“Reverend Dawn the psychic,” Falco said. “Sure. What’s she doing now?”
“I’m trying to find out what she knows about a missing person.”
“Ask her. That’s right up her alley.”
“How do you know her?”
“From a homicide investigation, couple years ago. I was with Tactical then and there was a question she might need protection.”
“If she testified in the case?”
“Even before, if she got too close to our suspect, a guy we believed had killed a woman in Boca. Beat her to death and then dropped her off a balcony ten stories up. We find out the woman was one of Dawn’s regulars, Mary Ann Demery, a widow, fairly well off, saw Dawn at least once every week for a reading. So we talked to Dawn about different guys Mary Ann knew, who she was seeing. . . . There was one guy in particular we had high on our list.” Falco stopped. “Oh, you have to understand it looked like a suicide. Only we knew it wasn’t, and without telling Dawn anything, not a hint, she knew it, too. On her own, no help from us. We took her up to Mary Ann’s apartment and she reenacted the scene, how the guy hit Mary Ann with a brass bookend—it was like a modernistic bull, a bright gold color. Dawn looked around the living room and couldn’t believe it wasn’t there. See, we’d already established the bookend as the murder weapon and were holding it as evidence, traces of Mary Ann’s blood on it. Dawn tells us the guy hit Mary Ann with the bookend before dropping her from the balcony, and that was exactly the way we saw it.”
Raylan watched a car coming. “How’d she know?”
“What do you mean how? She’s psychic. She sees things without actually seeing anything.”
“She identify your suspect?”
“She was tuned in to the woman, the way Dawn explained it, and saw what happened to her but not the guy doing it. She felt his presence, said he smoked pot.”
“Maybe she picked up on something you said.”
“Listen, she told us things there was no way she could’ve known about.”
“Why does she call herself Reverend?”
“From some kind of spiritualist group she used to belong to. We checked her out, she’s okay.”
“She ever give you a reading?”
Falco didn’t answer, watching the car now, a white T-bird making a U-turn to pull up in front of the funeral home, Falco saying, “There he is. Bet you anything it’s Maurice. No parking, so that’s where he parks. Probably stole the fucking car.” They watched Maurice get out—wearing the crocheted cap Raylan recognized—and Falco said, “We’ll give him a few minutes with the family, his mother, his grandma and some aunts.”
They came up on either side of Maurice standing at the blond-wood casket, the women in dark dresses and hats watching from rows of empty chairs, silent. Raylan looked down at Faron’s closed eyes, his cornrows, his folded hands resting on a floral necktie and white shirt. He remembered telling him that being dumb didn’t mean you had to get shot.
“I understand,” Falco said, in a hushed voice, “he got hit with hollow-point three-eighties. You were lucky, Maurice, you know it? That could be you laying there.” Falco paused. “Didn’t your dad go the same way? Died of gunshot when you were a little kid?” Falco paused again. “Is this like a family tradition, Maurice? If it is, I think you should end it.”
There was a silence.
Raylan waited.
Maurice didn’t move, standing with his head bowed, holding his skullcap in both hands at his crotch.
“The man next to you,” Falco said, “you remember him?”
Maurice didn’t answer or look up.
“You tried to jack his car and found out too late you picked the wrong guy.” Falco leaned in to look past Maurice at Raylan.
So Raylan said, “How you doing, Maurice?” with the feeling that was it, all he had to offer. He waited, not expecting an answer and didn’t get one.
“This man’s in a position to maybe help you out,” Falco said. “Put in a good word when you come up for sentencing. You know what I’m saying, Maurice? If you can see your way to cooperate, tell us who did Faron.” Falco paused. “I’ve got an eyeball witness who puts you at the scene. Saw you come out of the house. . . . Just give me a name.” Falco paused again. “What do you say?”
What Maurice said, head still lowered, not looking at either of them, was, “Why don’t you cut the bull shit and lemme pray over my brother?”
Coming out of the funeral home Falco said, “Asshole. Try to help, that’s the kind of cooperation you get.”
“He wants to do it himself,” Raylan said.
