A Hard Death (28 page)

J
enner stood in front of the charred husk of his cabin, a big garbage bag for his belongings in his hand. It was almost two a.m., and the air had cooled; the smoke had driven the insects away.

He sat on the lip of the porch, cell phone in hand. He stared at the parking lot, breathing in the wet burned-wood smell and acrid chemical aroma of scorched plastic and fire-retardant foam.

He glanced down at his phone; still half-charged. He dialed Jun in New York; Jun answered on the second ring.

“Hey, Jenner. You okay?”

“Yeah. Just about. It's been rough…”

“We know. We've been watching it on TV—fucking Amanda Tucker, right? She's all over your jimmy.”

“She's been on TV
already
?”

“Yah. It was actually pretty great—they had her in the hospital ER, all bandaged up and shit, broadcasting live. Network, baby!”

“What did she say about me?”

“She said you saved her life! It was pretty great.”

“Huh.”

“But then she said other stuff, not so great.”

“I'll bet.” Jenner smiled in the dark.

“When you coming back?”

“Soon. They're riding me out of the county.”

“Well, good. It was time for you to leave. You need more money, bro? Say the word, I'll wire some down tonight.”

“I don't know. I'm almost out. I have to do one more autopsy, then I'm gone.” Jenner checked for soot, then leaned against the porch post.

“You've done enough. Why can't you just take off?”

“Because they murdered the detective I was working with, and he was a good guy. And because Marty Roburn was like a father to me. And because I don't trust the cops down here to do right by them. I think they're dirty, at least some of them—I know they've been following me.”

“Jenner, the cops are
always
dirty! Fuck, man, let it go! I respect you wanting to look out for your friends, but you've done enough. They tried to kill you, too! Just get in that fucking car and
drive
, man! Florida's not the place for you. You need to leave, right now.”

He thought about it. “Maybe you're right.”

“You know it.” There was a pause, then Jun said, “Also, Amanda's saying you've hooked up with some billionaire's daughter—that true?”

He was silent a second. “Sort of.”

“Whoa! Nice work!”

Now everyone in the world knew. He flashed on Halvorsen saying Chip Craine owned La Grulla Blanca.

“It's over. It was just a one-night stand.”

“They had a photo of her.”

Christ. “It's over.”

“Dude, you should rethink that—seriously, she was
hot
…”

“Yes, she's very hot. But it's a one-night stand. Her choice, not mine.”

Something stirred behind him, inside the cabin, deep in the shadows.

“Jun, I gotta go.”

“You gotta go?
You gotta go call her
, dude! That's where you gotta go…”

Jenner disconnected.

He stepped back from the deck and looked warily into the darkness beyond the yellow tape.

There was the flare of a match, and he saw Maggie's face for a second as she lit the cigarette.

“Hi, Jenner. Who's hot?”

“You are.”

Maggie shook out the match, but it continued to glow. She shrugged and threw it on the floor with a dry laugh. “Not like it can do much damage now…”

She was on the couch in the unburned half of the room, a blanket
spread beneath her. In the black velvet shadow, in the smell of burned wood and plastic, dappled by the light that fell through the scorched timber frame, she seemed to float above the ashes. She was immaculate and whole, her hair glowing faintly, her bare shoulders elegant and pure; Jenner had never seen her more beautiful.

She held something in her lap, a flat rectangular box. She lifted it up with the ghost of a smile and said, “
The Old Woman by the Fishing Port
, Jenner? I'm not sure I'm flattered you think I'm hot.”

He shrugged. “You've been there all this time?”

She looked at her watch. “Since about one o'clock. I figured you'd come back for your stuff.”

“You could've called.”

“I thought I'd surprise you.” She took a drag.
“Surprise!”

“What do you want?”

Maggie smiled brightly. “
Blood!
I've come back for
blood
…”

Jenner stepped over the yellow tape and sat next to her, and looked at her silently.

“Not in a joking mood?” She exhaled. “Where's your little woodland friend?”

