Unknown Remains (18 page)

THIRTY-FOUR

Jack cruised through Pompano past the pier and the public beach. It was four o'clock; the sun was starting its descent over the rooftops of the city. He turned onto Briny Avenue and pulled into a space behind the motel. Jack decided to pack first and then check out. He opened the gate and walked by the pool, saw a couple playing cards at one of the tables, glanced at the empty beach and the ocean, and walked up the stairway to his room.

His suitcase was in the closet. He took it out, put it on the bed, and unzipped the top. He grabbed piles of clothes from the dresser drawers and fit them in. He pulled his shirts off hangers and folded them on top, got his toiletries from the bathroom, and zipped the suitcase closed. He carried the suitcase down the stairs and put it in his car trunk.

The manager was behind the counter, his big body leaning forward, hands splayed on Formica, looking down at a newspaper that was folded in half, when Jack stepped in the office and closed the door.

The fat man looked up and said, “Your friends find you?”

“What friends?”

“Two fellas came in asking for you.”

Jack turned and walked out, looking around as he got in the car, and saw Cobb through the windshield coming toward him, bringing a shotgun up from his leg, racking it as Jack turned the key. Cobb came around on his side of the car, and then Ruben appeared on the passenger side, reaching for the door handle. Jack pushing the lock button, but too late, shifting into reverse now, the door was opening, the scene
in Jack's mind happening in slow motion, Ruben hanging on as Jack backed out of the parking space, the door opening all the way.

Cobb was moving with the car, slamming the sawed-off end of the shotgun into the side window, the glass cobwebbing. Across the way, Ruben regained his balance for an instant. Jack shifted into drive, saw Ruben let go of the window frame as the car bolted forward. He glanced in the rearview mirror, saw Cobb getting into a red Mustang, backing out, seeing Ruben get in next to him. They'd obviously gotten to Sculley.

He went left on Atlantic and got caught in traffic, waiting for the bridge to go down. There were cars in front of him, cars on both sides and behind him. He saw the mast of a sailboat going through the opening, moving past him on the Intracoastal.

The bridge was going down when he saw Ruben in the rearview, moving between cars, looking for him. Then seeing Ruben in the side mirror, getting closer, two cars away as the bridge came down with a clang and the crossing gates lifted, and now Ruben stopped, ran back to the Mustang.

Jack floored it, weaving in and out of traffic all the way to I-95.

When Fish left
,
Diane dried her hair, changed into jeans and a tank top, and went outside. No sign of him, thank God. It was almost dark. She looked down the street at the Sands. The Mustang was gone. The time spent trying to get rid of Fish, she had missed them.

She walked across the street to the Sands, opened the gate, and went out to the pool. There was no one around. The wind had picked up, the sea rough, beach deserted.

Diane walked around to the office and went in. There was a heavy blonde sitting at a desk in a room behind the counter, putting on makeup, holding a pink Betty Boop compact in one of her hands, tracing a line of lipstick on her mouth with the other. The blonde glanced at Diane, closed the compact, and with considerable effort, stood up and moved to the counter, breathing hard.

“I am sorry, we have no vacancies whatsoever,” she said in a Southern accent. “This time a year, you know.” The woman was chewing gum, and it looked like it was going to fall out of her mouth when she talked.

“My boyfriend's staying here. Can you tell me what room Duane's in?” She smiled. “Duane Cobb. He loves surprises.” And thought,
get ready
.

The blinds were
closed but she could see there wasn't a light on in the room. She knocked on the door, heard muffled voices, turned, and saw a young couple crossing the pool area. She decided to go for it, slid the key in the lock, opened the door, and turned on the light.

Cobb's airline ticket from Newark to Fort Lauderdale was on the desk. That's why she didn't see him at the airport; she had flown from LaGuardia. His clothes were in a suitcase on the floor. She ran her hands under the layers, found an envelope with a couple thousand dollars in it. She folded the money and put it in the back pocket of her jeans.

There was an assault rifle wrapped in a blanket in the corner of the closet next to Cobb's cowboy boots. She picked up the AR-15, ejected the magazine, rewrapped the gun, and put it back. She fit the magazine in the waist of her jeans under the tank top, turned off the light, and walked out the door.

Jack got off
the freeway, went east to Dixie Highway, and took a left. He thought for sure he'd lost them till he saw the Mustang coming up on his right approaching PGA Boulevard, blew through a red light, swerving around a car going left.

The police cruiser came out of nowhere, Jack seeing its grille fill the rearview mirror and hearing the loud yelp of the siren. He pulled over on the gravel side road, lowered the damaged side window, and watched the trooper get out of the car, square his Sam Browne, and come up next to Jack, bending his tall frame to look inside. The Mustang passed by
at that instant, Ruben making eye contact with him for a split second, and Jack thought, wait a minute, maybe this was a blessing in disguise.

The trooper said, “License and registration.”

