"And it'll work," her father asserted, "if we all stay on the same page."
"The twins are psyched," Janet Bunterman added.
"Can I tell Tanny?"
"Absolutely not. You can't talk to a soul about this."
"That sucks!"
Ned Bunterman said, "Remember, honey, you're supposed to be recovering from a horribly traumatic crime. You can't go out for a while, okay? You're damaged. You're scared. You cannot be seen running all over South Beach, having a big old time. You're a victim, Cherry."
"Trust us on this one," her mother added.
"Yeah, yeah." Cherry got up and took a Gatorade bottle from the refrigerator. She had mixed in the Stoli earlier, after her parents had gone off to some business meeting. "So when does the story hit?" she asked.
"The Larks want to launch this weekend," Janet Bunterman said.
"Oh wow."
Ned Bunterman said they were waiting for Maury to sign off.
"Saturday or Sunday?" Cherry took a slug from the bottle. Vodka was clean and sneaky; that's what she liked about it.
"Saturday morning," her mother said, "right before CNN's ten a.m. newsbreak."
Not much time left to play, Cherry thought. She would make the best of it.
* * *
Billy Shea was double-bogeying the fifth hole at Metacomet when his cell phone rang, violating a strict club rule that he routinely ignored. The man on the other end of the line was waiting at Miami International for a nonstop to Las Vegas.
"They got me in coach," the man complained. "You promised first class."
"Did I?"
"If the job got done, yeah. You said I could fly back in first."
Shea sighed. "My travel agent, he's a moron."
"Can't you make some calls?"
"Man, I'm stuck on the golf course. How was the trip?"
"It went fine. Maybe you should cash in some frequent-flyer miles, get me an upgrade?"
Shea said, "Didn't I tell you the Keys was nice? The water down there, it's so fucking blue."
"Yeah, Billy, I speared me an eel."
"Excellent."
"A big sucker," the man said. "Now call your travel agent and get my ass bumped to first class. They board in twenty minutes."
Once Shea had concluded that no portion of his $850,000 would be returned in the foreseeable future, and that Jackie Sebago had spent most of the money before a single condo was built at Sebago Isle, he reached out to an acquaintance in the Providence underworld, who then put him in touch with a professional killer.
The killer normally used a .22, but Shea insisted on something special for Jackie Sebago, something that would give pause to other low-life Florida hustlers who preyed on earnest out-of-state investors. Shea was hoping for the murder to make a splash on TV, so he wanted it exceptionally messy, yet with a tropical touch befitting the locale. The Hawaiian sling was the killer's idea. He said he would practice on coconuts.
"I heard they get a Vince Vaughn movie in first class," the man was saying.
"Okay, let me see what I can do." Shea motioned for his golf partners to play on ahead. He told them he'd catch up on the next fairway.
"A promise is a promise," said the granite voice on the phone.
"Man, you're absolutely right."
Shea had no desire to end a murder-for-hire deal with hard feelings. The killer deserved to sit in the front of the airplane and watch a Vince Vaughn flick and order a Beefeater martini, whatever the fuck he wanted. Jackie Sebago was deceased with an exclamation point, and would never again enjoy the fruits of deceit. Shea knew a law firm that would chase down the shithead's assets and tie up probate for years.
He dialed his travel agent and said, "Drop everything."
The local police were harried but helpful. They gave Detective Reilly a street map and a stack of recent incident reports deemed unusual even for Miami Beach. He culled out the three most promising sightings and set out to find the witnesses.
Unfortunately, the desk clerk at the Marriott had a memory as vexing as his accent. He squirmed under questioning, and his description of the intruder who'd set fire to Marian DeGregorio's luggage and stolen her Maltese changed repeatedly, until the suspect bore only a shaky resemblance to the Key Largo gypsy who was Reilly's main suspect. The detective's next stop was the duplex of a cocktail waitress who'd been rescued from a sexual assault on the beach; an anonymous Good Samaritan had put her would-be attackers into body casts. The victim told Reilly that her raging rescuer had a shaved head and wore a trench coat. It was the best she could do--she'd been drinking that night, and the scene of the attack had been very dark. Finally, Reilly attempted to interview a Haitian cabdriver who'd reported being carjacked by a tall, walleyed derelict, but the meeting was unproductive. The driver insisted he'd made a mistake; the crime had never happened. "He's still afraid of being deported," a Miami Beach detective explained to Reilly, "after twenty-seven years."