“Ranger Putnam?” He didn't know why he said it like that.

“Ah, yes…
Ranger Putnam
…Where is Ranger Putnam? Putting out forest fires?” She smiled mirthlessly.

“There's something I need to ask you.”

“What?”

“Your father's farm…”

“La Grulla Blanca?” Maggie wrinkled her brow. “What's there to know? Daddy keeps prize pigs, and they grow vegetables, I think. What about it?”

“Does he go there a lot?”

“No. Pretty much the only reason he owns it is for the Fourth of July party—we have a big thing each year at Stella, and they dig a barbecue pit and roast a couple of his hogs. He probably goes up there one night a month, maybe two—the manager comes down to Stella from time to time. Why? What's this about?”

“He stays the night?”

“Yes, usually.” Maggie's eyes narrowed. “Why? What's so weird about that?”

“It's not a long drive back to town. Why does he stay there?”

“Because he
owns
the place?” She rolled her eyes. “Jesus, Jenner, I don't know, ask him—maybe he likes to get up early to run naked with the pigs!”

Jenner didn't smile. “Do you know what happened here?”

“Yes!” She motioned with her cigarette at the wreckage. “Someone threw a bomb into your cabin. Is it because of the hanged men?”

“I think it's connected.” Jenner paused. “Did you hear anything else?”

“Nope. Well, I know Amanda Tucker was with you when it happened—what's up with
that
, Jenner? A little taste of forbidden fruit? After the hatchet job she did on you…”

“Did you know Rudge, Detective David Rudge?”

“Why are you interrogating me like this?” She shook her head testily. “The name sounds familiar, but I don't think I've met him. Is he from Port Fontaine? Should I know him?”

“He was assigned to that case. He was murdered tonight.”

She was silent.

“Here's the thing, Maggie: we went to your father's farm today.”

She was confused. “But…why would you go to Daddy's farm?”

“It was part of the investigation. When we were there, Rudge made some threats; a few hours later, someone shot him in the head, and someone threw a pipe bomb into my cabin.”

There was a quiet rustling in the trees, and it began to drizzle. She drew her wrap tighter around her and moved closer to him, under the shelter of the remaining roof. “You think Daddy's involved, Jenner?”

He shrugged. “I don't know what I think. But they've killed a cop, now they've really crossed a line.”

She was close to him, shivering. He fought the urge to put an arm around her.

Jenner turned to her. Her face was half-hidden by her hair.

He said, “Really, why are you here?”

“I'm not sure. I felt…bad.” She smiled softly and raised her cigarette and gestured dramatically. “Yes, I felt
bad
, Jenner! I wanted to say I was sorry. I didn't want it to go like this.”

Jenner said nothing.

“It's not all about me. You know I have…problems. You came along and fell into them. I didn't want to hurt you. I'm just…you know, fucked up.”

“Yes, yes—you're fucked up, it's not your fault, nothing you can do.” He shrugged. “I understand now that you can share only so much with someone else before it gets too hard for you. I know I'm not the first, and I won't be the last—people like you keep moving from person to person, never finding what they need.”

“Whoa!” She whistled, smiling. “Been waiting to say
that
for a while, haven't we, doctor?”

They were quiet for a while, then Jenner said, “Why me?”

She shrugged and inhaled, then breathed out, and said, “You're smart. You're not bad-looking. You were new. Fuck, I don't know—
you liked dogs!
I don't care, take your pick…”

“I think it's sad.”

Maggie scowled. “Sad? Yeah, well, Jenner, sad's the nature of a ‘one-night stand,' right?”

She flicked the cigarette off the deck.

“Where's the Bentley?”

“At Stella. I took the Volvo.”

She turned to him. “You know, I came to ask you out. On a date. I thought things over a bit. But I see now you wouldn't have said yes.”

Jenner paused, then said, “No, I wouldn't have.”

“Is it because of whatshername, Woodsy Owl?” She had a little sneer.