Jack handed him his Richard Keefer New York driver's license, wondering where this would lead, thinking he could be in deep shit.

“What the hell you doing, Richard Keefer from New York City, running a red, jeopardizing the citizens of North Palm Beach? You want to tell me what that bonehead move was about?”

Jack, with his hands still gripping the steering wheel, said, “I lost my concentration for a second. Looked up I was halfway through the intersection.”

“Lost your concentration, huh?” The trooper, a young guy in a tan uniform with brown trim, maybe thirty, said, “Mr. Keefer, you been drinking?”

It was hard to hear with the traffic so close. “No sir.”

“Stay right where you're at. I'll be back.”

Jack watched him in the side mirror, moving back to the cruiser, traffic zipping by. Jack wondered what was going to happen when the trooper ran Richard Alan Keefer in the computer, wondered if he should put it in gear and take off, then abandon the car, and take his chances. Or get out and run for the mall parking lot that was fifty yards to his right, hop the chain-link fence.

It seemed like it took forever but it had been only seven minutes. Now the trooper was getting out of the cruiser, adjusting his hat, a piece of paper in his hand. At the window, the trooper bent his tall frame till he was eye level with Jack.

“What's strange, there's a Richard Alan Keefer in New York City, but he doesn't look anything like you and has a different license number and different address. What do you make of that?”

Be cool, Jack told himself. This thing could blow up right here. “If you're asking me to explain how bureaucracy works, why I don't show up in the system, I can't. New York's a big city.”

“This your current address?”

“Yes, it is.”

“What're you doing down here?”

“Working.”

“What sort of work you do?”

“I give seminars to brokerage firms like Merrill Lynch, Morgan Stanley, and others. I show them my forecast for the market, what I think is going to happen.”

“You talking about stock brokers?”

Jack nodded.

“What should I buy?”

“Gold. I don't think you can lose.”

“Gold, huh? Thanks for the tip. Now let me give you one.” He handed Jack a ticket. “Observe the traffic laws of North Palm Beach, you won't get another one of these.”

Why'd the trooper let him go? Probably 'cause the situation was too complicated to pursue. Why waste time getting involved? Palm Beach County would make their money off the ticket, and the trooper would get the credit. That's probably all that mattered.

Jack took the first right, got off the highway, looking for a red Mustang, and drove toward the ocean, considering his options.

THIRTY-FIVE

Cobb had gone back around and parked on the side of the road, a hundred yards or so behind Jack McCann and the cop.

Ruben said, “What're you doing?”

As if it wasn't obvious. “Waiting to see what happens.”

When Jack went through the red light, they were too far back, Cobb thinking at the time, Jesus Christ, this boy's gone. And then, like divine intervention, a police officer mercifully appeared and pulled the traffic offender over.

It took fucking forever to play out, Cobb thinking the cop was making a career out of stopping Jack. For the love of God. Finally, the trooper gave him a ticket, went back to his cruiser, and drove away. Jack took off right after the cop, and they followed him up the coast to a gated development with a pink wall around it on the ocean, the southern end of Palm Beach called Palm Cove. Duane got a kick out of the name: Palm Cove.

It sounded like a place you'd want to live, you were a senior citizen, a mellow retirement community on the ocean. He pictured smiling residents with capped teeth and tight, surgically enhanced faces, wearing slick sportswear, saying, “Seventy is the new fifty. Let's party.”

He was surprised when Jack's car pulled in at the gatehouse and was met by a guard wearing khakis and a pink golf shirt with a little palm tree on the upper right side. Guy talked to Jack, and the security gate went up. Cobb drove down the road, turned around in a condo lot, and glanced at Ruben.

In the sunglasses and guayabera shirt, he looked like a barber on vacation. “Got any ideas?”

Ruben took off the sunglasses, bewilderment on his face, like Cobb had asked him how to split an atom. “Wait till he comes out.”

It sounded like a question. “Okay. But when's that gonna be?” Cobb didn't see it as a problem, though. He enjoyed the competitive nature of the situation. Who was gonna get to the red zone first, take it to the house?

Was Jack visiting someone, shacking up, or was he now living here? And where was he hiding the money? They agreed to see it through a while longer, got a carryout from a Mex restaurant several miles down the road, Ruben's suggestion, what a surprise.

They parked in a marina lot on the Intracoastal across from the Palm Cove entrance. Cobb sat there, Ruben's aftershave mixing with the smell of enchiladas and refried beans, Cobb's stomach making noises. He cracked the window and let the ocean breeze clear out the car.

When Ruben finished eating, he wedged his body between the seat and the door and put his head back. A few minutes later, he was snoring, taking a siesta.

Cobb got out of the car, laid the shotgun in the trunk next to the spare. He walked south down the beach road, crossed over to the Palm Cove property, and moved through a flower bed to the pink stucco wall that was about as tall as he was. He reached up, got a reasonable grip on the cement cap, and hoisted himself up, running shoes kicking, trying to grip the smooth stucco, got enough purchase, and went up and over.

