The Death Box(38)
“You can go back into relaxation mode, Carson. One nice thing is you’re all signed up and ready to go.”
“There’s still some bodies in the concrete, Roy. What if—”
My words were cut off by a lightning blast and the first hard drops from the clouds. We hunched and sprinted to our vehicles. Roy pulled beside me in his big black Yukon, yelling over the pounding rain and beating of his wipers.
“How are things out there on Matecumbe? Everything working out all right?”
“It’s a helluva place, Roy. The house and land.”
“Any other places nearby catch your eye?”
“Haven’t had time to look. Why?”
“The legal types want to put the place on the block soon, part of a large auction of confiscated property. Guess you’ll have to find other digs, bud.”
“Shit. How soon?”
“A couple weeks. Uh, that’s max.”
“Any idea what the place will sell for?”
“It’s appraised at a million-six. I told you not to get too attached.”
I smiled and nodded, but felt like I’d been kicked in the sternum. “See you later, Roy. Thanks for the heads-up.”
I drove out to Matecumbe in a funk. I had gotten attached to the view. The open living area. Having my own private jungle. Plus I enjoyed having Burnside as a neighbor.
I arrived without recalling the drive, fixed a Myers’s and tonic and slunk to the deck. The chlorophyll-laced air from the surrounding tropical forest smelled rich and fecund and primordial. I looked over my green and private cove as an elegant white schooner crossed the far blue waters. The thought of moving elsewhere was depressing, but there was nothing to do but bite the bullet and go.
A half-hour and a second rum passed. My funk deepened as the sun bent to the west and the breeze freshened, adding a salt scent to the colors of Paradise already filling my head.
My message alert went off and I checked the screen.
SKYPE ME.
Jeremy, probably making sure I hadn’t moved to yet another state. I sighed, went upstairs to the computer, and made the connection. My brother wore a T-shirt emblazoned with the logo of a food co-op in Lexington, his neck thicker than I recalled. He sat in an expensive ergonomic chair in his second-story office, the window wide behind him and offering a verdant glimpse of the eastern Kentucky forest, pines and maples, oaks and poplars. His sensitive microphone picked up a woodpecker tapping in the woods at his back.
I watched him take in my surroundings via my camera, so I slow-turned the computer to give him a quick scan of the living area and kitchen.
“Spiffy-looking place,” he said. “Have you filled the new Taj with a harem yet?” His eyes sparkling with mischief, he stuck a finger in one nostril and twanged out a cartoon-Arabian melody on the other. I responded by blowing out a breath and taking a drink. He leaned nearer the camera, concern in his eyes.
“You look tired, brother. Having a hard day?”
“I’m being booted from the Taj. Seems the place is going on the market earlier than figured.”
A frown. “Oh? Where will you go?”
“Miami, maybe.”
“I prefer you in the Keys, Carson. You’re more stable on the water.”
“What?”
“You’re a delicate little flower, brother. When you’re not sufficiently watered, you wilt into crankiness.”
“You get a D for metaphor.”
“You know I’m right. How long do you have?”
“I’m still half-packed. I’ll look for a place next week.”
“Hello?” called a voice from my gate intercom. “You in there, Alabama?”
Jeremy frowned and canted an ear. “Is someone with you?”
“Yo! Detective Ryder. You back there in that jungle?”
“It’s a guy I’m working with here,” I said. “Gershwin. He’s at the front gate.”
“Tell him to get lost. Is it George or Ira?”
“HEY, BIG RYDE! CAN YOU HEAR ME?”
“Gotta go, brother,” I said. “He’s a persistent sort.”
“Wait! How long does it take you to drive to Key West?”
“Under two hours. Why?”
“I’M GONNA TRY CLIMBING THE GATE.”
“Just curious,” Jeremy said, disappearing from my screen.
I ran to the intercom. “Hang on, Gershwin, for crying out loud. I’m opening the damn gate.”
Seconds later I saw him roaring up the drive on a battered motorcycle and looking from side to side in confusion. He stopped and pulled off a blue helmet, still mystified as he climbed the steps. I waved him up the steps and inside.
“Oy caramba, Alaba— I mean, Detective Ryder. You really live here?”