Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [58]
Pincus shrugged. “I bet he’s still in town.”
Nelson groaned and shook his head.
“He won’t go near that airport again,” Pincus asserted.
“Good point,” Nelson said sarcastically. “What are you telling me, that the guy can’t drive fifteen miles up to Lauderdale, or charter a Beechcraft out of North Perry, or lease a fucking Bertram and cruise to Bimini? Wilbur, this guy is not stupid. He’s scared, that’s all. I think he’ll call again. Soon.”
Actually Nelson wasn’t sure at all, but he glared at Pincus when he said it. Damn this kid. He won’t let up.
“Are you just going to wait for him?”
“Christ! Wilbur, what in the fuck do you want me to do?” Nelson erupted. “At best this is a lousy manslaughter case, and at worst it’s self-defense and we’re not even going to get an indictment out of the state attorney. You want me to run up a few hundred miles tracking down some panicky little architect with wet pants, and in the meantime I’m looking at six open homicides, not the least of which is some hotshot English professor who comes in today with seven holes. From a machine gun, no less. Now that, Wilbur, turns my crank.” Nelson pointed his chin at the ceiling and let loose a vaporized geyser of acrid tobacco smoke.
The two men sat across from each other with the postures of weary boxers, tired but ready for the next left hook. Pincus was enormously glad when Nelson’s phone rang. It gave him a chance to extract a creased spiral notebook from his coat jacket. He flipped the pages until he found what he was looking for. His writing was precise, a virtue among cops. The notation said: “Buckingham Hotel. M.B. 555-3200.”
As soon as Nelson lumbered off to the john, Pincus made his phone call. The desk clerk sounded like Myron Cohen.
“Is Mr. Meadows a guest there?” Pincus asked.
“Oh, no, not anymore. Are you related?”
“I’m a business associate. Do you know where he went? It’s most important.”
“No, no…hang on. Sadie! Sadie!” The clerk’s voice faded away into a distant quarrel. An old woman came on the line.
“Yes? Can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m looking for Christopher Meadows. My name is John Lake. I’m a business associate,” Pincus said.
“Yes, yes, Izzy told me, Mr. Lake. I’m sorry, but Mr. Meadows is not here. Now God forbid I should say something out of line, but I think you must know that Mr. Meadows is in some kind of trouble.”
“Oh, no,” Pincus said with expert sympathy. “What makes you think so? Did Chris leave in a big hurry?”
“Yes, young man, you might say that. He left with the police. It was unbelievable, such a nice young fellow.”
“The police? I don’t understand. Did you get the officer’s name?”
“Let me ask Izzy. He’s the one who let him up the stairs. Hold on, please.” Sadie left the phone for a full minute; Pincus strained to hear her harping at hapless Izzy.
“He forgot. I’m so sorry, Mr, Lake. Izzy’s memory is very poor. Very poor.”
“That’s all right,” Wilbur Pincus said, “but Chris did leave with a policeman?”
“Yes, yes, I saw them go out the door myself. He was a big man,
Mr. Lake, a detective. Izzy saw the badge himself, but as I said, he can’t think of the name. I’d know him again myself, though.”
“Do you recall what he looked like?” Pincus asked tentatively.
“Yes, Mr. Lake, but I can only remember the mustache and the cigar. He was Cuban. I’m sure he took Mr. Meadows to jail. It was very upsetting.”
“I’m sure it was,” Pincus said thoughtfully. “Thanks for everything, Sadie.”
MEADOWS COVERED HALF A MILE of tepid green ocean in a powerful, churning crawl. What he lacked in grace and efficiency as a swimmer, he made up in effectiveness. Swimming was his most treasured vice. The heat that enabled him to swim nearly every day of the year had been decisive in his decision to establish himself in Miami.
Far off the sandy beach Meadows rolled over on his back and thought about the man he knew to be el Jefe.