Island of Bones (20 page)

There was only one answer. Frank Woods wasn’t his real name. Which was why Landeta hadn’t been able to find any history on the guy. And without even a real name to go on, it was a sure bet they weren’t going to find any now. Or anything concrete to connect Frank to the Umber case.

Louis slipped the picture back in his pocket and started down to the Mustang. It was going to be a long drive home -— all the way back to square one.

It was past seven by the time Louis headed the Mustang back over the Caloosahatchee Bridge. On Cleveland Avenue, he stopped at a 7-Eleven and called Landeta.

“Why are you calling me at home?” Landeta
asked.

“I found out something important about Frank Woods.” Louis waited. He could hear Landeta breathing heavily. “You want to know what it is or not?”

“So tell me, Rocky.”

“Look, I haven’t eaten all day. I’m going to grab something at McDonald’s and then I’m heading over to the station. Meet me there and we’ll go over it.”

“No,” Landeta said. There was a pause. “Why don’t you just come over here?”

“Your place?”

“Yeah.”

Landeta inviting him to his home? What was this, some new attempt at making nice?

“All right,” Louis said finally. “Give me your address.”

The address turned out to be
nearby on First Street, only about a mile from the Fort Myers Police Station. The Babcock Apartments were above an empty store. Most of the old storefronts had FOR RENT signs in the windows. The street was empty of people and traffic. Louis grabbed a couple of Frank’s books and went into the lobby.

He scanned the mailboxes for Landeta’s name, and pressed the buzzer for Number 1. When nothing happened, Louis peered through the
second locked glass door into the plain hallway. He buzzed again. Nothing.

He was just about to give up when he saw Landeta coming down the stairs. Landeta jerked open the door.

“Sorry,” he said, “I was on the phone.”

Louis stood in front of him, the books from Frank’s apartment in his arms. Landeta didn’t move, didn’t seem interested in inviting Louis in.

“I saw Sophie Reardon’s father this afternoon,” Louis said.

“Who?”

“Sophie Reardon. Diane’s mother...Frank’s wife. I finally got Diane to give me the maiden name.”

“And?”

“I have some stuff I need to tell you. You going to ask me in?” The lobby was hotter than an oven.

Landeta didn’t budge. “Tell me here.”

Louis drew in a breath. “Look, I’m tired of this shit. I’ve been your errand boy long enough. You asked me to come over here. Either you let me in and we talk or I take what I have to Horton.”

Landeta hesitated a moment then stepped back. “Okay. Come on up.”

Louis followed him up the narrow stairs to the second floor. Landeta was dressed in plain black pants and what looked like just an older version of his usual white dress shirt, neck unbuttoned, sleeves rolled above the elbows. He was wearing only black socks on his feet.

Landeta closed the apartment door behind Louis. “Have a seat,” he said, moving into the living room.

It wasn’t a big place but its spareness made it look as if it were. The walls were all white, the wood floor left bare, the windows that looked out onto First Street were covered with white blinds. There was a beat-up black leather sofa and a couple of plain black wood tables. A black Ikea entertainment center dominated one wall, holding a TV and a good stereo system. A well-worn black Eames chair was positioned close in front of the TV and there was a sleek black desk with a black drafting table lamp hovering over it. There was nothing on the walls, no books, no plants, no knickknacks, nothing to relieve the black-and-white decor. No color anywhere in fact, except for the rows of albums, tapes, and compact disks carefully arranged on the shelves of the entertainment center.

The room was lit up like a hospital operating room, and it smelled of acrid cigarette smoke with an under
note of lemon Renuzit. It was all bare-bones style, and as charmless as the man who lived in it.

Except for the music coming from the stereo. Louis recognized it immediately
—- Clyde McPhatter singing “Let’s Try Again.”

“You want a drink? I got Diet Coke,” Landeta said. A second’s pause. “And I think there’s a beer in there somewhere.”