The complex was much bigger than it appeared. There was a ten-story high-rise and three smaller buildings—all built close to the water. On the north side of the property was a private marina. He could see dozens of yachts and pleasure craft.

Cobb pictured himself cruising around in a yacht, pounding down 7 and 7s, surrounded by knockout babes. When they got out to sea, girls had to take their suits off. Captain's rule.

It was a good thing Ruben wasn't with him. Guy that looked like him, wasn't wearing a uniform, his name on the shirt, someone'd see him, call security:
There's a spic, looks like a serial killer, just hopped the wall, Jesus, get over here quick
. Cobb walked through the parking lot behind the high-rise, and there was Jack's rental car with the cracked side window. He walked to the building, went in the lobby, and looked around. No one there except an old-timer, had to be seventy-five, in a blue suit coat, eyeing him from behind the reception counter.

Cobb walked toward the guy and said, “You seen Mr. McCann this evening?”

“Sir, I don't believe I know a Mr. McCann. Does he live here in the tower?”

“I thought so.” Cobb frowned. “You have a directory I could take a look at?”

The man reached under the counter and handed him a booklet with a photograph of the Palm Cove complex shot from the ocean side. Duane opened to
M
and went down the list, didn't see McCann. So Jack was visiting someone.

“Sir, will you describe him?”

Cobb looked up. “He's good size, tall as me with about thirty-five more pounds, has light brown hair, dresses like he's screwing the pooch.” The old man glanced at him as though he was having memory failure, and then surprised Cobb.

“I believe the gentleman you are looking for was accompanied by Ms. Najjir, one of our tenants.”

“Sounds A-rab. You let them in here after what happened on nine-eleven?”

“Sir, I don't have anything to do with that.”

“Oh. I thought you owned the place.”

“No, sir.”

“Where's Ms. Najj-ir live at, exactly?”

“Sir, I'm not at liberty to give out that information.”

Duane grinned. This old buzzard was a piece of work. “She live in this building?”

“I'm not allowed to say.”

“She live in this complex? You can tell me that, can't you?”

Shook his old gray head.

“But you gave me her name.”

“I know. It doesn't make any sense.”

“Well, we agree on something.”

The old boy wrote on a Post-it note. “You can phone Ms. Najjir, and she can give you her address.”

This was some crazy shit, but okay.

Ruben was still snoring when he got back to the car. Cobb slammed the door hard. Ruben's eyes opened and his body jerked forward. “Jesus, the fuck's going on?”

“I wake you? Sorry. Go back to sleep.”

“Where you been, uh?”

“Looking around.”

Ruben was snoring when Cobb drove through Pompano, deserted at ten forty-five. He parked behind the motel, Ruben, head back, mouth open, making sounds Cobb had never heard before. He left Ruben in the car and went up to his room, turned on the TV, and took his clothes off, folded the shirt and shorts on the spare bed. He brushed his teeth, looking at himself in the mirror, flexed his biceps a couple times. Good muscle tone but he needed color. Take care of Jack, put in some serious pool time.

The closet door slid open; Cobb reached in and grabbed the AR-15, sat on the bed, unwrapped the gun, and saw the magazine was missing. What the hell? Did he put it somewhere? Searched his mind, saw himself bringing the gun in the room, popping the mag in, and wrapping the AR in a blanket that was on a shelf in the closet. Who did it? Couldn't have been Jack. It wasn't the Eye-talians. They'd have been waiting in the room for him.

So who was it?

Cobb didn't much like the idea of someone watching him and thought about Diane McCann. Not a chance it was her, right? The way things had been going, he couldn't be sure of anything.

He checked his suitcase, found the empty envelope. The hell's going on? Cobb picked up the shotgun, a High-Standard Flite King he'd bought at the store on Dixie Highway—no three-day waiting period on shotguns and long guns in Florida. Was that civilized or what?

He racked a shell in the chamber. Put the gun on the bed, slipped on blue jeans, a black T-shirt, and a Chicago Bears cap. He tied two pieces of rope around the trigger guard and fit the looped end over his left shoulder. He had cut the barrel down and the stock off.

Now he swung the gun up with his left hand, caught the fore-end with his right, and was ready to fire in like a second. He slipped on the windbreaker, glanced in the full-length mirror, and saw a small-town high school football coach.

From the balcony outside his room, he scanned the pool area and the beach. It was warm and quiet. He walked down the stairs and out to the Mustang. Ruben was gone, must've woke up, went to his room. Cobb wandered south fifty yards or so, checking parked cars on both sides of the street. No one in any of them sitting there spying on him.

Back in the room, Cobb slept in his clothes on a mattress between the beds, the shotgun next to him. Ruben, the tough guy who didn't need a gun, was on his own.