Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [83]
Still, it was one nasty little murder that would not go away. Barnett knew that he would soon have to announce a suspect. A prime suspect. Breeze Albury would do, he reckoned, as long as he stayed gone.
Barnett double-parked in front of the Cowrie and honked three times. When Laurie got in, the chief broke into a wide, brown-toothed grin.
“You look a sight,” he said. “And you wore them jeans.”
“Let’s go,” she said in a worried tone. “As it is, everybody in the restaurant’s gonna talk.”
“You know faggots, they got to gossip.”
Barnett took Truman Avenue to U.S. 1, up the island past Stock Island. As soon as they were out of Key West, Laurie scooted over next to him.
“Well, well.”
Her perfume was arousing. A sideways glance told the police chief that his radiant date was not wearing a bra.
“I write a little poetry,” Laurie said, placing a casual hand on Barnett’s right leg. “Don’t you think the names of these islands would make wonderful poetry? Boca Chica. Big Coppitt. Little Torch Key.”
“Hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Ramrod. Sugarloaf. The Saddlebunch.”
“Yeah. Ramrod, Sugarloaf. Those are good ones.” Barnett winked. “I like those.”
“Oh, stop it. Watch the road.” Laurie patted his leg.
“You haven’t told me where you want to go. There’s a place up on Summerland we can stop for a drink—”
“No, it’s too risky. Breeze knows everybody down here. Someone would tell him as soon as he got back. I know it.” Laurie softened her voice. “I couldn’t hurt him like that. You understand, don’t you?”
“So where do you want to go?”
“Ever heard of the Tarpon Inn?”
Barnett shifted behind the wheel. “Darlin’, that’s a long goddamn drive.”
“I know, chief, but it’s got a sweet little bar. And the rooms are nice.” Laurie manufactured her cutest giggle. “King-sized beds.”
Huge Barnett roared his approval with a laugh that issued tremors through his belly. “The Tarpon Inn it is,” he declared, gunning the Chrysler around a poky school bus pell-mell down the wrong side of the most dangerous highway in America.
Laurie Ravenel shut her eyes tightly and prayed that it soon would be over.
The gas station man parked his pickup on a bleached spit of dredged-up rock that formed a jetty into Spanish Harbor. He rolled down the windows, punched a Jackson Browne cassette into the tape deck, and tried to relax.
The message from the post office had been brief, almost too brief. When the gas station man had asked for more details, he had been curtly directed to “follow instructions.”
Crystal was in his usual cautious mood.
The gas station man had waited in the truck only seven minutes before the skiff appeared, boring straight for the jetty across two miles of grassy shallows. When it was fifty yards away, the driver cut back and let the skiff glide to the rocks. He was of medium height, dressed in the khaki short-sleeved uniform of charter boat captains; his bare arms and legs were like polished walnut. He picked up the package and heaved it from the boat to the jetty.
“You know what to do, right?”
The gas station man struggled with the package. “Christ, this is heavy.”
“Fifty-five pounds,” said Teal. He turned the ignition key, and the big outboard came to life. “Your place is how far?”
The gas station man half-threw, half-pushed the package into the flatbed. “Just up the road, maybe a half-mile at the most.”
“Good. The radio says they’re right on schedule.”
“God, I hope so,” the gas station man said.
“Good luck.” Teal gave a wave as the bonefish skiff planed off, skimming across the flats for deep water and the straight, oceangoing run back to Key West.
“SHOULD I CALL YOU chief, or what?”
“Anything you want, darlin’.” Huge Barnett was steering left-handed. His right hand, crablike, was exploring Laurie’s blouse. She pushed it away, but not too firmly.
“Can I call you Clare?”
Barnett reddened. “No,” he snapped. “What is