Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [45]
Meadows was touched.
“Of course, I’d be glad to come. But I have nothing to bring.”
“For that you shouldn’t worry. I bought some bologna for you.”
Late in the afternoon Meadows called Nelson again. There was a long wait before he came to the phone.
“Good news, amigo. Mono is dead.”
“What!”
“It happened a couple days ago, but nobody found him until early this morning. He was alone in his car in a vacant lot. Stabbed once, apparently, and bled to death.”
“God!”
Meadows felt the world turn, a queasy mix of despair and glee. He pressed Nelson for details. From what he knew and what he heard, Meadows was able to piece together Mono’s last agony.
Somehow Domingo Sosa had managed to drive away from the airport. He’d made it only two miles, not far enough—obviously—to find help, but fortunately far enough to get into the city, away from the crime scene.
Nelson admitted that the police had no leads to the killer. “It looks to me, amigo,” he said, “like it’s safe enough for you to come home.”
“I can’t believe it,” Meadows said. “Now that the pressure is off, I may stay up here a few more days and really enjoy myself.”
“Is she pretty?”
“Out of this world,” Meadows said with forced enthusiasm. “When I come back, I’ll tell you all about it—and bring you a box of cigars.”
“Adios,” Nelson said, chuckling. “Buena suerte.”
Meadows set the phone down gingerly. Part of him wanted to weep, and part of him wanted to dance, bum leg and all. He had killed a man. It was no nightmare.
The architect studied his hands. He could almost feel it, the knife, in a damp palm. The noise came back, too, the muffled shtup of the blade splitting fabric and then flesh. Then Sosa’s belly blooming red.
Meadows had killed a man.
And now he was safe.
Where should he go? Anywhere. Anywhere at all.
If Terry was flying, there was no prayer of finding her. New York? Why the hell not? He picked up the phone.
“I shouldn’t even be talking to you,” Dana scolded.
“Don’t get snooty. I am coming tonight, by midnight. I expect you to be there.”
“At the airport?”
“In bed. Leave the door unlocked.”
“Have you been drinking, Chris?”
“Not yet.”
Meadows sang in the shower. He scrubbed his nails. He washed his hair. He shaved to within an inch of his life. He allowed himself the luxury of deciding what to wear.
He wouldn’t even call for a reservation. He would just go to the airport—Fort Lauderdale. No way anybody would get him back to Miami International anytime soon.
He emerged from the bathroom dripping wet, a skimpy white towel around his waist. He had decided to go classically: a fine white shirt, striped tie, light blue blazer, camel slacks and black loafers. Could he buy flowers at La Guardia?
There was a knock on the door.
“You can come in, Sadie, if you want to, but only at your own risk. I’m nearly naked,” Meadows sang out.
The door opened quickly, and Octavio Nelson stepped through it.
“You are under arrest, amigo,” Nelson said softly. Meadows caught a quick glimpse of Sadie in the passageway, an arthritic hand clutching a bony breast.
“What?” Meadows croaked.
“For the murder of Domingo Sosa.”
Chapter 12
MEADOWS FELT the room spin. Dots danced in front of his eyes. He tried to speak; could not. He clung grimly to the towel. It was all the defense he had. He felt naked, betrayed. His brain scratched for a fulcrum. It found none.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he managed finally. It was the hoarse whisper of an old man.
“Do me a favor, amigo. Put some clothes on, and try not to sound stupid, OK?”
Meadows grabbed his trousers and shirt off the bed and stumbled into the gloomy bathroom. He dressed mindlessly, slowly, willing away the implacable presence in the bedroom and the cheap cigars that had come with it.
Fear and anger, the emotions that seemed to have dogged him like malaria since that afternoon in the Grove, played hot and cold along his spine. He was a fool. He was helpless. He was trapped. And he had to get away.
The bathroom window. If he knocked out the cheap screen, he could squeeze