Island of Bones(7)

“Huh? Oh, yeah, that’s Mel Landeta. Sorry I didn’t introduce you. Got a few other things on my mind,” Horton said as he slid into the car.

“Not very friendly, is he?”

Horton started the car. “What, you been listening to those baboons down at O’Sullivans? Landeta’s a good man. He’s not some old burnout.”

“That’s not what they’re saying, Chief,” Louis said. Even though he knew they were. “They just resent you going outside, that’s all.”

“Landeta’s just had a few rough years.” Horton thrust the shift into reverse. “And I don’t think we got enough chips in for you to be questioning my hires, Kincaid.”

Louis sat back in the seat without responding. No chips in? That’s how Horton saw it? They had worked Walter Tatum’s murder together. But that was as far as it had gone. And as far as it would always go, given the line that separated cops from private investigators.

They were back onto McGregor before Horton spoke again.

“Look, I’m sorry, Louis,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything by that. You know I’ve got a lot of respect for you. It’s just that I haven’t been home since they issued the warning, I’m stretched too thin and I’m running on empty.”

“Apology accepted, Chief,” Louis said. “Anything I can do to help out maybe?”

Horton shook his head. They slowed to go through a flooded area, the Crown-Vic’s wake washing up into someone’s driveway.

“How come you didn’t apply for the opening?” Horton asked.

It was Louis’s turn for silence. He had known about the opening for a patrolman. Once, he had come close to calling Horton. But he hadn’t, and he knew he never would. He did owe Horton an answer though.

“I’ve kind of gotten used to working freelance, Chief,” Louis said.

Horton glanced over at him. “You get that PI license yet?”

Louis nodded slowly without looking at Horton.

“Gun?”

“Yeah, a Glock.”

Horton raised a brow. “Well, I guess that makes it official.”

They followed the other car as it made the turn onto Fowler heading toward the river.

“So what are they saying about Landeta?” Horton asked. Louis hesitated and Horton saw it. “Come on, I need to know.”

“That something happened and he’s lost it.”

Horton let out a sigh. “A few years back Mel had an accident. He was in a pursuit and some kid ran a light. He hit Mel broadside. Mel came out okay but the kid ended up a paraplegic and his family sued. The kid was at fault but the city didn’t care. They settled the suit and got Mel on breaching departmental policies. He said he was forced to resign.”

“Tough break,” Louis said.

He was thinking that Landeta didn’t look old enough to be near pension age. He had the lean body of a basketball player. The bald head, he guessed now, wasn’t bad genes but probably a style choice to go with the black suit, white dress shirt, black tie, and yellow aviator shades.

“How old is he?” Louis asked.

“Forty-five. Been a cop since he was twenty.” Horton was quiet for a moment. “Mel’s a good man,” he said again.

There was something final in Horton’s tone that let Louis know the subject of Mel Landeta was closed.

At the docks, the three of them boarded the patrol boat. Landeta took a spot standing by the officer who was driving, his eyes trained straight ahead as they motored down the river toward the open waters of Pine Island Sound.

Louis’s eyes scanned the riverbanks. Many of the homes had missing shingles and tiles, and one old bungalow had a bright blue plastic tarp covering a large hole on the roof. Splintered docks floated near battered seawalls and giant twists of metal and gray screening hung over pools like shrouds.

“Where we going?” he asked Horton.

“Monkey Island up near Useppa. Uninhabited, just a bunch of mangroves.”

Louis had heard of Useppa. It was an exclusive private island club of homes. You had to have a boat —- and big bucks -— to get there. Monkey Island on the other hand was probably just one of the hundreds of little scrub keys that pockmarked the sound.

“So, what about the skull?” Louis asked.

“Oh, yeah. I overnighted it to the State Bureau of Archeological Research,” Horton said.

“Archeologists?”

“Yeah, it’s standard procedure when we’re not sure what we’re looking at,” Horton said. “The skull could’ve floated out of a cemetery or some damn Indian burial ground or something.”

He saw Louis staring at him.

“Calusa Indians. We got a mess of their burial places around here. So every time we find a bone we gotta call the eggheads in Tallahassee.”