“Maybe, a bit, I don't know.” He shrugged. “But it's mostly because of you.”

She flinched, then gathered her wrap around her, as if it were just the cool air.

“I earned that,” she said.

She opened her clutch purse and pulled out her cigarettes. She
slipped one between her lips and dug for her matches; she'd used the last.

“Fuck.” She looked at him. “I suppose it would be pretty poor form for me to ask you for a match…”

“I couldn't help you.”

J
enner woke to the sound of gulls. He was in an airy room with light streaming through sheer curtains that swayed slowly with the breeze.

He blinked and sat up, momentarily disoriented. The walls were pale robin's-egg blue, and there were framed prints of seashells and coral. He was lying on a featherbed, the cotton sheets stiff and almost luminously white. The room had the soapy smell of fresh paint, clean and fresh. Jenner lay back and stared at the ceiling.

The gulls screeched right outside his window, and behind them he could hear the quiet rush of surf.

The Gulf Breeze Hotel.

Jenner climbed out of the brass bed and went to the window, holding up a hand to shield his eyes against brilliant sunshine. Guests were having breakfast on the patio below him—eggs Benedict and mimosas, Gucci sunglasses on folded copies of the
New York Times
. No doubt, everyone was saying what a beautiful day it was, and making plans for the day.

There was a printed menu on the wicker secretary. Jenner sat in the matching chair, pored over the menu, then called room service and ordered scrambled eggs and sausages, and coffee and orange juice. Twenty-eight dollars, plus a three-dollar delivery fee on top of a 20 percent service charge. Twenty-eight dollars—he could eat breakfast at Denny's for a week on what this one breakfast would cost!

His call to Deb Putnam went straight to voice mail. He left a brief message, then showered quickly. He'd eat breakfast, get dressed, then do the autopsy.

The autopsy: it would be even harder than Marty and Bobbie. Rudge wasn't decomposed; on the autopsy table, Rudge would still be Rudge,
as if he were just lying there for a little while, just resting for a tick. It wouldn't be like on TV, where you can tell the dead by the unearthly pallor of their skin and their frigid blue lips: in the real world, most dead people look like live people, look as though, if you called to them loudly enough, they'd sit up and climb down from the table.

After the autopsy, Jenner would finish his interview with Halvorsen and Bartley and the ATF guy. Then he'd walk back to the ME office, mumble a few awkward good-byes, and hand in his Douglas County Medical Examiner shield. He'd drive back to the motel, pick up the rest of his stuff, and get the hell out of Dodge, just leave Port Fontaine, leave Douglas County. Go back to New York, to his own world, to people who understood him.

J
enner was sitting at the wicker desk, wearing a fresh T-shirt and clean jeans, polishing off his eggs and drinking coffee, when Anders called. The conversation was brief and to the point.

The situation had moved on to the next level and the county managers had become involved. Sandy Hart from Miami would arrive that morning; Dr. Hart would do Rudge's autopsy. That was for the best, Jenner thought—Sandy was a good pathologist. They were expecting Jenner at Major Crimes around noon, after the autopsy; Jenner was not permitted to attend Rudge's autopsy, and the pathologist and investigators had been instructed not to discuss their findings with him.

Once he'd handed in his report from Rudge's death scene and given his statement in Major Crimes, Jenner would be free to go. The county comptroller himself had cut Jenner a check for the balance of the money he was owed. Down the road, the medical examiners who were replacing him might have questions about his cases; the sheriff trusted Jenner would assist them out of a sense of ethical responsibility. The questions, if any, would be few, and Jenner should expect no further remuneration from Douglas County.

Jenner hung up. He sat at the desk, looking dully at the half-eaten toast and the little pots of imported jam.

Outside, the tourists were dispersing, some to the beach, most on a mangroves and Everglades tour, where they'd peer at manatees through glass-bottomed boats as the manatees did their best to get out of the damn way.

The phone rang—Dr. Ade from the shelter letting him know the dog was fine, just about a hundred percent better and eating like a horse.