The two cops were eating Cuban sandwiches when a disturbance call came over the Miami Beach detective's handheld. Some big bald guy was going nuts down on Collins. Reilly figured it was too good to be true, but what the hell. They rushed to a small hotel called the Loft and made their way through a crowd of amused onlookers gathered out front. The man prancing around a palm tree at the center of the commotion wasn't the one whom Reilly was hunting. The prancer was somewhat tall and definitely bald, but he was also flabby, pale as a flounder and the owner of two functional though inflamed eyeballs.
Having worked the vice detail in Key West, a nightly festival of foolish behavior, Reilly was unfazed by the South Beach freak parade. That's why he wouldn't have been flabbergasted to learn that the shirtless man twirling and whooping near the hotel canopy was a well-respected podiatrist, Little League coach and church elder from Greenville, South Carolina. Evidently the fellow had been improperly briefed on the optimum dosages when mixing street MDMA with Xanax and mojitos. His Florida vacation had taken a turn for the worse.
As uniformed officers chased him in circles, the impaired tourist randomly snatched from the grass what appeared to be two multicolored cables, which he began slashing noisily back and forth over his head. "I'll save you, Rapunzel!" he crowed up at the building. "Wait for me, my princess!"
The crowd laughed, though Reilly didn't. He got a good look at what the man was whipping through the air: two silvery ropes of hair, strung with old shotgun shells. The cops tazed the wayward foot doctor, pried the pigtails from his fists and tossed them in the shrubs. Reilly waited until the man was hauled away and the gawkers dispersed before he retrieved the funky plaits, which appeared to have been freshly shorn at their roots.
The detective stepped back and looked up at the facing windows of the hotel. He saw only one that was open.
Ann DeLusia purchased a charger for the tangerine BlackBerry and, with trepidation, a pair of sea-green contact lenses. Then she went to see the henna artist.
"Why still on your neck this horrible thing?" Sasha demanded. "You promised to scrub off."
"Soon," Ann said. "But first I need a touch-up."
"No, is too ugly. Who this angry face would be?"
"A famous rock singer. Please, Sasha, I'll pay you a hundred dollars."
"From band Kiss this singer? Tell his name to me. Or Jam Pearl?"
"No, it's Axl Rose. The group is Guns N' Roses."
"And he paints up himself, this man, like wild zebra?" Sasha aimed the drawing lamp at Ann's tattoo and went to work with her pens. "This time no penis," she said firmly. "It for you is very wrong."
"Fine," said Ann. "No penis."
Refusing the Buntermans' money had been easier than she thought. She knew the fifty grand wouldn't have liberated her--just the opposite. After what had happened with the photographer, Ann needed a clean, irreparable break from Cherry's parents. From their laggard response to her kidnapping it was plain they wouldn't exactly have been crushed with grief had she wound up dead or permanently missing. Ann wasn't the veng
eful sort but she had a mischievous streak and a flair for the ironic. She also believed that Cherry Pye would accidentally kill herself soon if nobody slammed on the brakes. Ann figured she might as well be the one.
"You don't have to stay for this," she'd told the governor.
"Of course I do," he'd said, and then crawled beneath the bed to hide from the housekeeping staff. She had left him there when she headed out to the henna parlor.
Inside her handbag, the BlackBerry chirped constantly with calls and texts and voice mails. That's how Ann had learned it belonged to Claude, although she wasn't clear on how Cherry's bodyguard had gained possession of it, or why he'd passed it along to her.
Up until then, Ann had never understood how the paparazzi always happened to be in the right place at the right time. Judging by the traffic lighting up Claude's smart phone, his network of scurrilous snoops and informants was far-reaching and vigilant. While the henna artist reluctantly freshened her tatt, Ann scrolled through the latest spate of messages, which offered an up-to-the-moment snapshot of celebrity activity from coast to coast. It reminded her of those flight-tracking Web sites that used real-time radar to show every jetliner in the air.
