“For many years.”
“Do you think you can be objective?”
“I think so.”
The sheriff sat back down with a long sigh. “T.C., I’m just a sheriff of a small, friendly community. That’s the way I like it. Nice, quiet, peaceful. You know what I mean?”
T.C. nodded.
“I’m not looking to be a big hero. I don’t want no glory and I don’t like complicated cases like you mates in Boston handle. You know what I’m saying?”
“Sure.”
“Now, being a simple man, let me tell you how I see it. I don’t think Baskin drowned.”
“You don’t?”
Graham shook his head. “I may have made a nice speech about all the possibilities for a corpse in the Pacific, but the truth is almost always much simpler. If he had drowned, his body should have been here by now. Not one hundred percent of the time, mind you, but almost.”
“What then?”
The large man took a swig of Coke. “Could he have developed a classic case of cold feet? It wouldn’t be the first time a mate has run away on his honeymoon. Almost did it myself once.”
T.C.’s answer was a grin. “Have you taken a good look at his wife?”
Graham whistled his appreciation. “Never seen anything like that in my life, mate. My eyes almost popped out of the sockets.” He took another sip of his Coke, lowered the bottle, and wiped his mouth with a forearm the size of an oak tree. “I guess we can assume he’s not on the run. But let me ask you something else, T.C. I’ve been doing some research on this Baskin—part of the job, you know—and he seems to be quite the joker. Any chance he’s just out for a last kick or something?”
“And worry her like this? It wouldn’t be like him, Graham.”
“Well, I’ve radioed all the nearby towns and the coast guard. None of them wants a lot of press around either, so they’ll keep mum. Other than that, I’m not sure there’s much we can do.”
“I’d like to ask a favor, Graham.”
“Name it.”
“I know I’m out of my jurisdiction, but I’d like to help out with the investigation if I can. David Baskin is my best friend, and I know him better—”
“Whoa, whoa, slow down there,” Graham interrupted. The sheriff stood. His gaze traveled north to south, from T.C.’s face to his scuffed-up Thom McAn loafers. He took out a handkerchief and dabbed the sweat on his forehead. “I’m undermanned as it is,” he continued slowly, “and I guess it wouldn’t hurt any to deputize you for this case.” He pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it to T.C. “Here’s a list of places I want you to call. Report back to me if you hear anything.”
“Thanks. I really appreciate this.”
“No worries. But let me ask you one last question: Is there anything wrong with Baskin?”
T.C. felt his pulse begin to pound in his throat. Memories flashed across his brain. “Wrong?”
“Yeah, you know, does he have any injuries, a bad heart or something?”
“Not that I know of,” T.C. lied.
“And who would know better?” Graham grinned. “After all, you’re his best mate.”
T.C.’s eyes met the big sheriff’s for a brief moment. They revealed nothing.
LAURA and T.C. remained silent during the short ride back to the hotel. T.C. checked in, left his bags at the front desk, and followed Laura to the honeymoon suite.
“So what do we do now, T.C.?”
He drew in a deep breath. He scratched his head, his fingertips wading through the thinness of the strands as they made their way to his scalp. No gray hairs yet, he thought, though he hoped his hair would last long enough to develop some. He doubted it. The light brown strands were quickly losing ground, his forehead taking over his scalp like Sherman through Atlanta.
T.C. looked out the window of the suite and felt in his pocket for a cigar. None was there.
“Call around. Search the area.”
Laura’s voice was surprisingly steady and matter-offact. “By calling around, you mean the morgues.”
“Morgues, hospitals—that kind of thing.”
“And by searching the area, you mean the ocean and beaches to see if David’s body has washed up.”
He nodded.
Laura walked over to the telephone. “Do you want to change or rest up before we get started? You look like hell.”
He turned and smiled. “I just got off a long flight. What’s your excuse?”
“I’m not exactly ready for a cover shot, huh?”
“You’d still put the competition to shame.”
“Thanks. Now do me a favor.”
“Name it.”
“Go down to the lobby and buy a couple of boxes of their finest cheap cigars.”
“Huh?”
She lifted the receiver. “Stock up your supplies. We might be here awhile.”
FIRST, she called the morgues.
Laura had purposely wanted to call them first, to get them out of the way as fast as possible. Better to dash madly through the valley of the shadow of death than to take a casual stroll. Her head sat on a guillotine from the moment the coroner said, “Hold on a moment, luv,” until a hellish decade later—or so it seemed—when he came back on to say, “No one fitting that description here.”
Then relief would flood her veins for a few seconds before T.C. gave her the next number to dial.
The room reeked of cigar stench like a poker table on the boys’ night to play, but Laura did not notice. She felt trapped, suffocated—not by the smoke but by each ring of the phone, her body constantly crossing between hope and dread as she now began to call the hospitals. She wanted so much to know—needed to know—while at the same time, she was afraid to find out. It was like living in a nightmare—one in which you were terrified to wake up because then the nightmare might become reality.
An hour later, the calls were completed.
“Now what?”
T.C. flicked an ash onto the tabletop. He had smoked many cigars in his day but this Australian stogie was like smoking duck manure. One puff from this baby would have done to Fidel what Kennedy and the Bay of Pigs could not. He decided this would be his last one.
“I’m going to run downstairs and get you a few more numbers to call from the phone book,” he said. “Then I’m going to start questioning the staff. No reason for both of us to sit by a phone.”