Everglades (35 page)

“I don’t have a TV. I read a lot. But let me finish—I’m thinking this through as I go along. Okay, so you have a sexual freak who knows the house well. Violence is probably also part of his fantasy component—he’s armed. Check Frank’s background. He was an All-American wrestler. Olympic class. The freak had to surprise him, and he had to already have a gun. There’s no other way he could have gotten Frank taped and into the back of his own car without a gun.”

“A three-time All-American,” Podraza said. “It’s in his bio. He was one very impressive guy.”

“Yeah, I agree. Okay, so the freak surprises Frank and Sally. Or they surprise him. Either way, the freak’s suddenly got witnesses, and he has to get rid of them. He wants to keep the cops off the trail as long as possible, so he makes it look like a robbery.”

Podraza replied, “That’s plausible. I’ll keep it in mind. Like I said, we’re just getting started. Going from the general to the specific. You get a multiple crime like this, it’s usually because someone not very smart to begin with behaves in a really stupid way. Murder is rarely a complicated or well-thought-out crime, Dr. Ford.”

For some reason, that keyed a little light switch in my brain. What if exactly the
opposite
were true? I don’t believe in conspiracy theories. If I ever meet more than two people who can keep a secret, maybe I’ll begin to give them some consideration. But what if the murders, the disappearances, were all part of some larger objective or pattern?

I said, “Do you mind listening to another possibility?”

“Not at all. You have some interesting ideas for a man who says he’s a biologist.”

His voice had the slightest hint, now, of cynicism. His cop instincts were probably telling him that I knew too much, that I was way too chatty. I didn’t mind.

I said, “Okay. Let’s review a chain of events that may or may not be related. I’d be interested in your reaction. Nearly seven months ago, Sally Minster’s husband, Geoff, disappears—”

“He fell overboard on a trip to the Bahamas,” Podraza said. “There’s nothing mysterious about that. It’s been thoroughly investigated. The court’s ready to declare the guy legally dead.”

“If you want to move from the general to the specific, you sometimes have to take a step or two back to see the broader picture. So let me finish. Minster disappears, yet his wife doesn’t believe he’s dead. At some time after his disappearance, she also becomes convinced someone is breaking into her house, going through her private things. Your people check it out, but don’t find probable cause.”

Podraza said, “Sometimes people in deep grief begin to imagine things. They can get a little paranoid.”

Meaning they thought she was a nut case.

I said, “Okay, but let’s assume she was right. Next, her dog is found dead in her own pool. A retriever. They’re
bred
to swim. Then the night security guard who’s promised to keep an eye on the lady’s house is also found dead, floating in the bay.”

Podraza said, “He died from a brain aneurysm, but I’m with you. We’re assuming it was actually foul play. Okay. So Mr. DeAntoni sets a trap for the guy or guys who are doing all this—that’s your point, right? But the trap backfires, and they all end up dead or missing. So we’ve got three-four-five individuals dead or missing. Six, if you count the dog. Interesting.”

I asked Podraza if he was aware that Minster had been a member of the Church of Ashram Meditation. He told me he was, and that he was familiar with the organization because the Miami Police had a unit that specialized in cult crimes.

I said, “It might be worthwhile to call them in, and have them take a look. One more thing, Detective? There’s a guy who works for Bhagwan Shiva, a guy I think you ought to check out. His name’s Izzy—that’s what they call him. I don’t know his last name. He’s like a personal assistant or something to the head guy. His last name shouldn’t be hard to find. In fact, I might even be able to provide his fingerprints if you need them.”

“Why do you suspect him?”

I paused, my brain scanning around for a cogent response. Finally, I said, “Detective Podraza, when you check me out—and I know you
will
check me out—you’ll find that I’ve been telling you the truth. I’m a working research biologist. I like to think that most of what I do is logical and objective. But when it comes to this guy, Izzy—and this isn’t easy for me to admit—my suspicions are purely instinctual. I’ve got a gut feeling about him. It’s an emotional reaction to meeting the man. I think he’s dirty. I think he has his own agenda going.”

Then I added, “I know you’re not allowed to confirm it, but I’m going to ask anyway. The gun that was used to kill Frank and his landlord. Was it a twenty-two caliber?”