In New York, Kate and A-Rod were snuggling in a booth at the Gramercy Tavern.
In Las Vegas, Becks and Posh were quarreling in the lobby of the Bellagio.
In Santa Monica, Tom and Gisele were jogging on the beach with a rottweiler named Ludwig.
In Chicago, Jennifer Lopez was refusing to go on the Oprah show unless she could bring her Zumba instructor.
And in Miami Beach, Tanner Dane Keefe was sneaking through a backstage door of the Fillmore at the Gleason for a midday tryst with Cherry Pye, who was rehearsing for another comeback tour.
"Amazing," said Ann, clicking away. Each nugget arrived with the name (or nickname) of the tipster. When there was more than one, the details of the sightings often varied. One guy had Khloe and Lamar checking into the National, while another placed them at the Metropole.
Sasha looked up from her ink tracing and said, "Is only gossip, no?"
"This stuff?" Ann tapped the face of Claude's phone. "Yes, it's pretty dreadful."
"Do you know who is Matt Damon?"
"Sure."
"Does your BlackBerry know where is he? Someday I would like to meet."
"I'm afraid he's married," Ann said.
"Shit," said Sasha. "Then can you look up for me Owen Wilson?"
The phone began to ring. Ann usually let Claude's voice mail pick up, but she felt inspired by Sasha, who said, "You answer. I take a break."
On the other end, a gruff man demanded money.
"This is Fremont Spores. Where the hell's Abbott?"
Ann said, "He's not available right now. I'm his assistant--can I help you?"
"His assistant. That's a good one." Fremont Spores sounded crusty and perturbed. "Yeah, you can ask Claudius where was he yesterday. How come he didn't show up like he said."
In her most soothing PA imitation, Ann said, "I'm so sorry. Did you two have an appointment?"
"The Mickey D's on Lincoln, same as always. Only he blew me off."
"Well, Mr. Abbott's had a very hectic week."
Fremont said, "Who are you? That greasy A-hole owes me two hundred bucks."
Ann was thinking about how Claude had locked her in the trunk of the car; she still had marks on her knuckles from trying to slug her way out. The handcuffing, too--completely unacceptable.
She said, "I wouldn't get your hopes too high, Mr. Spores."
"What?"
"About getting your money. Claude's not the most honorable person."
"Look, I always been straight with him. Now he fucks me over for two lousy C-notes?"
"For what it's worth," said Ann, "he owes me, too."
"How much?"
"Three days of my life."
Fremont said, "Lady, it ain't no joke. This is how I pay the rent."
"Hey, I've got something you might be interested in." Ann told him about a text message that had arrived an hour earlier: party tonite @ pubes. megan fox. lil wayne. u pay for more? word is lindsay mite crash it.
She said, "If Claude hears about this, he'll be there."
Fremont knew the girl was right. They'd all be there, the whole maggot mob. "Tonight, you said. Okay then."
"Maybe you'll get your money after all."
"Somethin' like that."
"Oh, one more thing." Ann could feel Sasha the henna artist pinching her elbow.
"Make it fast," said Fremont.
"You wouldn't happen to know if Owen Wilson was in town."
"I will if he gets busted, or maybe totals a car. That happens, you want a call? It's on me."
Sasha overheard and was nodding excitedly.
"You're a prince," Ann said to Fremont Spores, who grunted dubiously.
She added, "You got the name of the club, right? It's Pubes."
"Oh, I got it. Don't worry."
29
Chemo informed Maury Lykes that he'd decided not to kill the actress.
"Keep your damn money," he told the promoter.
"That's the same thing she said. Is it something in the fuckin' water?"
Maury Lykes was worried; he could not imagine Ann DeLusia fading quietly from the scene. "I'm starting to wonder about you," he said irritably to the bodyguard. "First you pass on Abbott, and now the girl."
"Abbott I can use. The actress, her I like."
They were sitting across from each other in the back of Maury Lykes's limousine, idling in the driveway of the Stefano.
"But she can wreck everything," the promoter said.
