The Heat Islands: A Doc Ford Novel (11 page)

"The guy without the uniform, it wasn't Lester Durell, was it?"

"Who?"

"You know, that police major I went to high school with."

"They all look alike to me, man. All I see is their guns and their beady little eyes."

"And you're normally so fair-minded."

"Well ..."

As they got to the marina, two of the uniforms and the plainclothes cop came out of Jeth's apartment, talking among themselves. Plainclothes was carrying a large black briefcase, and Ford knew he was part of an evidence team. It wasn't Les Durell.

They were walking toward the docks, and Ford increased his pace to catch them, calling when he got close enough, "They're making all you guys work on a Sunday?" Trying to fix his smile just right; curious but relaxed.

All three men stopped, their eyes latching on to him— taking in Tomlinson, too—and Ford said quickly, "I'm a friend of Jeth's. What's going on?"

One of the uniforms said, "Police business—that's what's going on," like slamming a door in his face, but plainclothes said, "How well do you know Mr. Nicholes?" fixing his own smile and opening the door a little.

"Pretty well. I see him just about every day."

"Oh?" Still wearing that easy expression, but there was nothing easy about plainclothes s eyes; a short man, but huge in the shoulders, with a plain face that seemed bigger because he was nearly bald, and with big hands showing from the brown blazer he wore. Ford knew that plainclothes was sorting him out, probably just as he had sorted out that blazer, having to buy off the rack because he couldn't afford anything else, and now he was trying to figure out which rack Ford belonged on.

Ford said, "I live over there on that stilt house." He pointed beyond the fish-cleaning table, through the mangroves. "I spend a lot of time around the marina."

"So you work here?"

"No."

"I thought you might be one of the fishing guides."

"No, I'm a biologist. My name's Ford." He held his hand out to plainclothes, not surprised by the cop's slow acquiescence, his reluctance to shake hands. "And you are...?"

"Detective Fuller. Maybe you wouldn't mind showing us which one is Mr. Nicholes's boat."

Behind him. Tomlinson cleared his throat, meaning the cops already knew where Jeth's boat was, but Ford said, "Sure, be happy to," playing right along. Plainclothes would want to pump information out of him, but maybe he could get some information in return.

As Ford started to lead them down the dock, Tomlinson called, "I assume you people have a search warrant?" Giving it a chilly edge, standing his ground, not following them. "You need one to get on a private citizen's boat."

Detective Fuller turned and looked at him for a moment, then just smiled and walked on. To Ford, he said, "Your friend with the long hair seems upset about something."

"I think he had a bad experience at the 'Sixty-eight

Democratic Convention."

'"What? Oh. I get it!"

Ford said. "It's not a joke."

"No kiddin'? Well, you know what, Mr. Ford? I don't blame your friend. Don't blame him a bit. I remember those days, but I still believe the cops did what they had to do." Very congenial, playing the good guy to put Ford in a talkative mood.

Ford said, "That's Jeth's boat, the blue one. See the sign?"

Fuller stopped at the dock above the Suncoast, a plain open fiberglass boat, no wood, no chrome, a pure work boat with a center console and good live wells. He was opening the big briefcase, handing out a miniature vacuum and a smaller aluminum case to the two uniforms, saying, "Lance, you sweep first, then—Harold? You dust for prints right behind him. Keep your eyes open."

Ford said, "My gosh, Jeth isn't in some kind of trouble, is he?"

Replying innocently to Ford's innocent question. Fuller said. "Naw, this is just routine." playing right along with Ford now. "You heard about Mr. Rios dying? Well, a guy with that much money, we have to do a full investigation. We're just trying to talk to anybody who might have been out on the water the night he was killed."

"Murdered," Ford said.

The detective shrugged, watching the two uniforms work. "Medical examiner's report says Rios died from some kind of blunt trauma, but that doesn't really tell us much. Could have just slipped and hit his head. Just a lot of confusing medical talk; a C-two fracture—"

"Which is a broken neck. That's what Rios died from?" Fuller looked at him coolly. "That's right."

"So you're talking to everyone who was on the water Thursday night, and taking evidence from their boats? You fellows have a lot of work ahead of you. Just on the chance Rios was murdered."

Fuller said, "I didn't get your first name. Mr. Ford," wanting to reverse the momentum.