Very quickly, Podraza said, “Dr. Ford, I think we need to have a face-to-face interview. And just to make sure you don’t decide to leave the area, I’m going to call you back to confirm this phone number. Then I’m going to contact the Sanibel Police to let them know I’m inviting you to Miami for a discussion. Or we can send someone to you.”

I told Podraza to call me anytime he wanted, particularly if he got any new information on Sally. I finished, adding, “I’m glad they have someone like you on this case.”

chapter twenty-six

I
got a hold of Frank’s Aunt Juliana. By the sound of her voice, she’d been crying. She kept saying, “In my mind, I still see him as a little boy. He was so quiet and shy!”

She gave me phone numbers for three of Frank’s closest friends. I called Harris Washington at the bank where he worked near Trenton. He and DeAntoni had wrestled together in high school, Washington told me. “A hell of a guy,” he added.

I said, “I agree. I wish I could have gotten to know him better.”

Washington told me that he and another one of Frank’s former teammates were taking care of all the details. They were having his body cremated, and the ashes shipped back to New York for the funeral service. Instead of flowers—“Frank hated flowers, man. Something to do with a bad experience he had at the prom”—they were suggesting people send donations to an AAU wrestling program that DeAntoni had been instrumental in starting.

After I hung up, I wrote a check, walked to the marina and mailed it.

I still couldn’t stop moving, stop my mind from racing. I went back to the lab, called information, and got the main number for the Church of Ashram Meditation Center in Palm Beach. When a woman answered, I said, “Let me talk to Izzy, please.”

I had only a vague idea of what I would say to the guy. Maybe mention the weird trap-shooting encounter, tell him that, unlike Tomlinson, Frank and I liked to shoot so how could we join their interesting club?

If he knew the truth about DeAntoni, that he was dead, I’d be able to hear it in his voice.

But the woman refused to put me through, saying, “It’s church policy that we can only take messages for members or staff. It’s
their
decision to call you back.”

So I took a chance, called the Cypress Restaurant at Sawgrass, and had them transfer me to the Panther Bar. In any organization, the best jobs are awarded in order of rank or seniority. At a place that catered to wealthy sportsmen and big tippers, bartender would be the most coveted of all service jobs.

Kurt, most probably, was a higher-up in Bhagwan Shiva’s organization. He’d have insider information.

The stuffy bartender answered. He told me, no, Mr. Carter McRae wasn’t in. He told me he couldn’t give me Mr. McRae’s home number, and he played dumb when I asked him about Izzy.

But he knew who Izzy was. I could tell by his evasive manner.

Then he surprised me by saying, “The Bhagwan and his staff aren’t here tonight, but they’ll all be here tomorrow for the sunset Easter service. The public’s invited. It’s going to be quite an impressive event.” In his infuriating, superior tone, he added, “You and your friends should come. Perhaps you’ll learn something.”

I’d been invited to the ’Glades by Billie Egret, anyway, to see the inland tarpon. Now, though, I had a more pressing reason to go—to find Izzy.

To Kurt, I said, “I’ll be there. Count on it.”

Then, even though it made no sense, I got in my truck and drove across the Everglades to Coconut Grove. It took me awhile to find the exclusive enclave that is Ironwood. There was a Miami Police squad car at the electronic gate, and two uniformed officers. Only residents were being allowed to enter. When I asked to speak to Detective Podraza, they told me he’d just left.

I gave them my Sanibel Biological Supply business card with a brief note on the back.

That I’d visited the crime scene would assure me of special attention from the detective. Which is exactly what I wanted.

I drove past Vizcaya with its formal gardens, past Mercy Hospital, then headed up the hill into Coconut Grove—clothing boutiques, sidewalk restaurants. On Main Highway, with its tunneling banyan trees, I found a sizable church built of coral rock, then a slightly smaller church, which I guessed to be the church that Sally had described. White clapboard; white steeple. Beside the sidewalk out front was the kind of glass-encased signboard with plastic lettering that can be changed.

In large letters it read: ALL NATIONS CHURCH OF GOD OF PROPHECY.