“That’s right, and the next time we come here Maurice is in the box.”
They crossed the lot toward their cars, Raylan thinking, hesitant about a question he had for Falco and then asked it.
“Lou, have you ever had to kill anybody?”
“Once. Well, two guys, actually. The end of a chase we got them coming out of their car.”
“How’d you feel about it?”
“You sound like the psychologist I had to see. I told her what I felt was a tremendous relief.”
“You get sick?”
“Nauseated, yeah. Every cop I know who had to shoot . . . it happens, you don’t feel good.”
“You didn’t have a choice.”
“None,” Falco said. “You carry a gun you have to be willing to use it. And I’ll tell you something: it’s a lot to fucking ask of anybody.” They reached their cars, parked next to one another, before Falco said, “You ever use your gun?”
Raylan, now, was looking at Falco over the top of his car. “Twice, two different times.”
“You put them down?”
“Yeah.”
“Then what’re we talking about? You know when you have to shoot and you’re the only one who does. Don’t let anybody give you any shit about it, either.” Falco turned to open his door. “I’ll see you.”
Raylan unlocked his car and looked up again. “You didn’t tell me, on that homicide, you get a conviction?”
Falco, on the other side of the Jaguar, turned to Raylan. “We never even had enough for an indictment. I still think he did it. Kind of guy acts innocent but you know is dirty? Mixed up in bank fraud, heavy gambling, always in over his head . . .”
“So Reverend Dawn didn’t help much.”
“She tried. She had an idea if she touched him She goes, ‘Let me touch him and I’ll tell you if he did it.’ We didn’t know what she was talking about. Touch him—where? But she was right about how the woman was killed, so we decided okay and set it up. Put a wire on her and got them to meet at the Sheriff’s Office.”
“What happened?”
“Not much. Dawn touched him, held his hand. . . . I guess she didn’t get the right kind of vibrations. She said as far as she could tell, he didn’t do it. Their conversation’s interesting, though, you ever want to hear the tape.”
“You let him go on Dawn’s word?”
“We couldn’t quite put him at the scene and his mother alibied him out. Guy named Warren Ganz.”
Falco started to turn.
“Lou?”
“What?”
“I know his mom.”
All the way down 95 to Delray Beach in midday traffic, Raylan looked at what he knew as fact, hoping something he hadn’t thought of would jump out at him. Okay:
Ganz owes Harry a lot of money. Harry sends Bobby Deo to collect. Bobby tells Harry to meet him, he has the money, but doesn’t show up. Instead, Harry happens to run into Dawn Navarro who, it turns out, happens to know Warren Ganz—from when he was a suspect in a homicide and she touched him. Harry disappears. And now Bobby Deo, ex-con, former bounty hunter, is hanging out at Ganz’s house with a guy named Louis Lewis—however you spell it, check him out—while Ganz happens to be somewhere in the Keys.
What did all this tell him, if anything?
That Harry might be dead.
It jumped out at Raylan and there it was, whether he liked it or not. T
he idea: Ganz hires Bobby to kill him and takes off so he won’t be around, have to answer questions.
But, if Ganz was so broke he’s selling his furniture, how does he pay Bobby? It would cost him a few thousand at least, hire a guy like Bobby. How does he afford a trip to the Keys?
Say he doesn’t. He hides out at home. And that’s why Bobby and Louis are hanging around, to answer the door, pick up the phone. . . .
It seemed to make sense.
But now Raylan took it another step, to look at an idea that didn’t make sense but jumped out at him anyway. The idea that if Harry wasn’t dead, hadn’t taken off but wasn’t around anywhere, Harry could be in that house. And if he was, Bobby and Louis were there to watch him.
It was a feeling Raylan had, so it didn’t have to make sense. At least not right away. The thing to do was let his mind work on it while he wasn’t looking.
But when the feeling kept growing on him he had to look at it again—sailing down 95 among semitrailers, tourists in rentals, retirees in white cars that all looked alike. What made him keep thinking Harry might be in that house?
