Whale Season (17 page)

Chapter 27

O
ver the past two years, Dr. Ricardo Garcia left a trail of bodies that would impress even the most experienced law enforcement officers—if only they knew. But nobody ever suspected the doctor. Many of his victims were patients who were near death anyway, seemed to die in their sleep. The rest were people that nobody missed. Angelo, the male nurse, “The First,” had continually threatened to quit if he didn't get a raise. So, when he didn't show up for work, the hospice assumed he'd made good on his threat. And none of his ex-wives seemed to miss him at all.

“Ten” was a problem, though. “Ten” was the lawyer in charge of Dr. Garcia's family estate. “Ten” was William David, attorney-at-law and probate specialist.

The vole-faced man, who never made eye contact, had just helped Dr. Ricardo Garcia's frail mother sign herself into a nursing home. As a ward of the state, her considerable fortune was under Mr. David's control. When Dr. Garcia arrived at the home, he was told that his mother did not wish to see him. He called her repeatedly, but she wouldn't take the calls. So he called the lawyer.

“Why wasn't I notified?”

“Legally, this is none of your business. She committed herself. She was sane. It is her right as an adult,” he said. Then hung up.

So Dr. Garcia had no choice.

In retrospect, this was his finest hour. Messy but brilliant. The lawyer's office was in a rickety old Victorian house with a wraparound porch that overlooked Tampa Bay. No security cameras or guards. Lots of windows. The probate specialist was a habitual man, worked late, and could often be seen going into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee around midnight.

The plan was simple. The window over the kitchen sink was often left open a crack. All the doctor had to do was lift himself in, put a few drops of fentanyl in the coffeepot, and William David, attorney-at-law and probate specialist, would die. Neatly. Quietly. Quickly.

Unfortunately, it would not be painful.

This fact vexed Dr. Garcia, but he had no choice. Even the voices inside his head had to agree that fentanyl was the perfect “Tool of Salvation” for the occasion. It's a powerful drug, a synthetic opiate, one hundred times stronger than morphine. It's mostly used on terminal patients, like those at the hospice, so he had easy access to it. And since it's so dangerous it's rarely prescribed. Medical examiners don't usually test for it.

So it was a perfect plan. Tainting the coffee was easier than imagined. Someone had left the kitchen door unlocked. Dr. Garcia slipped in without even a creak from the floorboards. Drugged the pot. Hid in the broom closet. Waited.

At midnight, William David, attorney-at-law and probate specialist, poured his coffee and took it back to his office. Blew on it. Took a sip. Looked surprised. Slumped.

It was perfect, but anticlimatic.

Luckily, the probate specialist was a pen collector. Fountain pens worth thousands of dollars sat in a display case on the desk. Dr. Garcia was inspired.

With a ruby-encrusted fourteen-karat gold Montblanc in his skilled latex-gloved hand, he carefully crafted a tattoo, a quote from Shakespeare—“First Kill the Lawyers”—across the probate specialist's scrawny volelike chest.

The mess was incredible. Blood was everywhere. But an artist never minds inconvenience, he told himself.

Unfortunately, halfway though the process, William David, attorney-at-law and probate specialist, surfaced from the drug-induced coma.

He was not a man who appreciated whimsy.

And so he, as Dr. Garcia would later come to think of it, put up quite a fuss.

Still, in the end, the doctor managed to pour the rest of the fentanyl-laced coffee down the man's throat. Finish the tattoo. Clean up. Leave.

The doctor is a very neat man. Does impeccable work. Only a single hair was left behind. Now, six months later, with at least 322 possible suspects, no one has even interviewed Dr. Garcia yet. There isn't an APB out for him. In fact, he's clean—which makes Dagmar even more surly.

“How is that possible? How can he
not
have a record?”

She's been sitting in Trot's cramped office prodding him ever since she followed him back after Leon's funeral. She wants some answers. Won't give up.

Trot shrugs. “I don't know.”

“You don't know, or aren't telling me?”

“The effect is the same,” he says.

Trot's desk is tiny, but immaculate. All the appropriate forms are in the “in” or “out” or “pending” box. Dagmar's eyes narrow. She puts her hand on Trot's “pending box” and holds it there like a discus thrower. This is not good, Trot thinks. It's clear that she wants to toss his perfect paperwork out the window.

“We have to do something,” she says.

He gently moves her hand away. “We?” he asks. “Since when is this a ‘we' situation?”

“Since you told me about the Levis. Since Leon won the Dream. Since I let this Jesus guy into my car.”

Dagmar has not been in a good mood since Jesus disappeared.

“Look,” Trot says, “it's not clear that Dr. Garcia has done anything except have a nervous breakdown and somehow manage to take possession of a fancy RV. He could have bought it. It could be that simple.”