So now he had a dog, again. Would the dog like New York? He should
leave it with Maggie, make it her problem. Christ, how was he even going to pay for the dog's medical care?

Jenner opened the window and leaned into the breezy sunshine. Beyond the emerald wall of sea grape, the beach was still almost empty; the first sun-worshippers were now creeping out onto the sand like wary crabs.

He could go to the beach. Why not? They didn't need him until noon. He could lie on the beach, get some sun.

Or he could run, he could get back to running, hit the trails, feel his legs pounding, his breath tearing up his lungs, feel his body work. He could run the path along the canal, where he'd been running when…

He didn't want to think about Marty now.

In the bathroom, Jenner rifled through the complimentary toiletries. There was a mini-tube of toothpaste next to the box of CBM Daytime Cold tablets.

Jenner froze.

He picked up the white box, looked at the Craine Brothers Medical logo and pale blue globe, the “No. 1 in Cold Medicine” slogan. Turned the box to read the ingredient list.

And in an instant he understood. All of it.

Cold medicine. The white van with the blue globe—CBM logo. The farmhouse, the well-paid field workers—it all fell into place.

It was all about the box van entering as they left Craine's farm, the van with the Craine Brothers Medical logo on its side. It wasn't stocked with shampoo and baby powder—there were twenty men, tops, working there, they'd just buy locally in bulk.

No, that Craine Brothers van was bringing something more specialized: cold medicine. Tens of thousands of tablets filled with phenylpropanolamine or pseudoephedrine. In the farmhouse or the bunkhouses, there'd be men breaking down the capsules and tablets and then, through the magic of modern chemistry, converting those active ingredients into pharmaceutical-grade methamphetamine.

The packet Jenner had taken from Marty's car was approaching 100 percent purity. How did Marty come to have their product?

The original packet in Marty's car had been tied with the waxed twine they used to suture the bodies in the autopsy room—Jenner had assumed that's where Marty had got it. But funeral directors used identical twine to sew up their bodies, and Marty had been at Jones Brothers the day he went missing.

It had already occurred to Jenner that Jones, who shipped coffins all over the country, might be moving contraband; now the supply part of the puzzle was slipping into place. With meth convictions on his sheet, maybe Reggie had connections to someone at the farm, maybe even Brodie.

Moving factory volumes of meth would be a challenge—the DEA, local police, Highway Patrol, and the Florida Department of Law Enforcement over the state combed the highways and the back roads for meth and cocaine smugglers. But probably wouldn't stop a hearse. Jones could even ship the bodies by air—did they even check baggage on domestic flights with drug-sniffer dogs? These days, it was all about bombs. And even if they checked baggage, Jenner doubted they'd open the coffins to check a cadaver.

Jenner realized he was pacing. He sat back down at the desk, and stared blankly toward the ocean.

Chip Craine wouldn't be the mastermind—he was hungry, he was corrupt, he was a risk-taker, but Mexican cartels ran the speed trade across the country with an iron fist. Craine would be the perfect silent partner, even more for his pharmaceutical connections than for his farm. And if the “allowance” his brother gave him was as miserly as Maggie had said, he'd welcome a steady flow of cash.

Jesus. He must be making a
fortune
. Hundreds of thousands, no, millions every month.

Head buzzing, Jenner got up and started pulling his things together. What should he do about this? He couldn't trust anyone in Douglas County. He needed to get back to New York, then speak to the DEA.

Packing didn't take long—all Jenner had to do was fold his few remaining shirts, a pair of pants, and some underclothes into the big black plastic garbage bags. In the bathroom, he brushed his teeth, then
carefully packed the complimentary toothbrush and mini toothpaste. He helped himself to the wrapped soaps and unused bottles of Crab-tree & Evelyn shampoo and conditioner; he'd need them at the fleapits where he'd be staying on his drive home.

There was a tap at the door. Jenner peered through the peephole, then opened the door wide.

Jenner said, “Good morning, Mister Craine.”