A feeling. Yeah, but more than that. Something Falco had said that made him think of Bobby Deo.
The pruners.
A guy staying at the house who carried pruners, wore them with his good clothes and could’ve had his pruners with him when he robbed a grocery store. Bobby and Louis. In the store to get snacks and Jell-O. And the last time Raylan had Jell-O . . . It was at Wolfie’s having lunch with Harry and Joyce and Harry said he always had Jell-O for dessert, strawberry with fruit in it. Harry said try it and Raylan did—and it was Jell-O all right, no better or worse than it ever was.
If Harry was being held, they’d have to feed him. But would they ask him what he wanted? Why not? Keep him happy. But what reason would they have to hold him?
Outside of money.
Harry had it and Ganz didn’t and Falco said Ganz was dirty—into illegal deals, big-time gambling, bank fraud. . . .
Kidnapping?
If Harry was in there against his will, that’s what it was, a federal offense; you could get life. Ganz had the right guy for it, Bobby Deo, who used to go out and snatch fugitives. Bobby picks the place to meet, the restaurant, because Dawn’s there. Harry arrives and Dawn sets him up. For her old friend Warren Ganz.
But if it’s a kidnapping, how do they score? Who pays? Harry doesn’t have a wife. All he has is money.
Raylan looked at it for a minute or so; it didn’t tell him anything.
The only thing he saw to do was go in the house and look around. Not with a consent to search, they’d never let him in. You could do it with Colombians because back home they couldn’t refuse a search and thought it worked the same way here.
He could call it exigent circumstances, the imminent threat of death or serious bodily harm and break the door down. And if Harry wasn’t there get sent to a new assignment like Minot, North Dakota.
The only other way, get a search warrant. Describe the premises in detail, what the house looked like, not just the address. Give the reason for requesting the warrant, also in detail, the probable cause why he wanted to gain entry, what he expected to find and why and show it to a U.S. attorney. Leave out the pruners and the Jell-O; no one would follow that kind of thinking, even though it was something he knew and could feel. If he was lucky and all the U.S. attorney did was put in a bunch of commas, he’d then take it to the U.S. magistrate and stand there while Her Honor read it, while she frowned and gave him a look, said something like, “Mr. Ganz owes Mr. Arno a sum of money, so you believe Mr. Arno is being held against his will in Mr. Ganz’s home?” Her Honor would tell him his probable cause sounded like wishful thinking. He wouldn’t in a million years get the magistrate’s signature.
In the funeral home parking lot he’d told Falco about Harry being missing, the reason he’d met Warren Ganz’s mother. Falco agreed with Torres: wait a few days and get Missing Persons on it.
“But what about Dawn?” Raylan said. “You think she really is psychic?”
“I think sometimes, anyway.”
“What if she can tell me where Harry is?”
“You mean using her clairvoyance?”
“It wouldn’t be enough to get a warrant and take a look, would it? The word of a psychic?”
“You’d still have to show probable cause, get into all that. I’d talk to her though, why not.”
“You think, if Harry was kidnapped, Dawn could be involved in some way?”
Falco had stared at him over the roof of the car before saying, “You think she’s stupid?”
Raylan wasn’t sure that was an answer but let it go. He said, “You mentioned you put a wire on her, for the meeting with Ganz? I’d like to hear it.”
“Anytime you want.”
Dawn wasn’t at the restaurant and the hostess hadn’t seen her all day. She was there yesterday, and the day before; Dawn hadn’t said anything about taking time off. Raylan picked up one of her Certified Medium & Spiritualist cards and rubbed it between his fingers walking back to his car. It didn’t tell him anything.
He did have a feeling she wasn’t going to be home, and when he reached the house on Ramona saw he was right. No red car in the drive. He went up to knock on the door and looked at the sign as he waited, at DREAM INTERPRETATIONS, PAST-LIFE REGRESSIONS. Pay to get regressed back to a coal mine and breathe that dust again. Raylan walked around the house looking in windows cloudy with salt mist, careful not to get stuck by palmettos. He looked into dim, dismal rooms, at the old worn-out furniture, the sofa he’d sat in and felt the springs, at watermarks staining the wall where the picture of Jesus and the children hung, and wondered if it depressed her to walk in the house. She could be helping Ganz as a way to get out of there.