“Beer,” Louis said. He sat on the edge of the leather sofa, setting Frank’s books down on the coffee table next to a boomerang-shaped glass ashtray overflowing with butts. He heard Landeta moving around in the kitchen.

“I found out something interesting about Sophie,” Louis called out over the music. “She ran away from home when she was eighteen.”

No answer from the kitchen. Just sounds of drawers opening, clanking metal like spoons and knives.

“Sophie’s old man told me she ran off with Frank and that he used to come into his drugstore,” Louis said, raising his voice over the noise. “He said Frank was
—-”

There was a
sudden crash in the kitchen.

“Fucking motherfucking sonofabitch!” Landeta
yelled.

Louis jumped up and went to the door. Landeta was standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding his left hand. A drawer lay on the floor, surrounded by knives, forks, spoons, and kitchen utensils.

Landeta’s face was red. So was his left hand, blood dripping onto the white tile. He stared at Louis.

“The fucking knife was in the drawer! I didn’t see the fucking knife in the drawer!”

Suddenly, Landeta drew back a foot and kicked the wooden drawer, sending it crashing against the refrigerator. Landeta just stood there, chest heaving, eyes closed. The bouncing blues of McPhatter’s “I Can’t Stand Up Alone” filtered in from the living room.

Louis took a step into the kitchen. “Hey, man, take it easy.”

Landeta was holding his hand, dripping blood. He seemed lost, glancing around the kitchen for something. He took a step then began groping around the white tile countertop for a towel. Louis could see the white towel, several feet from Landeta’s outstretched right hand.

“Goddamn it.”

Louis watched him. He was looking around, down at the floor, still holding his bloody hand.

What the hell was going on?

“Can I help?” Louis asked.

“The towel. Hand me the towel.”

Louis held out the towel. Landeta grabbed it and wrapped it around his finger. He walked slowly to the sink, picking his way over the spilled silverware, recoiling when he stepped on a fork tine. Louis watched in silence as Landeta turned on the faucet and held his bleeding hand under the water.

Landeta again pressed the towel to the cut, his back to Louis. He turned off the water, but didn’t move from the sink.

“What’s going on?” Louis asked.

It took Landeta a few seconds to answer. His voice was as rigid as the muscles in his shoulders.

“I can’t see,” he said.

“What?”

“I can’t see,” Landeta repeated. “I’m going blind.”

Louis felt himself tighten.
Blind?

“You should have asked for the Diet Coke,” Landeta said
. Louis’s eyes went from the green bottle of unopened Heineken on the counter to the mess of flatware on the floor. He bent down and picked up the bottle opener, holding it out to Landeta.

“Open it yourself
,” Landeta said. He trudged out of the kitchen.

A moment later the music stopped. Louis set the opener on the counter next to the beer and followed Landeta back to the living room. Landeta was standing at the stereo. He went to the Eames chair and sat down, holding his towel-wrapped hand
.

“You’re blind?” Louis asked
.

“Going
blind. There’s a difference.”

Landeta unwrapped his finger, looked at it, and wrapped it again. “You ever think how ironic that sounds? Going blind? Like it’s a good thing, like you’re going somewhere you can look forward to?”

Louis came back to sit on the edge of the sofa. “How long?” he asked.

Landeta gave a small shrug. “About ten years now. Retinitis pigmentosa is a kind disease. Your eyes commit suicide, but it
takes a long time.” He unwrapped his hand to stare at his finger again. “Gives you plenty of time to...adjust.”

Louis let his eyes wander around
the room. No rugs to trip over, no knickknacks to knock off tables, no shadows to get lost in, no pretty pictures on the walls. Suddenly the place didn’t look so stylish anymore. It looked like survival.

He started thinking back, his mind clicking on images of Landeta, trying to remember what the guy had done to cover
up his problem. Back in the mangroves, asking all those questions about Shelly Umber’s body. Back in the office, asking him to read him the autopsy report, and at the cottage, telling him to read him the reports on the missing girls and then knocking over the glass of water.

