Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [57]
There was one other explanation: Nelson had used him for bait. Knowing Meadows would be recognized by the killers, Nelson had waited outside the funeral home for the architect to be dragged out, like a gaffed fish. And when Meadows had emerged alone, Nelson had simply waited some more, keeping his distance to see if the minnow really would get away. It was plausible. More than that, it was probable.
Meadows could not swallow the rage. Nelson, who had railed so bitterly about the impotence of the law, had found a cruel but clever way of subverting it. Give the loco dopers a target, someone scared and naïve enough to wear a bull’s-eye on his own chest. Then step in and pick up the pieces. If one of those pieces happened to be broken…que sera, sera.
Meadows walked out to the balcony and surveyed the ocean’s horizon, purple under distant clouds. Nelson’s scheme had failed; the detective would get no more chances. Next time, Meadows thought, the plan will be mine.
OCTAVIO NELSON was not in a good mood.
“How’s Garcia?” Pincus asked.
“He’s OK.”
“Where’d he get hit?”
“Left shoulder, left knee.”
“I heard it was the chest,” Pincus said.
“You heard wrong.”
“I heard it was his own gun.”
Nelson lifted a mug of steaming coffee to his lips. “Yeah. That’s right,” he muttered sourly.
What a fucking nightmare, Nelson thought. When the dispatcher at Central broadcasts an “officer down” call, you simply do not stop to ask questions like: Did your hotshot cop shoot himself? Was he playing quick-draw? Did he fuck up? You don’t ask; you move because the next time it could be your ass out there full of bullets.
But the call had come—one of his own men—so Nelson had muscled the old Dodge clunker into its very best bat-out-of-hell routine and torn away from that funeral parlor so fast…
And, inside, a terrified architect had been trying to do him a dangerous favor. Damn.
Christopher Meadows had been gone, of course, by the time Nelson had returned. The detective had driven the streets for nearly an hour, peering at figures slouched in doorways, aiming his Q-beam spotlight into the cat-ridden alleys of Little Havana. Still, no Meadows.
The incident had been catastrophic enough, but now here was Pincus, typing up his accursed eight-by-ten index cards and asking questions about Meadows.
“I don’t understand,” Pincus said.
Nelson turned his back to rummage through a drawer. “You seen my cigars?”
“What happened at the hotel?” Pincus pressed.
“He was gone,” Nelson said curtly. “He took off.”
“But what about the trace?”
“Ah!” Nelson beamed, holding up a fresh H. Upmann, courtesy of the Christopher Meadows collection. He gnawed off the tip and ceremoniously began firing up the cigar. Pincus said nothing; he knew he would have to wait for his answer.
Soon Nelson was enshrouded in smoke. The words came this time with contented patience. “Wilbur, the trace was fine. The address was good. All your information was good. It was nobody’s fault. Meadows must have got spooked and ran, that’s all.”
“But how?”
Nelson shrugged. “Whatcha typing?”
Pincus ignored him. “Did he leave anything?”
“Two shirts, a new toothbrush—you know, the kind with the angled bristles—a can of Right Guard. Fascinating stuff really. It’s all in a bag in my locker, if you’re interested.”
Pincus smiled officiously and shook his head. “I wonder how he knew you were coming.”
“He had just killed a man and nearly got himself killed for the third time inside of a month. That would put my nerves on edge, too.” Nelson’s voice was taut; his story seemed frayed.
“Were the people at the hotel any help?”
“Oh, yes. Spent an hour telling me what a polite, wonderful fellow our architect friend is. They had no idea a crime was involved, and I didn’t tell them. They wouldn’t have believed it.”
Pincus went back to his index cards, glancing up from the typewriter now and then to venture an idle question. Nelson tired of the game very quickly.
“Don’t ask me if I checked his house. He’s not there, and he’s not stupid enough to