“God,” he exclaimed.
“He’s here somewhere.” The commissioner chuckled at his own joke.
Rudy had never been inside a confession booth before. It was smaller and gloomier than he had imagined; the only light was a tiny amber bulb plugged into a wall socket.
Roberto had planted his fat ass on the kneeling cushion with his back to the screen. Rudy checked to make sure there wasn’t a priest on the other side, listening. Priests could be awful quiet when they wanted.
“Remember,” the commissioner said, raising a finger. “Whisper.”
Right, Rudy thought, like I was going to belt out a Gershwin tune. “Of all the screwy places to do this,” he said.
“It’s quiet,” Roberto Pepsical said. “And very safe.”
“And very small,” Rudy added. “You had anchovies for dinner, didn’t you?”
“There are no secrets here,” said Roberto.
With difficulty, Rudy wedged himself and the Samsonite next to the commissioner on the kneeling bench. Roberto’s body heat bathed both of them in a warm acrid fog, and Rudy wondered how long the oxygen would hold out. He had never heard of anyone suffocating in confession; on the other hand, that was exactly the sort of incident the Catholics would cover up.
“You ready?” Roberto asked with a wink. “What’s that in your pocket?”
“Unfortunately, that’s a subpoena. Some creep got me on the way out of the clinic tonight.” Rudy had been in such a hurry that he hadn’t even looked at the court papers; he was somewhat accustomed to getting sued.
Roberto said, “No wonder you’re in such a lousy mood.”
“It’s not that so much as what happened to my new car. It got vandalized—actually, scoured is the word for it.”
“The Jag? That’s terrible.”
“Oh, it’s been a splendid day,” Rudy said. “Absolutely splendid.”
“Getting back to the money . . .”
“I’ve got it right here.” The doctor opened the suitcase across both their laps, and the confessional was filled with the sharp scent of new money. Rudy Graveline was overwhelmed—it really did smell. Roberto picked up a brick of hundred-dollar bills. “I thought I said twenties.”
“Yeah, and I would’ve needed a bloody U-Haul.”
Roberto Pepsical snapped off the bank wrapper and counted out ten thousand dollars on the floor between his feet. Then he added up the other bundles in the suitcase to make sure the total came to one twenty-five.
Grinning, he held up one of the loose hundreds. “I don’t see many of these. Whose picture is that—Eisenhower’s?”
“No,” said Rudy, stonily.
“What’d the bank say? About you taking all these big bills.”
“Nothing,” Rudy said. “This is Miami, Bobby.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Ebulliently the commissioner restacked the cash bundles and packed them in the Samsonite. He scooped up the loose ten thousand dollars and shoved the thick wad into the pockets of his suit. “This was a smart thing you did.”
Rudy said, “I’m not so sure.”
“You know that plan I told you about . . . about licensing the medical clinics and all that? Me and The Others, we decided to drop the whole thing. We figure that doctors like you got enough rules and regulations as it is.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Rudy Graveline. He wished he had brought some Certs. Roberto could use a whole roll.
“How about a drink?” the commissioner asked. “We could stop at the Versailles, get a couple pitchers of sangría.”
“Yum.”
“Hey, it’s my treat.”
“Thanks,” said the doctor, “but first you know what I’d like to do? I’d like to say a prayer. I’d like to thank the Lord that this problem with Cypress Towers is finally over.”
Roberto shrugged. “Go ahead.”
“Is it all right, Bobby? I mean, since I’m not Catholic.”
“No problem.” The commissioner grunted to his feet, turned around in the booth and got to his knees. The cushion squeaked under his weight. “Do like this,” he said.
Rudy Graveline, who was slimmer, had an easier time with the turnaround maneuver. With the suitcase propped between them, the two men knelt side by side, facing the grated screen through which confessions were heard.
“So pray,” Roberto Pepsical said. “I’ll wait till you’re done. Fact, I might even do a couple Hail Marys myself, long as I’m here.”
Rudy shut his eyes, bowed his head, and pretended to say a prayer.
Roberto nudged him. “I don’t mean to tell you what to do,” he said, “but in here it’s not proper to pray with your hands in your pockets.”
