Friday morning, February 2.
It was a squally day, no sign of the sun, ripped clouds scudding before a northeast wind. There were spatters of rain, an occasional zipper of lightning, thunder rumbling in the distance like an artillery barrage.
It must have poured during the night; streets on the way to the office were flooded, and a royal palm was down across Federal Highway. Tony Harker splashed through puddles to a coffee shop, but his stomach was churning and he ordered a glass of milk and dry rye toast.
He wondered why he felt no exultation. He was bringing a complex investigation to a successful end, but he had no sense of satisfaction. In fact, this final day was almost anticlimactic. He saw it as cleaning up after a wild party: a mess of cold cigarette butts, empty bottles, stale food, and broken glass. Nothing left to do but throw out the garbage.
His first call was to the sheriff's office, requesting that two plainclothesmen be sent in an unmarked car to stake out David Rathbone's town house. They were to collar Rathbone at noon if Harker hadn't shown up.
He spoke to Manuel Suarez and Simon Clark, and gave them final orders. He called Henry Ullman in Boca to make certain there was no last-minute hitch in their plans. There was no way to reach Roger Fortescue; Harker assumed he was on the road en route to Lakeland. He called his contact at the DEA and was assured everything was on schedule.
Finally, at 9:10 a.m., he called the office of the Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund. He was connected to an answering machine, and hung up. He called every ten minutes after that with the same result. He had resolved that if he couldn't contact Rita at the office by eleven o'clock, he'd call her at the town house and run the risk of Rathbone's answering the phone.
But at 10:20, she answered the office phone. "The Fort Knox Fund," she said perkily. "Good morning."
"Harker here," he said. "You alone?"
"Yes."
"I've got to see you right away. It's important."
Silence for a beat or two. "Will it take long?" she asked finally. "We're supposed to go shopping this afternoon."
"No, not long. An hour at the most."
"All right. Where?"
"My motel," he said. "I'm leaving now."
He hadn't devised any scenario or even decided in what order to say the things that had to be said. So he'd have to wing it, and he wasn't much good at improvising.
She came into his motel apartment wearing a clear plastic slicker over a peach-colored jumpsuit. Her wind-tossed hair was glistening with mist, and she was laughing because the flowered umbrella she carried had turned inside out. She tossed it into a corner and stripped off her raincoat.
"Let's move to south Florida," she said, "where the sun shines every day. Got a cold beer for me?"
"No," Harker said, and she whipped her head around to look at him. "Sit down," he told her. "I'll make this as brief as possible."
She sat, crossed her legs, took out a pack of Win-stons. She slowly went through the ceremony of shaking out a cigarette, lighting it, inhaling.
"What's up?" she asked quietly.
He was standing behind an armchair, gripping the top. But he found his knees were beginning to tremble, so he paced a few steps back and forth.
"I promised to tell you before we moved on Rathbone. I'm telling you now. We're taking him today."
"Oh?" she said, inspecting the burning tip of her cigarette. "When?"
"Noon."
"Thanks for giving me so much advance notice," she said, making no effort to hide the sarcasm. "Who's going to arrest him?"
"I am. With men from the sheriff's office. The town house is staked out right now. Did Rathbone ever tell you where he might go if he left the country?"
"No, he never said."
Harker laughed, a harsh sound that sounded phony even to him. "Not a word about his ranch in Costa Rica? Close to the beach and city? The two of you leaving early next week? But first let's go shopping and charge up a storm."
She reacted as if he had struck her across the face. Her head flung back, tanned skin went sallow; she stared at him with widened eyes, trying to comprehend.
"Bugs!" she finally spat out. "The place was bugged!"
"And the phones tapped," Harker said.
"And you never told me?" she cried. "You prick!"
He sat down heavily in the armchair, suddenly saddened because despite what she had done, her first reaction was to accuse him.
"It's all a can of worms, isn't it?" he said. "I've learned that logic doesn't always work with human beings."
"What makes you think you're a human being?"
"Oh, I'm human," he said. "I'm just as fucked-up as everyone else."
But she wouldn't let it go at that. "No," she said, shaking her head, "you're vindictive, malicious. You're getting your jollies out of busting David, aren't you? Big deal! That guy's just a con artist who's ripped off a few rich people, and you've gone after him like he's a serial killer. He'll never spend a day behind bars, and you know it. He'll get himself a sharp lawyer. He'll make full restitution-and he's got the money to do it. He'll promise to straighten up and fly right, and he'll get off with a wrist tap. You'll see."
"I told you a dozen times," Harker said, "and you wouldn't listen. Rathbone's been doing more than stealing pencils from blind men. In addition to a dozen financial felonies, we've got him on drug dealing. What did you think the Fort Knox Fund was trading? Their commodities were cocaine, heroin, and marijuana. And we've got him on counterfeiting and bank fraud. Why do you think he made all those trips to Lakeland? It was to pick up packages of the queer printed by an ex-con up there. And we also want him on suspicion of being an accessory to murder. When he got drunk in the Palace Lounge on New Year's Day, he had just fingered a guy who was later found dead in a canal. Someone had stuck an ice pick in his ear. So much for your poor, misunderstood con artist who's going to make
restitution and dance away whistling a merry tune. In a pig's ass he will!"