Raylan didn’t feel like hanging around. He got in the Jaguar and drove up to Manalapan with the idea of staking out Ganz’s house for a while, see if anyone came or left . . .
And saw it happening before he even got there, as he came past groomed oleander toward the wall of trash vegetation marking Ganz’s property, saw Bobby Deo’s Cadillac pop out of the drive and turn north. Two guys in the car.
Now Raylan had to make a decision quick: follow or, with them gone, see about getting in the house.
nineteen
Chip watched Bobby’s Cadillac on the television screen until the car was through the shrubs along the drive and out of view. Finally. He’d been waiting all morning for them to leave so he could talk to Harry.
Trying to hurry them along didn’t work. “You want to get the show on the road—isn’t that what you told me?”
Louis said they’d leave when it was time to leave. Louis dragging his feet, Bobby taking half the morning to get dressed, Ganz smoking weed. This was before the guy in the hat showed up on the patio and spoke to Louis and Bobby. Ganz lit another joint, sucked it down listening to Louis say the man was a United States marshal, with the star, with the gun on his hip under his coat. Could see it when he took out his I.D. But mostly the man was a friend of Harry’s, the reason he came. Chip toking, Louis saying the man’s seen how it is now, who’s who, and won’t have a reason to come back. By the time Louis finished Chip was worry-free, zonked on the weed, able to ask deadpan, “A U.S. marshal? He ride in on a horse?” Louis grinned while Bobby sat there with a bug up his ass as usual. Chip thinking, even if it was the same guy who spoke to Dawn, so what?
Wait some more, finally one o’clock before Louis said it was time and they left, the program now back on track in spite of interruptions, shit happening, revising the timetable, his two helpers thinking they knew more than he did. Why argue? If they wanted to speed up the program, get it done, fine. Chip thinking, telling himself, Go with the flow, man. Saying, You cool? Yeah, you’re cool. He felt it, full of his old confidence, in control. . . .
Pushed a button on the remote, to switch the picture from the front drive to the hostage room upstairs, and stared at the picture for several
moments—at the cots, the chains on the floor, trash, boxes of snacks—before he realized, Christ, Harry wasn’t there.
Ganz came up out of the sofa.
The black guy had stood behind him the whole time while he cut the blindfold off with scissors, so Harry didn’t get a look at him. All he knew for sure, it was the same guy who’d said the other night, “We do some business. Just me and you.” Harry had thought at the time the guy was putting on a Bahamian accent so his voice wouldn’t be recognized. This time the guy said, “Go on in the bathroom and clean yourself up. Man, you smell ripe.” And Harry realized what the guy had was the trace of a Bahamian accent, maybe left over from when he was a kid. The guy stood close breathing on him, Saying, “There’s a toothbrush in there, a razor, I believe anything you need.” The guy who wanted to do some business being nice to him. Making a play, it sounded like, to cut out the other guys—Harry pretty sure now there were three of them. He said, “I can’t take a shower with these chains on.”
“Do the best you can,” the black guy said. “Take a whore bath. You know what that is?”
“Before you ever heard of it,” Harry said.
The guy handed him a bathing cap to use as a blindfold, with instructions when to put it on, didn’t say anything about doing business, and left. Harry washed up and shaved; next thing would be to talk the guy into a shower and promote some clean clothes. He looked around his cell for the first time, the room bigger than he’d thought; looked at the windows covered with plywood and shuffled over to see if he could work the sheet free, but it was nailed onto the window frame.
Later on, Harry was coming out of the bathroom when he heard the key turn in the lock. The door swung open. Harry saw the look on the guy’s face, a different guy . . .
What Chip saw was the blindfold gone, something else covering his hair that Harry reached up and stretched down over his eyes: a rubber bathing cap, white with a yellow flower design that Chip’s mother used to put on when she swam in the ocean, years and years ago. He could see her wearing it.