“Of course,” said Rudy, “I’m sorry.”
He took his right hand from his pants and placed it on Roberto’s doughy shoulder. It was too dark for the commissioner to see the hypodermic syringe.
“Hail Mary,” Roberto said, “full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed ar—ow!”
The commissioner pawed helplessly at the needle sticking from his jacket at the crook of the elbow. Considering Rudy’s general clumsiness with injections, it was a minor miracle that he hit the commissioner’s antecubital vein on the first try. Roberto Pepsical hugged the doctor desperately, a panting bear, but already the deadly potassium was streaming toward the valves of his fat clotty heart.
Within a minute the seizure killed him, mimicking the symptoms of a routine infarction so perfectly that the commissioner’s relatives would never challenge the autopsy.
Rudy removed the spent syringe, retrieved the loose cash from Roberto’s pocket, picked up the black suitcase, and slipped out of the stuffy confessional. The air in the church seemed positively alpine, and he paused to breathe it deeply.
In the back row, an elderly Cuban couple turned at the sound of his footsteps on the terrazzo. Rudy nodded solemnly. He hoped they didn’t notice how badly his legs were shaking. He faced the altar and tried to smile like a man whose soul had been cleansed of all sin.
The old Cuban woman raised a bent finger to her forehead, and made the sign of the cross. Rudy worried about Catholic protocol and wondered if he was expected to reply. He didn’t know how to make the sign of the cross, but he put down the suitcase and gave it a gallant try. With a forefinger he touched his brow, his breast, his right shoulder, his left shoulder, his navel, then his brow again.
“Live long and prosper,” he said to the old woman and walked out the doors of the church.
WHEN he got home, Rudy Graveline went upstairs to see Heather Chappell. He sat next to the bed and took her hand. She blinked moistly over the edge of the bandages.
Rudy kissed her knuckles and said, “How are you feeling?”
“I don’t know about you,” Heather said, “but I’m feeling a hundred years old.”
“That’s to be expected. You had quite a day.”
“You sure it went okay?”
“Beautifully,” Rudy said.
“The nose, too?”
“A masterpiece.”
“But I don’t remember a thing.”
Heather couldn’t remember the surgery because there had been no surgery. Rudy had drugged her copiously the night before and kept her drugged the whole day. Heather had lain unconscious for seven hours, whacked out on world-class pharmaceutical narcotics. By the time she awoke, she felt like she’d been sleeping for a month. Her hips, her breasts, her neck, and her nose were all snugly and expertly bandaged, but no scalpel had touched her fine California flesh. Rudy hoped to persuade Heather that the surgery was a glowing success; the absence of scars, a testament to his wizardry. Obviously he had weeks of bogus post-operative counseling ahead of him.
“Can I see the video?” she asked from the bed.
“Later,” Rudy promised. “When you’re up to snuff.”
He had ordered (by FedEx) a series of surgical training cassettes from a medical school in California. Now it was simply a matter of editing the tapes into a plausible
sequence. Gowned, masked, and anesthetized on the operating table, all patients looked pretty much alike to a camera. Meanwhile, all you ever saw of the surgeon was his gloved hands; Heather would never know that the doctor on the videotape was not her lover.
She said, “It’s incredible, Rudolph, but I don’t feel any pain.”
“It’s the medication,” he said. “The first few days, we keep you pretty high.”
Heather giggled. “Eight miles high?”
“Nine,” said Rudy Graveline, “at least.”
He tucked her hand beneath the sheets and picked up something from the bedstand. “Look what I’ve got.”
She squinted through the fuzz of the drugs. “Red and blue and white,” she said dreamily.
“Plane tickets,” Rudy said. “I’m taking you on a trip.”
“Really?”
“To Costa Rica. The climate is ideal for your recovery.”
“For how long?”
Rudy said, “A month or two, maybe longer. As long as it takes, darling.”
“But I’m supposed to do a Password with Betty White.”
“Out of the question,” said Rudy. “You’re in no condition for that type of stress. Now get some sleep.”