Below, in letters that were only slightly smaller, someone had recently added,
Pray for our Sister Sally!

I teared up when I saw the sign. I slowed, staring at it, until a line of cars behind me began to honk.

Then, for absolutely no rational reason, I drove north to Miami Springs and found the Pink Palm Apartment complex where Frank had lived: four rows of stucco condos with numbered carports, speed bumps, a miniature swimming pool, and a couple of kids riding tricycles outside near trash Dumpsters and a mulched playground.

It seemed important to find DeAntoni’s apartment. I thought it would take me awhile. It didn’t. His was the one with the yellow Crime Scene tape across the door and combination padlock on the doorknob.

I stopped at the door. Peeked through the blinds and saw a vinyl couch, no other furniture, and the kind of double-handled exercise wheel that people use to do abdominal crunches.

A bachelor fitness freak.

I checked my watch. A little before five. I hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch, but wasn’t hungry. I decided that, if I got in my truck and left now, I could be back at Dinkin’s Bay while there was still enough light left to get out in my skiff.

Then maybe I’d find Tomlinson, and make a few bar stops by water before watching the moon rise.

 

 

That night, something inside me snapped. Something within the core region of my brain. It was ignited by a growing, withering pressure without vent. Intellectually, emotionally, I felt the scaffolding that defines me fracture, then break.

The moment of its occurrence was so precise that I felt it move through my nervous system like an electric shock.

I’d gotten back to Sanibel a little after eight. Lights were already on at the marina, but the sky was still bright with sunset afterglow. To the east, cumulous towers were layered in volcanic striations of rust, Arizona purple and peach.

I checked my main fish tank, the aquaria in my lab, fed Crunch & Des, then took a quick shower.

By the time I idled out of the marina harbor, the clouds had changed to shades of pewter and pearl. I saw that Tomlinson’s dinghy was tethered off
No Mas
—he was aboard. I headed toward the sailboat, then decided, no, I didn’t feel like company.

I’d made myself a traveler in an oversized plastic cup: ice, rum, fresh lime. With the big Mercury rumbling, I pushed the boat up onto plane, then throttled way back, traveling at a comfortable 2,600 RPM—“wine speed,” Dewey Nye calls it, because it’s fast enough to get you to dinner, but slow enough so it’s still possible to sip a glass of wine. I ran across the flat past Green Point, then Woodring Point.

My cousin, Ransom Gatrell, was out on Ralph Woodring’s dock, wearing shorts and a pink bikini top, a sunset beverage still in her hand.

I waved. She waved.

Ransom has Tucker Gatrell’s blue eyes, but she’s a caramel-colored woman, a color she calls “Nassau chocolate.” She wears her hair in braids, tells fortunes, believes in Obeah—a variation of voodoo—and is already making a small fortune selling real estate on a part-time basis. During the day, she works behind a cash register at Bailey’s General Store, or at She Sells Sea Shells on Periwinkle.

Ransom tells people that she’s my sister. I no longer bother to correct her or them. We’ve become that close.

Even so, I ignored her beckoning wave—
Come talk for a spell!
—and turned beneath the power lines, then beneath the Sanibel Causeway, seeing the bright high-rise lights of Fort Myers Beach to the south.

One of my favorite places to eat and drink is a bayside café that almost no one knows about, and where only locals go. It’s in the old shrimp yards of Matanza Pass, a funky, quirky outdoor restaurant and bar built beneath the sky bridge that joins Fort Myers Beach with tiny San Carlos Island. It’s called Bonita Bill’s, and it may be the only restaurant in Florida with an unlisted phone number.

Kathy and Barb were working the bar. I sat beneath tiki thatching, drinking rum, staring out at the dark water, seeing the development glare of Fort Myers Beach beyond.

At one point, Kathy said, “You don’t seem real talkative tonight, Doc. Something wrong?”

Yes, there was something wrong. Frank DeAntoni had moved into my head and would not leave. His voice had become a refrain:

I told Kathy, “Sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

Around ten, a bunch of the guys from the Fort Myers Beach Coast Guard station came in. They’re a good group. Well trained. Dedicated. I tried to force myself to be jovial, conversational, but my heart wasn’t in it.