There were more attempts at talk, but they always trailed off into silences. The waitress brought their meals. Fish and salad for Diane. A big cheeseburger and fries for Frank. They began to eat, seemingly grateful for something to do.
Diane said something and Frank shook his head slowly. She leaned forward, still talking. Frank kept his eyes on his plate.
Her words rose over the clatter of dishes. “I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be,” he said.
“But you’re —-”
“Let it be, Diane. Just let it be.”
Frank pushed his plate away and leaned back in the booth, lighting a fresh cigarette. Diane went back to moving the food around on her plate, her eyes downcast.
The waitress came up to Louis’s table with the coffeepot. He shook his head. He had drunk five cups already and had nothing to show for this night but a bursting bladder.
Frank got up. Diane did, too, picking up the bill.
Thank God...
Louis waited until they were outside, then left. They were standing by Diane’s Honda, talking, this time with more animation. Louis had no way of getting closer to hear without showing himself, so he stayed behind the bushes.
Suddenly, he saw Diane put her hands to her eyes. She turned abruptly and got behind the wheel of her car. Frank stood there for a moment, eyes on the ground, cigarette in hand. Then he crushed the glowing butt between his thumb and index finger and put it in his pocket. He got in the car. Diane pulled out, heading fast down Cleveland Avenue.
Louis followed them back to Frank’s house. Diane didn’t even wait until Frank was in the house before she backed out of the driveway and raced off. Louis watched the lights come on behind the drapes of Frank’s living room and then he followed the red taillights of Diane’s fast-disappearing car.
She kept going down Cleveland, heading for the Caloosahatchee Bridge. She was obviously headed back home to her apartment over in Cape Coral. Good. He could call it a night. Louis slowed, starting over to the left lane so he could head over to McGregor and get back out to Captiva.
Suddenly, the Honda braked and did a hard right onto Martin Luther King Boulevard. Louis cursed and swung the wheel, getting a horn from the truck behind him. He sped to catch up to Diane.
She braked hard again and swung left. Louis pulled up just in time to see her go into Boopie’s Beer & Wine.
She came out a couple of minutes later, clutching a small paper bag. Two black men in the parking lot stared at her as she got in her car.
Louis put his car in reverse, ready to take flight again. Diane’s Honda didn’t move. Louis waited. But Diane hadn’t even started the engine. He couldn’t see her from where he was, so he put the car in gear and inched forward. Now he could see her profile. She was just sitting there behind the wheel, her face painted pink from the neon of the liquor store’s sign.
Diane brought the paper bag to her lips and took a drink. She closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the headrest. Then she took another drink.
The two black men were watching her. She didn’t even see them. She took a third long drink.
“Christ,” Louis whispered.
He was thinking about getting out and going over to her car, but she suddenly started the motor. A moment later, she pulled out.
Damn, he had to follow her, just to make sure she got home okay.
She drove more slowly now, getting across the river and into the parking lot of her apartment complex without mishap. She walked slowly up the stairs to her door, her purse and the paper bag in hand, and went inside.
Louis let out a tired sigh. This was nuts. He couldn’t afford to keep wasting time on this, and Diane Woods certainly couldn’t afford to keep paying him for it. Frank Woods had not done a thing that could possibly connect him to Jane Doe’s murder, and the more Louis saw of Diane, the more convinced he was that she was just paranoid and maybe just a little embarrassed by her odd —- but normal —- parent.
He was quitting the case.
Louis pulled himself from the Mustang and went up to Diane’s door. He rang the bell.
The outside light went on and the door jerked open. Diane stood there, still wearing her dress, but with her shoes off and her collar open. Her face was flushed. She was holding a crystal goblet of clear liquid. Louis could smell the gin.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“We need to talk.”
She walked away, leaving the door open. Louis came in and watched her as she went into the kitchen, put the gin bottle in the cabinet, and closed the door. Every move she made was with the careful effort of a drunk trying not to look like one.
The apartment was quiet except for the hum of a refrigerator. Louis looked around, taking in the neat rows of bestsellers on the bookshelves, the mauve and gray furnishings, the careful fan of Gourmet and House Beautifulmagazines on the coffee table, the perfect arrangement of Lladro porcelains on an elegant étagère. Not a fingerprint on glass, not a book jacket frayed, not a speck of dust anywhere. The place screamed taste and order.