Part 18 (2/2)

”You and the Mafia could do business,” I said.

”Just how long are you going to keep this up? This running off to Jacksonville?”

”As long as I need to, Toba.”

”Our son told us he was suicidal. What if he dies,” she said, ”while you're off trying to save some murderer's lousy life?”

I didn't know how to answer that. There was no answer. She walked across the room, and I realized she had brought up a bottle of Chablis, which now stood on her makeup table. She poured some of the wine into a bell-shaped gla.s.s.

”It helps me to sleep.”

”Let's fool around,” I said brightly. ”That used to do the job pretty well.”

”After I've had some wine. Don't worry, I'll brush my teeth.”

”You've had enough this evening to knock out a moose.”

She glared at me. ”Up yours, Ted. You do what you want to do. I'll do the same, thank you very much.”

Sheets of rain swept down on Longboat Key. On such nights Toba and I-often without knowing it-took comfort from the boats that bobbed at anchor in the bay, blinking friendly signal lights into our bedroom, our sanctuary. Tonight the waves crashed on the beach with force enough so that the land seemed to shudder.

We didn't fool around. A few minutes after turning out her light, Toba began to snore lightly. Funny, I thought. At the beginning of a marriage, if you were told your wife was going to become a serious snorer, you might think twice about taking the marriage vows. But once it became a fait accompli, it was endearing. It was proof of her vulnerability. It was her. You almost loved her for it-not in spite of it but for it. And of course it gave you the freedom to practice your own antisocial habits, which in turn were you.

Soon I drifted toward sleep.

That time in the Gambrel murder, the snitch I had was for real... .

I sat up in bed in the semidarkness. Thunder growled from far away in the night, like a vicious dog giving fair warning. I was awake, focused on a name, hearing it in the reedy voice of Carmen Tanagra.

I remembered that name from twelve years ago. And the man himself: Victor Gambrel. In his early forties, reminding everyone of Basil Rathbone playing Sherlock Holmes. A former Jacksonville cop, and at that time chief of security for Zide Industries. Nickerson's police report had quoted Gambrel as stating that following Neil Zide's telephone call, he'd arrived at the estate a scant few minutes before the Homicide team. Gambrel had seen nothing. I had interviewed him at the state attorney's office then but decided not to use him as a witness.

Five years ago, according to the casual recounting by Kenny Buckram and Carmen Tanagra, Gambrel had been murdered. But why? And by whom? Organized crime, they thought. And what else had Tanagra said? I hunted in the debris of memory and found it: ... Bongiorno had real good friends in Tallaha.s.see. Money and political clout is what it came down to. The snitch changed his story, and I got s.h.i.+tcanned... .

Even a blind dog finds a bone once in a while. I had a new vision, one that staggered me. I slipped out of bed and padded swiftly down the stairs to the living room. The sky crackled with lightning. From my briefcase I fished out a legal pad and a ballpoint pen.

Hours later, when I slept again, I dreamed of a woman who resembled Connie Zide. She held a knife to the throat of Darryl Morgan.

Chapter 18.

CONNIE ZIDE ONCE said to me, ”Solly can't stand me. He thinks I'm deceitful, neurotic, self-centered, lazy, vain, demanding, greedy-if you wonder why I have that list down pat, like the Boy Scout oath in reverse, it's because I hear it all the time when he's around. If he can't control someone who's close to him, he has to destroy them. Lately he's mixing alcohol with cocaine, so he gets really nasty. A couple of weeks ago, when we were arguing about Neil, he hit me.”

We were having a drink that evening at Ruffing's, which was halfway between the courthouse and home. Connie would call, tell me she was in the neighborhood. Just a drink, she would say. She just wanted to hold my hand, look into my eyes. And usually she meant it.

My fists clenched in anger-how dare the son of a b.i.t.c.h hit her? -and I knew I had to be careful. Her life with Solly and Neil wasn't my business. But it's someone you care for, another of my voices said. You can't pick and choose what will move you.

”You remember when I didn't see you for a whole week? That was because I had a big bruise here.” Connie touched her cheek. I saw a faint blue tinge that I'd noticed before but ignored out of politeness; you didn't comment on the changes in the face of a woman of forty-seven.

”Neil saw it next morning,” she went on. ”I told him the truth, and he went straight to the office. Apparently he called Solly a few names that even Solly had never heard.”

If it was true, it was the best thing I'd ever heard about the light of her life.

”Since Neil turned thirteen,” Connie said, ”and started writing poetry and taking photographs of flowers, Solly's let him know that he thinks he's a sissy. And when Neil began to realize how his father abused me, he began to despise him.”

”They work together, don't they?”

”Neil's a glorified gofer on starvation wages. Why do you think he lives at home?”

That made no sense to me. There was a missing element to the equation.

”Why don't you stake Neil to a place of his own?”

”He won't take anything from me. He thinks I should leave Solly, and if I did, he says, I'd need every penny I've managed to save. I signed a prenuptial agreement-Solly was way ahead of his time when it came to protecting his financial a.s.s. I can live well, but only if I'm in residence.”

”You said that Neil was a good photographer.”

”He's brilliant. But he lacks the confidence. It will come-with time.”

I concluded that Connie had less than a realistic view of her son. I had met Neil at one of the charity luncheons. The young man had Connie's full-mouthed sensuality, but there was a cold, appraising look in his eyes that may have been a paternal legacy. He was soft around the jawline, nervous, and arrogant. He knew what I did for a living, and at one point in our conversation said, ”Well, what good luck to meet you. If I ever get caught speeding or holding a bag of c.o.ke, I'll give you a ring.”

”There better be a five-carat diamond in it,” I said, ”or you'll get short shrift.”

”Oh? Are you bribable? What a revelation! My mother always talks of you as the essence of probity.”

”p.i.s.s off, Neil,” I said quietly.

Neil was wearing Gucci shoes and an Ermenegildo Zegna black silk sport jacket draped over his shoulders like a bullfighter's cape. When he left, he kissed his mother hard on the lips, then waved to a few people and cried out, ”Ciao!” He drove off in a Lamborghini with silver wheels.

During the seven months of what I came to think of as my period of primal madness, I took care not to fall in love with Connie Zide. Like an immune system that battles against infection, my defenses battled against emotional involvement. I knew it could lead to the destruction of my marriage, my family, maybe even my career. And I didn't want that.

Struck by the thunderbolt, I'd veered off course, sailed into treacherous waters. The harmony of my life was close to foundering on the reefs of s.e.xual infatuation. You could see them sticking up from the frothy surf.

But the winds pushed you there, anyway.

A while later, in that summer of my ongoing derangement, for part of a weekend Connie and I managed a second time to get to the cabin on c.u.mberland Island. On Friday afternoon we were sailing a borrowed cutter offsh.o.r.e in the Atlantic chop, when Connie turned to me in the c.o.c.kpit and said, ”Neil knows about us.”

She saw the expression of dismay on my face.

”It's all right. He approves. Thinks you're the strong, silent type. 'A Jewish Gary Cooper on the short side' is how he put it.”

I checked the luff of the mainsail, then looked at her darkly. ”How did he find out?”

”We have no secrets.”

”Connie, you told him? That was dumb.”

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