Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [59]
Meadows decided to find out. It was the only way to begin to find a way out of the narrow and obscene canyon in which he languished: Nelson baying from one rim and the cocaine killers from the other. With el Jefe’s identity, at least Meadows would have something to bargain with. But how to find out?
By the time he returned to Terry’s apartment Meadows had it: Clara Jackson.
Clara Jackson was a police reporter with a national reputation at the Miami Journal. She thrived on violence and on implacable contempt for the editors she worked for. Meadows had met her when she’d dated a contractor friend, and he had found her remarkable. Clara had led a grand tour of the Journal’s department-store news room with running commentary. Later, over dinner, all of them—the contractor, Meadows and Sandy—had listened with a mixture of revulsion and awe while Clara Jackson had talked about her job. The topic then, as now, was murder.
“Clara, hi. This is Chris Meadows. We met many years ago when—”
“Sure, I remember. The architect,” Clara cut in. “That was back when I was seeing…”
“Jack—”
“Renner, right. We all had dinner. I remember what you said about the Journal building. You called it the world’s largest Sunoco station.”
Meadows laughed. “Just a joke,” he said.
“The truth,” Clara said. “How have you been?”
“Not good.” Briefly Meadows told her about Sandy’s death and how he had witnessed it—but said nothing of his own continuing terror.
“God, I’m so sorry. I wrote that story about the girl and her mother, and I didn’t even realize who it was.”
“Her last name was different when you met her.”
“I’m so sorry,” Clara said again. “Goddamn cokeheads. They’re maniacs, Chris, every one.”
“I need a favor,” Meadows said. “I drew a sketch of a man—”
“The killer?”
“No. But one of them who is…involved.”
“Did you give it to the cops?”
“I intend to, Clara, but I want you to see it, too. I’d like to send you a copy.”
There was a pause. Meadows could hear a half dozen electric typewriters clacking smoothly in the background.
“I’ll look at it, Chris, but…well, I have to be honest. Most sketches are useless. Even police artists make everybody look like Mr. Potato Head.”
“Just take a look. Please,” Meadows implored. “I’ll send it over in a cab this morning.”
“OK Listen, Chris, I really got to run. I’m having a war with one of the junior editors here over a story that’s supposed to be on the front page tomorrow.”
“More drug killings?”
“Oh, no. Just some crazy husband who shot his wife with a spear gun and pinned her to the refrigerator. Asshole editor thinks it’s too gory and wants to bury the story on the inside, so I gotta go.”
Meadows placed the sketch of the suave man at the funeral parlor in a brown office envelope and sealed both ends with wide strips of duct tape. He printed Clara Jackson’s name in capital letters on the front but did not write his own.
He gave the Yellow Cab driver twenty bucks and prayed that the man was honest. Once the package was on its way, he felt washed with relief.
The next day Meadows swam and walked the beach. He could feel his strength returning and with it his sense of mental balance.
He was a fugitive, but it was not the police who pursued him, he was sure. Just one lone-wolf cop. And two gunmen who killed for a chimera with a rose in his lapel.
Meadows feared them, but his panic was gone. He would let time be his ally. He was safe where he was. He had plenty of money, and he had no hurry.
He would wait until Nelson and the dopers found new distractions, like hounds bored by a stale scent. Let them gnaw one another in their own private frenzy. Meadows would be gone.
If Clara Jackson came up with a name for the doper king, Meadows might even be able to take some sweet revenge long distance. He’d send copies of the sketches and an appropriate anonymous note to the FBI and the DEA. To everyone but Octavio Nelson. Let him find out from the feds who his precious