They both know this is not the truth. The lie feels uneasy between them.

“You're still sore about those fingerprints, aren't you?” Dagmar says. “I didn't mean to trick you, telling you some guy stiffed The Café.”

“You didn't,” Trot says. “I didn't believe you.”

Her face colors.

“Look, I'm not being stubborn, as you put it,” he continues on. “I'm just being sheriff because I am. It's my job.”

“But we can place Rose Levi at the scene.”

“There's no ‘we.' There's no scene. I'm not even sure there's been a crime.”

Dagmar knows he's lying and he is. Trot is absolutely sure that Dr. Garcia murdered the old couple. As soon as Trot identified the fingerprints, he called Tampa. According to a police report, Rose Levi, in her haste to take full advantage of the Early Bird Specials at the famed Columbia Restaurant in Ybor City, backed the American Dream over Dr. Garcia's white picket fence and effectively squashed his mailbox. The report then stated that Mrs. Levi of Cicero wanted to file a complaint against Dr. Garcia for having a mailbox that distracted drivers.

“It jumped out at me,” she was quoted as saying.

Apparently, a gust of wind caught the “General Practice” sign, and Mrs. Levi mistook it for a low flying egret and swerved. She narrowly missed the tricked-out yellow Olds sedan airbrushed with the faces of rap stars, but nailed the said mailbox. Not a scratch on the Dream.

The report also stated that Mrs. Levi cursed a good deal and referred to Dr. Garcia by several “colorful” ethnic terms.

It was also noted that Mr. Levi was mostly silent throughout the investigation. He did, however, ask Mrs. Levi repeatedly if it was, “Time for my highball yet, sweetie?”

“I would have killed her,” the cop from Tampa said. “Him, too. Get your own damn highball, you old coot.”

“But would Garcia?” Trot asked.

“According to the report, this Dr. Garcia was pretty well mannered. A real charmer. So the squad left.”

And the Levis stayed. And a month later the Levis are missing and Garcia believes he's Jesus and he's driving their RV.

Of course, the doctor killed them. All Trot needs is proof. But he's not going to tell Dagmar any of this. He knows she's read one too many Nancy Drew books, a couple of which he now regrets giving her for her fourteenth birthday.
Password to Larkspur Lane
and
The Clue in the Diary
were her favorites, and Trot's, too. He always thought the Hardy Boys played a little too rough.

“Look,” he says. “This is an official investigation. You have to get out of my office and let me handle it. Let this go.”

“But how would this doctor get the RV without killing them?”

“Leon says Garcia is some sort of a poker genius. He could have invited Irv and Rose in. Then fleeced them.”

“But if he didn't kill them, where are they? Wouldn't they have gotten to Miami by now?”

“I don't know.”

“If he was so good at poker, how does he lose to Leon?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, maybe he let Leon win because he's trying to get rid of evidence.”

“Could be. Can't get a warrant without a complaint though.”

“Won't Leon just let you take a look?”

“Says the keys were burned up in the fire.”

“And you don't believe him?”

“Do you?”

They both know the answer, and it is not improving Dagmar's mood. Buddha heart, my ass—she keeps thinking to herself—the guy's a killer and I invited him for Christmas.

Trot is trying not to lose his temper but it's getting difficult. The trail is getting cold. He has to get rid of Dagmar. It's too dangerous for her if she tags along. And he doesn't want her following him. “Look,” he says. “This Jesus guy is long gone. What matters is that Jimmy Ray is safe. You're safe. Don't you have to work tonight? It's New Year's Eve. Big night, right?”

“It's my fault he's even here.”

About now, it's clear to Trot that he's going to have to arrest her to get her out of his office. He's pretty sure she won't like that. Pretty sure he should come up with a better solution. “Can I ask something?” he says. “Something I've been wondering about?”

Dagmar looks a little apprehensive. “Sure,” she says, but doesn't sound sure.

He leans back in his chair, appears to settle in. “Ever since Leon's service, I've been thinking about my inner dog. What do you think? Golden retriever? Great Dane? St. Bernard—wait, too much hair. How about one of those big Newfoundland dogs? They save people all the time. What do you think? What kind of dog am I?”

Dagmar is squirming. The one thing she hates most in the world is small talk. Trot knows that. That's what he's counting on.

“I mean of all the dogs,” he continues. “What kind of dog am I?”

Dagmar looks at him as if he's suddenly deranged.

Housebroken, she thinks.

“I better go,” she says and closes the door firmly behind her.

“Well, Miss Dagmar,” Trot says to the door, “I've got you figured for a chow.” Then he barks a regal, loyal, and somewhat menacing bark in her honor.

Chapter 28

O
n the morning Sam the Gator came to Whale Harbor, he'd finally reached his sports agent. The conversation did not go well. In fact, it didn't go at all.