When they had been talking at O’Sullivan’s about making your own luck, and Landeta saying something about fate taking it away. And all those questions that had seemed so arrogant:
Why don't you read me the report while I clean off my desk, Kincaid? What do you see, Kincaid? What does the scene look like?

Louis felt a twinge of anger at being used. And something else, a heat moving up the back of his neck, as if it were radiating off of Landeta
—- the heat of embarrassment, swirling around them both like the cigarette-stale air.

“You want to leave,” Landeta said. He nodded toward the door. “Go ahead. Get out of here.”

Louis rose. Landeta didn’t look up. Louis went into the kitchen, picked up the bottle opener and popped off the Heineken cap. He came back and sat down on the sofa and took a long pull of the beer. It was warm. He didn’t care.

“Does Horton know?” he asked.

Landeta shook his head slowly. “He called me right after the thing in Miami. I was going to tell him then. But then he offered me the job over here. Once I got here and started working again, I figured I could pull it off.”

“This why you get Strickland to drive you everywhere?”

Landeta nodded.

Louis hesitated. “This why you left Miami PD?”

Landeta sank back in the leather chair. The front of his white shirt was splattered with blood. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Louis could almost feel the man’s wariness.

“Look, if you don’t want to talk about
—-” Louis began.

“Nah, I should. That’s what the shrink said.” He looked at Louis. “You ever seen one?”

“A shrink?” Louis nodded. “Yeah, once. Up in Michigan after my partner got shot. Department policy, that kind of shit.”

They were quiet. Landeta put his glasses back on and leaned his head back in the chair.

“So what happened in Miami?” Louis asked.

“I was still driving some then,” he said. “I knew the way to work by
heart and if we had to go out at night, I’d have my partner drive. I knew I had to stop. I couldn’t even read the signs anymore. But giving up your wheels, shit, it’s like admitting you’re an old man.”

Landeta paused. “Then one morning, I was driving into the station and the pursuit call went out
. It was instinct. I took off after the guy. I never saw the kid in the other car.”

“Horton told me
the kid ran a light,” Louis said.

Landeta shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. I didn’t see him.” He took a deep breath. “The kid ended up in a wheelchair and the family sued. My chief found out about the RP. He told me he’d keep it quiet if I resigned. It was almost a relief.”

The room was quiet. Outside, a siren wailed and faded. A mile from the station, an easy walk, Louis thought.

“You want another beer?” Landeta asked.

Louis shook his head.

“I said do you want another beer?”

Louis started to shake his head again then realized Landeta hadn’t seen it. “No, no, thanks,” he said.

“So how much...?” Louis faltered.

“How much can I see? I’ve got tunnel vision and what’s there is like looking through a shower stall that’s got soap scum all over it.” He held up his glasses. “The yellow lenses give me more contrast. So does having things in black and white. Like my clothes. Makes getting dressed easier.”

He gestured to the televis
ion three feet away. “If I sit right in front of it and turn the contrast and brightness buttons on high I can see some TV, but lately it makes my eyes hurt.”

Louis looked down at the beer bottle in his hands.

“You’re just a flesh-colored blur,” Landeta said.

Louis looked up.

“What color are your eyes?” Landeta asked.

“Gray.”

“I was guessing blue for some reason.”

Louis hesitated. “I’m black.”

Landeta stared at him. Then he let out a huge bark of a laugh. “No shit? I thought you just had a good tan.”

Louis laughed. The room grew quiet again. A clock chimed nine times. Louis looked for it but didn’t see it.

“You going to tell Horton?” Landeta asked.

Louis could hear it in the m
an’s voice. It was buried, somewhere deep under the layers of pride and macho crap, deep under all the stuff that started accumulating the moment you understood you were a boy, male, a man. It was buried there underneath the scar tissue around the heart, underneath that veneer they painted on you at the academy that eventually hardened over you like a tough blue shell. Buried there, underneath all of it, Louis could hear the vulnerability.