"Marion. But people around here call me Doc."

"A Ph.D.?"

"That's right."

"In biology. And you've known Mr. Nicholes for...?"

"Nearly two years. Jeth's a good man; he was born and raised in this area, a lot of people know him. And he's very ... kind, in his way."

"Uh-huh. Childlike, that's the way Mr. MacKinley described him."

So they'd already talked with Mack.

Ford said, "Well, maybe boyish, but he's not dumb."

"And kind."

"Right."

"People at Two Parrot Bight Marina told me that Nicholes and Rios had quite a fight Thursday afternoon. Some threats were exchanged. From some of the things Nicholes supposedly said, he's not always so kind. I don't guess you were there?"

Ford said, "So that's what this is about." Like he didn't know.

"We're just talking to a lot of people, trying to get things sorted out."

"I heard Jeth and Rios had an argument, not a fight."

"Right, right; semantics. Bad choice of words. An argument, not a fight." Fuller was smiling, letting Ford know that the concession didn't bother him a bit. "So you weren't there."

"If you guys have to get search warrants for everyone who had an argument with Marvin Rios, you're going to need reinforcements. And more judges."

"Well, don't quote me on it. but I heard the guy was a real asshole. Rios, I mean. I know the type. Too much money and too much ego."

"Whoever told you they saw Rios on Jeth's boat made a mistake, that's my guess."

Fuller said, "Yeah, but we have to check it out—" and stopped suddenly, realizing what he had just told Ford. Then he said. "What makes you think somebody told us that?"

"You got a judge to sign a warrant on a Sunday, I just figured it had to be more than an argument—"

"Did you see Rios on Mr. Nicholes's boat?"

"No, I doubt if he ever was—"

"Then that's a very odd thing to say. Dr. Ford."

"Not really. It's a reasonable assumption."

"You're sure you're not trying to protect him?"

From the boat, one of the uniforms, the one with the little vacuum, said. "Hey. Roy. check this out." He had his face close to the transom, the plank of fiberglass that separated the back of the boat from the engine. "I got some hair here, and maybe some blood, too."

Ford thought.
Oh, shit...

Detective Fuller, whose first name must have been Roy, looked at Ford; a frank expression, still amused, but not about to take any more crap. "Been nice talking to you, Dr. Ford," dismissing him, just like that.

"I don't mind waiting, if you have any more questions—"

"This may come as a surprise to you. Dr. Ford, but I get along just fine working on my own. In fact, we usually put up yellow tape to keep civilians out of the way, but if you just move back there by the marina, we won't have to."

Fuller waited until Ford turned to go. He stepped down into the boat.

MacKinley was saying. "The detective, the one without the uniform, asked me a few questions. His name was ... Fuller. What sort of person was Jeth, how long was he out in his boat this weekend, had he been acting odd lately? Made quite a point of how strong Jeth looked. I told him yes; hope I didn't do anything to get him in trouble. Doc."

"Yes that Jeth was strong?"

"That, too, but that he really hasn't been himself lately. He hasn't been—you know that. I've been wondering if the bugger had started using drugs. He's just so... spacey. All month he's been like that. Maybe longer."

Ford said, "Never lie to a policeman; they always find out."

MacKinley was sitting on the bar chair behind the cash register, feeling miserable, while Ford stood at the glass counter, going over Jeth's charter schedule, a black appointment book that had seen a lot of rough use. From the apartment above them, they could bear water running.

Jeth hadn't been down since the police left half an hour ago, and now he was taking a shower.

Ford said, "What's it mean where you've taped over dates here, then written over the tape?" Ford held up Jeth's appointment book so MacKinley could see.

"That's where charters canceled, but I later rebooked the time slot."

The marina booked all the guides and took 15 percent of the gross as an agent's fee.

MacKinley said, "There's a lot of that in Jeth's book because people call in here wanting a guide, so I book them—tell them to mail in a deposit-but Jeth comes in and looks and says the tides are bad that day, so he calls them and has them rebook later. Then, when it's busy, I end up having to book him for the bad tides, anyway. It's a pain in the butt."

"Felix and Nels don't do that?"