“Kid—the fat lady. She sang,” the agent said and hung up.

That's why Sam came. “It's not over until it's over,” he wanted to tell the agent, but Sam was actually pretty sure it was over. So he needed a miracle more than anything. Or at least, something that seemed like a miracle to the readers of the
National Examiner
. That's why he rolled back into the Bee-Jesus' room, loaned him a pair of his own pants, and then let him drive his brand-new Firebird to a town that he'd never heard of—a town where people bark at funerals, a town where there's supposed to be a real Jesus.

But there isn't one. The Jesus in question has disappeared. And Leon, with Sam's blue jeans tied up around his waist, looks a lot like Jethro Bodine on the lam from Miss Hathaway. Not like a mystical Bee-Jesus at all.

When Mr. Oakley arrives, Sam thinks, he is going to be real pissed at me.

Things were not exactly looking up for the former football star. So Sam lay down on the sagging plaid couch in Leon's office and tried to think of his next move.

Despite Leon's untimely rise from the dead, the memorial service continued on in the showroom. “No sense to ruin a party,” Bender proclaimed. So the Blind Brothers' Blues Band played “Mustang Sally.” Bender did the moonwalk with Mrs. Sitwell. Carlotta ignored the men and did a slow and sultry version of the watusi by herself. Dagmar stood in the corner with her cell phone and made calls. The keg of beer was untapped. Leon was deep in conversation with Trot.

Sam didn't know what to do. Didn't know anybody. Couldn't dance. So he hobbled into Leon's office and lay on the couch; the springs creaked under his weight. He'd taken his last meds before lunch, four hours ago. What was left of his leg was now throbbing. The wound, which he picked at, was bleeding though the bandage. The couch smelled like an incontinent cat.

Sam closed his eyes and tried not to think about it, but the music in the next room, and the laughter, made him angry. He knows he should be dancing and drinking but not with losers like these, but with models and cheerleaders. And not in a loser town like Whale Harbor, but in New York City, or Detroit, or Dallas. He knows he should be in a town that can appreciate somebody who, even with a fake leg, is better than William the Refrigerator Perry ever was. Sam the Gator is better, and he knows it. He is faster and stronger. He is the best that ever played the game. And he knows it is just a matter of time before the Jets, or Bucs, or Patriots will understand that—agent or no agent.

“Shit, I don't need anybody,” he says, but there isn't anybody around to hear him.

As the Blind Brothers' Blues Band kicks into a wily winking version of “She's a Brick House,” Sam tries to recall the last touchdown he made, just a month ago, at the bowl game. Usually when he does this, he can close his eyes and feel the crowd cheering in his bones. But not now. Now, he just feels big and dull. Slowed. The pain in his leg is too much. Keeps his eyes closed, anyway. Tries not to focus on the pain.

“Hey Gator man,” Leon whispers, gently shakes him. “Wake up.”

Sam opens his eyes. “Not asleep.”

Leon is standing over him. He is still bare-chested and now grinning like a jack-o'-lantern. He's holding two plastic cups—sweet tea for Sam, and a beer for himself.

“Apparently people love me,” Leon says and hands Sam the iced tea. “It's good to be dead.”

The pain in Sam's leg makes him dizzy, confused. “Hey, what happened to my T-shirt?” He just noticed that Leon was nearly naked.

“It's in the washing machine. I like things clean.”

Sam frowns. “You are one ugly old man without a shirt, dude.” Then he drinks the iced tea in one large gulp. Crushes the empty cup and hands it back to Leon. Then takes his beer from him.

“You don't happen to have any morphine, do you?” Sam says.

“No. Give me that beer. You're not twenty-one.”

Sam gives him an ugly look. Coughs. Spits on the floor. “I'm in pain, man. Don't screw with me.”

“All right. Hang on,” Leon says and takes a bottle of generic aspirin from his top drawer. Tosses it to Sam, who catches it with one hand.

“Shit,” Sam says. “The Vikings would weep if they saw that. I'm in a freakin' world of pain, and I still can catch with one hand.” He shakes out a handful of pills.

“I think the recommended dosage is two,” Leon says. “They're extra strength.”

“Thanks,” Sam says. “So am I.”

Sam washes down the handful of aspirin with the dregs of Leon's beer.

Leon doesn't like the look of this. “Let me take you back to the hospital,” he says and thinks of Nurse Becker who is probably worried—and maybe in trouble, too. He'd hate to see that.

Nice gal, he thinks. Hope she doesn't get fired.

“No way. I'm waiting for Oakley. I called him. He's going to help us find that Jesus fellow—even though he's still a little pissed that we ran out on him.”