"Leave her alone." Chemo wasn't sure why, but he didn't want Maury Lykes hiring another hit man to go after Ann. He felt strongly about this.
"Anything happens to her," he said, "I'll hunt you down and chop your little monkey cock to the nub." To help Maury Lykes visualize, Chemo pressed the covered rotor of the weed whacker into the Y of the promoter's crotch, which was already chafed from a carpet romp with the Czech gymnasts.
"Okay, I get it!" Maury Lykes pushed the prosthesis away. The limo driver's eyes were as wide as a doll's in the rearview mirror. "Who's baby-sitting Cherry?"
"Mom and dad," said Chemo.
"What's on tap for her later?"
"Big night. Room service and Pay-per-View."
"And no actors!"
"Don't worry, Maury."
The promoter's phone began to ring, so Chemo got out of the car. He was approaching the lobby doors when he heard Maury Lykes shout his name.
What now? Chemo thought. He turned and walked back to the limo.
"That was Janet! You won't believe this," the promoter steamed.
"Let me guess."
"She said they left her alone for ten minutes and now she's gone. These people, they're goddamn idiots!" Maury Lykes was an unhealthy shade of purple. "Morons! Boobs!"
Chemo didn't disagree. The genetic proof was Cherry herself.
"I'll check the service exit," he said.
The woman who answered the door was blond and good-looking. She wore a hotel robe. Her coral toenails were freshly painted. When Detective Reilly flashed his badge, she invited him to come in. The room was small and furnished in trendy Caribbean; white drapes, ceiling fans and lots of tropical hardwood. The four-poster bed was made.
"My name's Ann," the woman said.
"Ann what?" Reilly asked.
"DeLusia. With a capital L."
"Are you alone?"
She pointed at the bathroom door. "I'm with a friend. He's in there."
"I'm looking for an individual," the detective said, "for questioning."
He told her the suspect's name was Clinton Tyree, and provided a short, graphic description. "I believe these belonged to him." Reilly held up the shotgun-shell braids. "I found them outside on the ground beneath your window."
The woman named Ann examined the plaits and said, "Wild." Then she knocked on the bathroo
m door. "Captain, you busy?"
Reilly was caught off guard by what happened next. A large man stalked out of the bathroom singing, "Good Lord, I feel like I'm dyin'!"
He wore an expensive-looking blue suit and a matching eye patch. His sun-bronzed head was decorated with mystic-looking slashes and symbols, drawn with what appeared to be dark lipstick. Around his neck was a string bolo tie, cinched with the desiccated beak of a dead bird.
"Are you Governor Tyree?" the detective asked.
"'The strongest man on earth is he who stands most alone.'"
"Excuse me?"
"That's Ibsen. Another gloomy Nord, but palatable in small doses."
The woman named Ann said, "You two chat. I've gotta go get beautiful." She went into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar.
Reilly didn't sit down because he felt intimidated; the one-eyed man already towered over him. "Are these yours?" he asked, displaying the braids.
The suspect laughed. He had to be well into his sixties, yet he looked uncommonly fit. His fists hung at his sides like dented cowbells. "You seem like a decent sort," he said to the detective. "Kindly get to the point. The winsome Ann and I are preparing for an event."
Reilly asked him first about the bus hijacking and the sadistic assault on Jackie Sebago. "You match the description of the suspect--except for those expensive threads."
"You think it's too much?" The one-eyed man pinched the pleats of his pant legs. "The things we do to please the ladies, no?"
"We found a campsite not far from the crime scene."
"Boy Scouts would be my guess. A radical cell."
The man was admitting nothing, and there wasn't much Reilly could do. He didn't have a speck of physical evidence connecting this character to the crime--one lousy fingerprint on a water bottle found far in the boonies, which proved nothing.
The detective said, "Sebago turned up dead yesterday in the crocodile refuge. Shot through the heart with a speargun."
"My, my." The big man cocked his illustrated head. He looked authentically surprised.
"Do you know anything about it?" Reilly asked.
"This murder, or death in general?"
Ann came out of the bathroom and said, "The captain was here with me all day yesterday, Detective. And the day before that and the day before that." She was putting on silver hoop earrings. "I need to get dressed, if you don't mind."