Sometimes Pender only knew what he was feeling by the song lyrics running through his mind-he had more songs stored in there than Napster in its heyday.
The first one he found himself humming, as he tossed his empty suitcase on the bed to begin packing early Tuesday morning, was an old country favorite, “You Don’t Miss Your Water (’Til Your Well Runs Dry”), which segued into Joni Mitchell’s “Big Yellow Taxi,” with its lyric about not knowing what you got ’til it’s gone.
But the well had somehow miraculously refilled itself. Pender had work to do, a serial killer to catch. And while his professional discipline wouldn’t allow him to think of it as fun, there had been a good deal of truth in what he’d told Julian about golf and retirement. The sport had been a marvelous hobby, had given Pender something to look forward to on the weekends, something to take his mind off the endless progression of monsters and serial killers it had been his duty, his burden, and his honor to remove from the general population.
But when you’ve spent your entire adult life performing a job that fulfilling and important, and then it’s taken away from you because of something as arbitrary as your age, after a surprisingly short number of go-rounds on the old links, you realize with a sinking heart, standing there on the first tee, that it just doesn’t matter to you anymore whether the fucking ball goes fucking left or fucking right.
And the next thing Pender knew, he was fifty pounds over-weight, cracking a new bottle of Jim Beam every few days instead of once a week. Although he was not yet so far gone that he was seriously considering eating his Glock, he did find himself thinking a good deal less harshly of the retired agents he’d known who’d done just that.
None of those were good signs, Pender realized, taking his white Panama out of the closet to wear on the plane. It was the one he’d purchased in Carmel with a woman named Dorie Bell, whom he’d rescued from the clutches of a man known as the Phobia Killer two years earlier.
That romance was already deader than Kelsy’s balls, Pender reminded himself with a sigh. Although he’d known going into it that white knight/damsel-in-distress relationships rarely lasted, the end of the affair had shaken him up. He hadn’t dated anyone else, much less got laid since the breakup-those eighteen months were the longest period of celibacy in Pender’s adult life, not counting the last few years of his marriage.
But that might change, too. Wasn’t the Caribbean where everybody went to find romance?
As Pender began rummaging through his closet looking for the Hawaiian shirts he’d also bought in Carmel, with Dorie, the phone rang. It was Julian Coffee, notifying him of a slight change of plans-a stopover in Miami.
“My criminalist, who also happens to be my eldest daughter Layla, lifted and restored prints from the left hand of the male vic,” said Julian. “She ran them through AFIS yesterday, spent all night winnowing down the possibles, and came up with a twelve-point match with one William Wanger, Miami, Florida. No criminal record, but his military prints were on file. I know how you feel about interviewing at the source, so we got the address for you-I thought you might want to drop by and have a word with Mrs. Wanger.”
“Does she know yet?” asked Pender, after jotting down the address and the new flight information.
“I can’t see how-she filed a Missing Persons with the Miami PD a couple weeks ago, but we haven’t notified them yet.”
“I have to tell you, Julian-I’m not exactly crazy about the idea of being the one who has to tell a woman that she’s now a widow.”
“You’re right, Edgar-I should probably find someone who’d really, really enjoy it.”
“I don’t mean-”
“See you late this afternoon, then. And don’t forget to bring plenty of sunblock-our nude beaches are world famous.”
“Nice change of subject there, Julian.”
“Thank you, Edgar-we do what we can.”