Damn, Leon thinks. That's all I need. I've got a shrink-wrapped bag of cash, and now that Oakley reporter is on his way. Leon sits down on the edge of his desk. Why did I let this kid talk me into taking him?

“You know,” Leon says, “you should just call Oakley back. Turns out this Jesus guy's real name is Ricky Garcia, or something like that. He's like a doctor. Or was. There's no story.”

“That doesn't mean anything. He can still be a Miracle Guy.”

Leon thinks about Dr. Garcia's Bible eyes, the moneylender-at-the-temple glare.

“I don't think so. I think he's just a whack job.”

The enormous boy is not deterred. “Is that what that loser sheriff was telling you? That loser sheriff guy with the lame comb-over? I saw you two talking.”

Leon looks back at Trot, who has stopped to talk to Carlotta on his way out. Trot runs a hand through his sadly thinning hair as if trying to arrange it, but he's just generating static electricity. Wispy, it stands on end. Makes him look like he's been electrocuted. But Carlotta doesn't seem to notice. She looks happy, happier than Leon's ever seen her look.

“I don't know. Jeeter's a pretty smart guy,” Leon says.

Just then Trot touches Carlotta's shoulder. She laughs. Dagmar puts her arm around him, pushes him out the door.

Both of them, Leon thinks. Trot's got both of them now. Great.

“Yep. That Sheriff Jeeter's a pretty smart guy,” he says. “
Bastard
that he is.”

“Guy's a loser. So are you,” Sam says. “Go on with your loser life. Me, I'm waiting for the real Miracle Guy. This Jesus guy.”

Leon turns back to see the massive boy is looking at him just the way Miss Pearl did the night before the men took her away. Makes him flinch.

“I got to go for a little while,” he says. Carlotta told him about Grammy Lettie's house, the ghost house. “You stay right here—”

“Don't you want to know why you're a loser?” The boy is sneering at him.

“I've got a pretty clear bead on that, son.”

Still, Sam is going to tell him anyway. “You really think I believe in this Jesus guy, don't you? Well, I don't. I never even believed that you were some Miracle Guy, either. I had you fooled the whole time. Just like I got that Oakley guy from the newspaper fooled. He's going to write it all up about me—“The Next Refrigerator Perry Asks Jesus for a Leg Up”—it's a great headline—even if the guy isn't Jesus. It's the kind of headline that can have me starting with the Packers—midwesterners love crap like that.”

Sam is red-faced and desperate. The moment feels too raw. The two men just look at each other. Leon shakes his head a little. Can you say “howdy”? he thinks.

“Look, I've got an errand to run,” he says. “I'll be back in a few.”

Sam is afraid of being left alone again. A moment of panic crosses his face, and then he's back in charge. Or so he thinks.

“Just bring me a couple of beers,” he orders. “And have one of the good-looking women check up on me every ten minutes or so. We need to keep that beer coming.”

Leon leaves Sam with a fresh cup of sweet tea, which the boy unfortunately uses to take yet another handful of aspirin. The beers never come. The women never come. After a while, the aspirins take hold and Sam feels dizzy, nauseated. He's overdosed and his heart is racing, ears ringing. He's had too many aspirins, nearly half the bottle, but now, in his confusion, he takes a few more.

Suddenly, Sam has an overwhelming desire to lie on the beach in the late afternoon sun. He pulls himself onto his crutches and hobbles out the back door. Nobody notices. Even though the salt air is cool and dry, he's sweating profusely, lurching. The crutches slip as he walks. The bandage on his leg is spotty and unraveling. The shore is much farther than he expects it to be, even though it's really not that far at all. It's just a few feet behind Lucky's through a field of sea oats and sandspurs. Sam's in so much pain, and so confused, that he can hardly make it. He can barely hobble. A few feet from the shore, he trips. Hits the sand hard. Breaks his nose.

He lies there bleeding for a few moments. He is in trouble. He knows it, but won't give in, won't cry out for help.

It takes every bit of effort for the large boy to roll over. The waves crash over him, cold. Make him shake. A large wave crashes over him, pulls his crutches away. Slowed by pills, he cannot reach for them fast enough. They roll in and out with the tide.

He is beached on the shore. Gigantic. Pale. Belly-up.

Sam closes his eyes. Sleep comes clammy and rigid. He dreams only of rain. When a hand brushes the hair away from his face, he's not sure if he's still asleep.

“Have you ever been baptized?” a dark voice says.

Jesus, Sam thinks and opens his eyes.

Except for the fact that the man is holding a machete and wearing an expensive Egyptian cotton shirt tied around his bony waist like a loincloth, he does look like Jesus. At least, the Jesus Sam remembers his foster mother showing him in a picture book.

“Do I have to be baptized to get me a miracle?” Sam asks.

“It's the only way. But don't worry. It will end all earthly pain.”

And Jesus is right. It does.