MacKinley thought for a moment, then said. "I guess they do. They all do that." He smiled. "I guess they're all a pain in the butt. But they bring people into the marina, especially during the summer for tarpon, and that's the island's slow time. And the people buy suntan lotion and hats and beer, so I profit two ways."

Ford said, "And Jeth has written 'do not book' on days he doesn't want to fish?"

"Right. That costs me money, but I just let them do what they want. Trying to organize fishing guides is like trying to organize a bunch of snakes. I think that's why they hated Rios. Rios treated them as hired help."

Ford was counting. "Jeth cancelled the whole first week of June. Then he fished on the eighth, took off the ninth and tenth, fished the weekend, took Monday off, then fished through Thursday. He's hardly worked at all."

"Uh-huh. First week of June, he said his grandmother was sick and he wanted to visit her. You knew that."

"I knew he was gone, but I didn't know why. Is that a normal amount of days for him to take off?"

"During tarpon season last year, he was fishing two or three four-hour trips a day, seven days a week. You know Jeth. He's always short of money because he can't turn down anybody who asks for a loan, and he has all those girlfriends, plus he's always breaking stuff on his boat. Tries to fix things, and it just snaps in those hands of his. And he's gotten worse. Last week, he came in here, tripped over something, knocked that whole rack of T-shirts over, fishhooks and sinkers flying everywhere, then just sat there on the floor like he was going to cry. A twenty-eight-year-old man."

"Did he say why he was taking so many days off?"

"I asked. He just said there were more important things in life than being a fishing guide. Like maybe he was spending a lot of time with a woman. Or out looking for another job, but I didn't pursue it."

"Did Detective Fuller look at this book?"

"Never asked, so I didn't offer. People think guides work a regular schedule; they don't think about them keeping calendars."

Talking more to himself than to MacKinley, Ford said, "And he doesn't stutter anymore."

"What?"

Ford said, "When Jeth came in last night, he didn't stutter. We talked for maybe ten minutes, and he didn't do it once. Have you noticed that?"

"No-o-o-o. Well. I'm not sure, really. I saw him briefly Thursday late, and he was stuttering so bad, he could hardly get it out about the argument he had with Rios. Then he took off, so I didn't see him Friday or Saturday. Then today, I didn't see him much—he chartered this afternoon—then he helped me with the bait pump and ... come to think of it, I can't remember him stuttering. He was telling me some long story, about something he saw down in the Everglades."

"The green flash."

"About a sunset or something, exactly. But you know

how it is with Jeth—sometimes you just tune him out when he gets to talking."

Above them, a door closed, and there was the sound of steps on the stairs and, through the big window, they watched Jeth Nicholes exit onto the cement walk beside the parking lot. His hair was still wet and he was wearing dark-blue sweatpants and a white T-shirt that showed his biceps. He waved at them, an embarrassed grin on his face, then opened the marina door and poked his head in. "They just wanted to ask me a lot of questions, that's all." Ford said, "Did the police tell you it was about Rios?"

"Not at first, but I'm not dumb. All straightened out now, though. I told them what I did; my boat trip."

"You gave them the names of the people who saw you down there, right?"

Jeth was shaking his head. "I didn't see anybody down there. I mean, I saw a few other boats off Marco and the Ten Thousand Islands, but I didn't stop and talk. And I didn't see anybody around Cape Sable, except a few canoeists."

"You talked to the canoeists? You did, didn't you?" Jeth appeared taken aback at Ford's tone. "Hell no. Why would I talk to anybody crazy enough to canoe in an area like that?"

"And you didn't stop at any marinas, not even Flamingo."

"No, why should I? I had extra fuel. What're you worried about. Doc? The cops knew I was telling the truth. I liked that one guy. Fuller. He fishes."

Ford said, "Yeah, Fuller is a gem."

"Well," said Jeth, "I'm going out to see Tomlinson now. He's going to teach me how to meditate."

MacKinley and Ford were looking at each other, their expressions pained. Jeth said, "Tomlinson is a very spiritual person. I wisht I'da realized it sooner."

During the seeond decade of his life, Tomlinson had wanted so badly to be wise that he sometimes embraced beliefs in which he had no confidence and many times spoke words in which he had no faith. He alternately embraced and rejected politics and religion, religion and politics, spewing out dogma while ingesting pills, powders, and psychedelic mushrooms.