hell, no. Ain’t nobody takes him all that serious.” Wicke rested his palms flat on his desk and faced Carver squarely. “Look, you’re making too much of this. What happened is some DWI or scared-shitless tourist accidentally ran over Henry in Miami, then panicked and fled the scene. I’ve asked Miami police to set up checks on the car rental agencies in the area, notify me if they report any suspicious damages. But you know how it is, a car can hit a human being and not sustain near as much damage as the person. All depends on how it happens.”
“You’re probably right,” Carver said, “but I owe it to Henry to ask around. Maybe, if nothing else, I can put his mind at ease.”
“I sure hope so,” the chief said. “I wouldn’t want his fixation about Rainer to run outa control, maybe prompt him to do something really foolish. Henry still got his service revolver?”
“He probably does,” Carver said.
“Great.” Wicke waved a hand. “But then, what the hell, every nut case in Florida’s got a gun, so why not Henry?”
Carver couldn’t answer that one. He thanked Chief Wicke for taking time to talk to him, then limped from the office. The curly-haired cop at the Selectric stared at him on the way out. The woman behind the desk smiled at him like a grandmother who’d just fed him cookies. Smalltown life.
It was much hotter outside. The sky was cloudless and the sun was having its way. There was a slight breeze off the ocean, but it was warm and created the effect of a convection oven. As he set the cane on the loose chat and limped back to the Olds, Carver could feel the sun’s heat on his bald pate. Probably he should buy a hat.
When he got back to Henry’s cottage, he punched out Efhe’s number on the cheap digital phone. A woman answered. Effie’s mother? Carver asked if he could talk to Effie, for a moment feeling like a nervous tenth grader working up the nerve to ask for a date. “Just a minute,” the woman said suspiciously. It was more like three minutes before Effie came to the phone.
In the interest of propriety, Carver kept the conversation short. He asked Effie for the names of people on Key Montaigne who were particularly friendly with or had dealings with Henry. Sounding as enthusiastic as if he’d provided a last-chance date for the prom, she said she’d make up a list and bicycle over and give it to him.
After thanking her and hanging up on her boundless energy, he called Faith United Hospital in Miami and asked about Henry Tiller’s condition.
Satisfactory, he was told. Mr. Tiller had been on the operating table three hours while surgeons explored and treated his internal injuries. Soon he’d be able to accept brief phone calls and have visitors, but not today or tonight.
After replacing the receiver, Carver found a can of Budweiser in the back of Henry’s refrigerator and sat on the front porch, sipping beer and looking out at the sea. At the sleek white form of the docked Miss Behavin’. He thought about his conversation with Chief Wicke, who seemed a competent and sensible man with no ax to grind,
“So you didn’t do anything to investigate his suspicions?”
“Oh, I didn’t say that. I asked around a bit. Even drove up to the Rainer place and talked to Walter Rainer. He was surprised. He don’t even know Henry. I think his feelings were a little hurt; it ain’t pleasant to be suspected of God knows what. He even offered to let me search the house grounds.”
“But you didn’t.”
The chief lifted his broad shoulders helplessly. “I honestly had no reason, Mr. Carver.”
“Other than the Walter Rainer matter, is there anyone on Key Montaigne who might have reason to do Henry harm?”
“Hell, no. Ain’t nobody takes him all that serious.” Wicke rested his palms flat on his desk and faced Carver squarely. “Look, you’re making too much of this. What happened is some DWI or scared-shitless tourist accidentally ran over Henry in Miami, then panicked and fled the scene. I’ve asked Miami police to set up checks on the car rental agencies in the area, notify me if they report any suspicious damages. But you know how it is, a car can hit a human being and not sustain near as much damage as the person. All depends on how it happens.”
“You’re probably right,” Carver said, “but I owe it to Henry to ask around. Maybe, if nothing else, I can put his mind at ease.”
“I sure hope so,” the chief said. “I wouldn’t want his fixation about Rainer to run outa control, maybe prompt him to do something really foolish. Henry still got his service revolver?”
“He probably does,” Carver said.
“Great.” Wicke waved a hand. “But then, what the hell, every nut case in Florida’s got a gun, so why not Henry?”
Carver couldn’t answer that one. He thanked Chief Wicke for taking time to talk to him, then limped from the office. The curly-haired cop at the Selectric stared at him on the way out. The woman behind the desk smiled at him like a grandmother who’d just fed him cookies. Smalltown life.
It was much hotter outside. The sky was cloudless and the sun was having its way. There was a slight breeze off the ocean, but it was warm and created the effect of a convection oven. As he set the cane on the loose chat and limped back to the Olds, Carver could feel the sun’s heat on his bald pate. Probably he should buy a hat.
When he got back to Henry’s cottage, he punched out Efhe’s number on the cheap digital phone. A woman answered. Effie’s mother? Carver asked if he could talk to Effie, for a moment feeling like a nervous tenth grader working up the nerve to ask for a date. “Just a minute,” the woman said suspiciously. It was more like three minutes before Effie came to the phone.
In the interest of propriety, Carver kept the conversation short. He asked Effie for the names of people on Key Montaigne who were particularly friendly with or had dealings with Henry. Sounding as enthusiastic as if he’d provided a last-chance date for the prom, she said she’d make up a list and bicycle over and give it to him.
After thanking her and hanging up on her boundless energy, he called Faith United Hospital in Miami and asked about Henry Tiller’s condition.
Satisfactory, he was told. Mr. Tiller had been on the operating table three hours while surgeons explored and treated his internal injuries. Soon he’d be able to accept brief phone calls and have visitors, but not today or tonight.
After replacing the receiver, Carver found a can of Budweiser in the back of Henry’s refrigerator and sat on the front porch, sipping beer and looking out at the sea. At the sleek white form of the docked Miss Behavin’. He thought about his conversation with Chief Wicke, who seemed a competent and sensible man with no ax to grind,
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