“What’s that noise?” she asked, lifting her head.
“The doorbell, sweetheart. Lie still now.”
“Costa Rica,” Heather murmured. “Where’s that, anyhow?”
Rudy kissed her on the forehead and told her he loved her.
“Yeah,” she said. “I know.”
Whoever was at the door was punching the button like it was a jukebox. Rudy hurried down the stairs and checked through the glass peephole.
Chemo signaled mirthlessly back at him.
“Shit.” Rudy sighed, thought of his Jaguar, and opened the door.
“Why did you destroy my car?”
“Teach you some manners,” Chemo said. Another bandaged woman stood at his side.
“Maggie?” Rudy Graveline said. “Is that you?”
Chemo led her by the hand into the big house. He found the living room and made himself comfortable in an antique rocking chair. Maggie Gonzalez sat on a white leather sofa. Her eyes, which were Rudy’s only clue to her mood, seemed cold and hostile.
Chemo said, “Getting jerked around is not my favorite thing. I ought to just kill you.”
“What good would that do?” Rudy said. He stepped closer to Maggie and asked, “Who did your face?”
“Leaper,” she said.
“Leonard Leaper? Up in New York? I heard he’s good—mind if I look?”
“Yes,” she said, recoiling. “Rogelio, make him get away!”
“Rogelio?” Rudy looked quizzically at Chemo.
“It’s your fucking fault,” he said. “That’s the name you put on the tickets. Now leave her alone.” Chemo stopped rocking. He eyed Rudy Graveline as if he were a palmetto bug.
The surgeon sat near Maggie on the white leather sofa and said to Chemo, “So how’re the dermabrasions healing?”
Self-consciously the killer’s hand went to his chin. “All of a sudden you’re concerned about my face. Now that you’re afraid.”
“Well, you look good,” Rudy persisted. “Really, it’s a thousand percent improvement.”
“Jesus H. Christ.”
Irritably Maggie said, “Let’s get to the point, okay? I want to get out of here.”
“The money,” Chemo said to the doctor. “We decided on one million, even.”
“For what!” Rudy was trying to stay cool, but his tone was trenchant.
Chemo started rocking again. “For everything,” he said. “For Maggie’s videotape. For Stranahan. For stopping that TV show about the dead girl. That’s worth a million dollars. In fact, the more I think about it, I’d say it’s worth two.”
Rudy folded his arms and said, “You do everything you just said, and I’ll gladly give you a million dollars. As of now, you get nothing but expenses because you haven’t done a damn thing but stir up trouble.”
“That’s not true,” Maggie snapped.
“We’ve been busy,” Chemo added. “We got a big surprise.”
Rudy said, “I’ve got a big surprise, too. A malpractice suit. And guess whose name is on the witness list?”
He jerked an accusing thumb at Maggie, who said, “That’s news to me.”
Rudy went on, “Some fellow named Nordstrom. Lost his eye in some freak accident and now it’s all my fault.”
Maggie said, “I never heard of a Nordstrom.”
“Well, your name is right there in the file. Witness for the plain-tiff. Why should I pay you people a dime?”
“All the more reason,” Chemo said. “I believe it’s called hush money.”
“No,” said the doctor, “that’s not the way it goes.”
Chemo stood up from the rocker. He took two large steps across the living room and punched Rudy Graveline solidly in the gut. The doctor collapsed in a gagging heap on the Persian carpet. Chemo turned him over with one foot. Then he cranked up the Weed Whacker.
“Oh God,” cried Rudy, raising his hands to shield his eyes. Quickly Maggie moved out of the way, her facial bandages crinkled in trepidation.
“I got a new battery,” Chemo said. “A Die-Hard. Watch this.”
He started weed-whacking Rudy’s fine clothes. First he shredded the shirt and tie, then he tried trimming the curly brown hair on Rudy’s chest. The doctor yelped pitiably as nasty pink striations appeared beneath his nipples.
Chemo was working the machine toward Rudy’s pubic zone when he spied something inside the tattered lining of the surgeon’s tan coat. He turned off the Weed Whacker and leaned down for a closer look.