She had listened to this diatribe with lowered head. Now she looked up, and he was shocked at how old she appeared.
"Are you telling me the truth, Harker?" she asked.
"It's the truth," he said. "That bastard is going to do hard time."
"He's beautiful," Rita said in a low voice. "You know what they'll do to him in prison?"
"I know," Harker said.
She pulled herself from the chair and began to walk about the room hugging her elbows. She was silent a long time, and he glanced at his watch to make certain time wasn't running out.
"David's got a lot of puppy in him," she said finally, speaking in a monotone as if thinking aloud. "He likes to be petted and played with. And sometimes spanked and told what a bad boy he is. Prison will kill him."
Harker said nothing. She stopped pacing and stood before him, looking down, hands on her hips.
"Can we cut a deal, Harker?" she asked him.
His expression didn't change. "What kind of a deal?"
"You said you wanted to marry me. Did you mean that?"
He nodded. "I meant it."
"I'll marry you," she said, staring at him, "and do my damnedest to be a good wife. In the bedroom and in the kitchen. I won't cheat on you, and I won't leave unless you kick me out. For that you let me make a call right now. David's smart enough to get away. He'll duck the stakeout, go out a back window or through the pool area. Just let me phone him. If he doesn't make it, I'll still keep my part of the deal."
Harker felt like weeping. "You must really love him," he said.
"Love?" she said, almost angrily. "What's that? Poets and songwriters know all about it, but I don't. Sure, I have affection for him, but that's a small part of it. Mostly it's guilt for having conned him. It's knowing I helped put him away, and realizing I'm going to live with it till the day I die."
"You've helped put villains away before. Did it bother you?"
"No," she said, "but this is different. He said he was going straight with me, and it turned out to be a scam. What does that make me?"
Harker didn't answer.
"Well," she said, "time's getting short. Do you want to marry me? Have we got a deal?"
"No," he said.
She looked at him with a gargoyled grin, all twisted and ugly. Her hands clenched, knuckles white. She was trying to hang on, but it didn't work. She broke and collapsed into the armchair, black wings of hair covering her face, shoulders rocking back and forth. What moved him most was that she wept silently, no sobs, no wails, just soundless grief.
He relented then and went looking for something to drink. The only hard stuff he had was a bottle of Popov. He poured it over ice and brought one of the drinks to her. He took her hand and pressed her fingers around the glass. The feel of her velvety skin still had the power to stir him.
He sat down in his chair again, took a gulp of his drink, watched her. Her body finally stopped shaking.
She straightened, jerked her head back to get hair away from her face, drained half the glass of vodka.
"Why did you do it?" he asked her. "You don't have to answer, but I'd really like to know. Was it the loving?"
"Part of it," she admitted, taking a deep breath. "And part was the way he treated me, like I was the most valuable thing he had ever owned. And part was the lush life. David really knows how to live."
"What kind of bullshit is that?" Harker demanded. "You talk like it's a special talent. Everyone knows how to live. All you need is money."
She smiled wanly. "That's what David always said. His favorite expression. Well, he had the money."
"Sure he did. But look how he made it, and look where it got him."
"So you've got me on tape," she said. "Am I going to be charged?"
"No," Harker said. "There'll be no charges. You'll be allowed to resign for reasons of health. Nothing on your record. But no more jobs in law enforcement. Crockett okayed it."
"So he knows, too?"
Harker nodded.
"Anyone else?"
"No, just Crockett and me."
She sipped her drink and stared at him. "Why didn't you tell me about the bugs and the taps? Was it because from the first you were afraid I'd turn?"
— "That's what Crockett thinks," he said, not looking at her. "But I don't think that's the whole reason. I think part of it was jealousy. Listening to you and Rathbone in bed together was like pounding on a wound."
"You were right," she said. "You are fucked-up. What's going to happen to me now? What'll I do?"
Harker shrugged. "I'm not worried about you," he said. "You'll find another David Rathbone. Or another me," he added.
She finished her drink, and with it her breezy courage returned. "And what about you, kiddo?" she said. "No more fun and games with me on motel sheets. That was the best loving you'll ever have."
"I know."
"You'll get your allergies back," she jeered. "And your nervous stomach and your sun poisoning."
"I'll survive," he said, not certain he would. He glanced at his watch. "After twelve. They've taken Rathbone by now."
They fixed her umbrella, and he locked up and accompanied her down to their cars. They faced, not knowing whether to shake hands, kiss, or knee each other in the groin.
"Will I see you again?" she asked.
He looked upward, hoping for an omen: the muddy clouds parting and a shaft of pure sunlight striking through to bathe them in gold. He saw only zigzags of lightning splitting the sky, heard only the growl of far-off thunder.
"Will I?" Rita persisted.
"Maybe," Tony said.