Surface Tension - Kling Christine - Страница 13
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"Of course. It had to be him, Detective.”
Collazo stood in the center of my living room looking around at the mess with a slack, almost bored expression on his face.
“Miss Sullivan, we will take your report, and we will investigate, and we will draw our own conclusions.”
I walked over to the laptop computer picked it up, and held it in front of his face.
“Does this make any sense to you? Or the TV there, or any of the other stuff in here that would be so easy to sell?”
He turned his back to me and walked over to the easel and my torn painting.“This is your work.”
“Well, it was. It’s garbage now.”
“Such a shame.”
Neal had always admired and encouraged my painting. He was forever telling me to take a few paintings to this gallery owner friend of his over on Las Olas. “Yeah. I am surprised he would do that.”
“He . . . you mean Garrett.”
“Of course. I mean, what about the money? What other possible answer could there be?”
“You claim he tossed the place just to cover the fact that he was stealing your money.”
“Obviously. That’s the only thing missing.”
“Garrett was a reasonably intelligent man.”
“In a street-smart kind of way, yes.”
“Yet you are saying that he wanted you to believe a stranger trashed and robbed your cottage here, but he did not take these valuables.”
“Maybe I surprised him and he wasn’t able to take everything he wanted to take. Maybe he was still in here when I pulled into the driveway, and he had to run when he heard my Jeep.” Or just maybe, I thought, he wanted to make it look like a burglary, and then that anger of his took over again.
“Perhaps you surprised some other burglar or kids, vandals, or—”
“But it had to be somebody who knew where that money was, don’t you think?”
He didn’t speak at first, and I was determined to wait, to make him answer that. When he did finally speak, he did so without turning around. His voice was so soft, I could barely make out the words. “Perhaps you overestimate the cleverness of your hiding place, Miss Sullivan. Many of the criminals in this town have worked in the marine industry at some point. Or yes, perhaps it was someone who knew where that money was.” He turned slowly and looked at me with those black eyes. “You knew where the money was.”
“Oh, come on, you don’t think I would do this to my own place?”
“I consider all possibilities.”
“Seems to me like you’ve only been considering one possibility ever since this whole mess started, Detective.”
“Garrett is gone, Miss Sullivan. The blood on the boat, the distance to shore ... how could he have made it?”
“Detective, Neal used to be a Navy Seal. He was probably wearing scuba gear. If you don’t think he could have swum that distance underwater, you don’t know the Seals.”
“I see no evidence to convince me the man is still alive, and”—he waved his arm to indicate my cottage—“a little event like this is not going to change my mind on that count.”
“Little event? What are you talking about? Neal was in here tonight, I’d bet my life on it.”
“I see.” He slipped his gold pen from his pocket and began to write in those tiny letters on the pages of his notepad.
I pointed at the officer taking photos of the mess. “Have them check for fingerprints. I know you’ll find Neal’s prints in here.”
He looked up at me and squinted his eyes. “Yes, you’re quite correct there, I’m sure. You said earlier that Garrett lived with you. This place will still be covered with his prints.” He picked up my torn canvas of the Stranahan House painting. “It would take a very desperate person to destroy things just to try to throw suspicion off himself.” He walked up very close to me and said, almost into my ear, “Or herself.”
“Jesus.” I stepped back from him, putting distance between us to give me some measure of comfort. “Wait a minute. Hold on. Somebody breaks into my home, and when I call you guys for help, you come in here accusing me?”
“There is no sign of any forced entry.”
“Well, Neal had a key to this place at one time. Maybe he made a copy. Or hid one out in the yard somewhere.” My voice was getting higher and more strained. I sounded guilty to myself. But it was Neal, dammit, I knew it. I had to make him understand, but I
wasn’t willing just yet to tell him about the rage I had seen in Neal that one time. “Detective, I don’t care what you think about all this,” I told him, waving my arm at the mess in the room, “but the truth is I did not kill that girl or Neal. She was dead when I got aboard the Top Ten, and somehow, Neal got off alive. He was here tonight in my cottage. You’ve got to believe that.”
“No, Miss Sullivan, you’ve got to think about the kind of trouble you’re in. If you don’t have an attorney, I suggest you get one, and I expect to see you at the station tomorrow morning, first thing.”
After they’d left, I sat on the stool top I had replaced and finished my now warm beer, staring across the room, seeing nothing.
How had this happened? How, in the course of one day, had I become a suspect, apparently the only suspect, in a murder case? This didn’t happen to people like me. Innocent people didn’t go to prison for crimes they didn’t commit, did they? I was not that naive. Of course they did; innocent people had been found to have spent years in prison, in solitary confinement, even on death row. The thought of prison terrified me. I had to come up with a plan, because if the police weren’t looking for other suspects, someone had better start.
But just then, I wanted to sleep, and I knew I couldn’t do it in the cottage. I turned off the light, left the porch light on, and locked up. Collazo was right about one thing: I couldn’t see any sign of the lock having been jimmied. I figured there was one place I could sleep safely without having to worry about whether or not anybody was coming back.
Abaco rubbed up against my thighs.
“Some watchdog you are.” I rubbed her ears. She seemed very pleased with herself.
I looked around the beautifully manicured yard with its large live oak tree blocking the view of the stars. It was dark in among the hedges and shrubs, the butterfly garden, and the shed on the far side of the house where the Larsens stored their recreational toys. The night sounds of crickets and the brush rustlings of the creatures who survived in suburbia sounded natural and soothing. Nothing out of the ordinary. Had he really been here? If so, how did he get from the Top Ten offshore to here in the past fifteen hours? Or did I just want so much for him to be alive that I was stretching the evidence to make myself believe it? Maybe it was just a thief, and something—Abaco or a boat or even my returning—scared him off before he could take all the goods. I put my hands under Abaco’s chin and lifted her face. “God, I wish you could talk. It was him, wasn’t it? You’d have torn up anybody else. It’s the only thing that makes sense.” Angry as I was about my trashed house, I was more relieved by the evidence that the son of a bitch was still around. Wrapping my arms around the dog’s neck, I whispered, “He’s alive, isn’t he, girl?”
I walked down the dock and climbed aboard Gorda. Abaco looked at me as though asking permission to come aboard. “All right, you useless dog.” I would feel better with company.
When Red built Gorda, he knew there would be times he would have to take her down to Miami or up to Palm Beach, and he wanted to be able to sleep aboard. The main wheelhouse had three windows across the front, with the wheel and all the engine instruments on the console below. To starboard, aft of the wheelhouse door, was a chart table with a swing-out stool, and aft of that was a narrow bunk stretched across the bulkhead. To port, through the bulkhead aft, steps led down to the engine room with the tiny enclosed head in a corner, while in the center sat the single 220-horsepower CAT D342 six-cylinder diesel that powered the tug. In spite of the engine room insulation, sleeping on the little aluminum shelf over the engine was nearly impossible due to the heat and noise when under way. But tonight, I knew I’d feel far safer sleeping there than in the mess that was my cottage. I reactivated the alarm system and fell into the bunk without bothering to undress. I wasn’t awake long enough to realize how uncomfortable I was.
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