With his good hand Chemo reached into the silky entrails of Rudy’s jacket and retrieved the severed corner of a one-hundred-dollar bill. Excitedly he probed around until he found more: handfuls, blessedly unshredded.
Chemo spread the money on the coffee table, beneath which Rudy thrashed and moaned impotently. The stricken surgeon observed the accounting firsthand, gazing up through the frosted glass. As the cash grew to cover the table, Rudy’s face hardened into a mask of abject disbelief. On his way back from the church he had meant to stop at the clinic and return the money to the drop safe. Now it was too late.
“Count it,” Chemo said to Maggie.
Excitedly she riffled through the bills. “Nine thousand two hundred,” she reported. “The rest is all chopped up.”
Chemo dragged Dr. Graveline from under the coffee table. “Why you carrying this much cash?” he said. “Don’t tell me the Jag dealer won’t take credit cards.” His moist salamander eyes settled on the black Samsonite, which Rudy had stupidly left in the middle of the hallway.
Rudy sniffled miserably as he watched Chemo kick open the suitcase and crouch down to count the rest of the money. “Well, well,” said the killer.
“What are you going to do with it?” the doctor asked.
“Gee, I think we’ll give it to the United Way. Or maybe Jerry’s kids.” Chemo walked over to Rudy and poked his bare belly with the warm head of the Weed Whacker. “What the hell you think we’re going to do with it? We’re gonna spend it, and then we’re gonna come back for more.”
After they had gone, Dr. Rudy Graveline sprawled on the rumpled Persian carpet for a long time, thinking: This is what a Harvard education has gotten me—extorted, beaten, stripped, scandalized, and chopped up like an artichoke. The doctor’s fingers gingerly explored the tumescent stripes that crisscrossed his chest and abdomen. If it didn’t sting so much, the sight would be almost comical.
It occurred to Rudy Graveline that Chemo and Maggie had forgotten to tell him their big secret, whatever it was they had done, whatever spectacular felony they had committed to earn this first garnishment.
And it occurred to Rudy that he wasn’t all that curious. In fact, he was somewhat relieved not to know.
CHAPTER 27
THE man from the medical exami
ner’s office took one look in the back of the tree truck and said: “Mmmm, lasagna.”
“That’s very funny,” said Al García. “You oughta go on the Carson show. Do a whole routine on stiffs.”
The man from the medical examiner’s office said, “Al, you gotta admit—”
“I told you what happened.”
“—but you gotta admit, there’s a humorous aspect.”
Coroners made Al García jumpy; they always got so cheery when somebody came up with a fresh way to die.
The detective said, “If you think it’s funny, fine. You’re the one’s gotta do the autopsy.”
“First I’ll need a casserole dish.”
“Hilarious,” said García. “Absolutely hilarious.”
The man from the medical examiner’s office told him to lighten up, said everybody needs a break in the monotony, no matter what line of work. “I get tired of gunshot wounds,” the coroner said. “It’s like a damn assembly line down there. GSW head, GSW thorax, GSW neck—it gets old, Al.”
García said, “Listen, go ahead, make your jokes. But I need you to keep this one outta the papers.”
“Good luck.”
The detective knew it wouldn’t be easy to keep the lid on George Graveline’s death. Seven squad cars, an ambulance, and a body wagon—even in Miami, that’ll draw a crowd. The gawkers were being held behind yellow police ribbons strung along Crandon Boulevard. Soon the minicams would arrive, and the minicams could zoom in for close-ups.
“I need a day or two,” García said. “No press, and no next of kin.”
The man from the medical examiner shrugged. “It’ll take at least that long to make the I.D., considering what’s left. I figure we’ll have to go dental.”
“Whatever.”
“I’ll need to impound the truck,” the coroner said. “And this fancy toothpick machine.”
García said he would have them both towed downtown.
The coroner stuck his head into the maw of the wood chipper and examined the blood-smeared blades. “There ought to be bullet fragments,” he said, “somewhere in this mess.”
García said, “Hey, Sherlock, I told you what happened. I shot the asshole, okay? My gun, my bullets.”