The Naked Detective(72)

The Mickey Veale I'd found that day, almost catatonic in his office, with its shades drawn against the brilliant light and the view of Sunset Key, was shaken, self-pitying, but surprisingly forthcoming. "A cheeseball but not an evil guy."

"Who?" said Maggie.

I hadn't quite realized I'd spoken aloud; I was still catching up on my sleep. "Veale," I said. "He told me he was being blackmailed too. Cruz and Corallo figured out exactly how to set him up, practically from the minute he hit town. Motel room with an underage girl. Procured by them, of course. They got Polaroids, a statement from the girl, the works. If the paperwork got turned in, maybe he'd do time. At the very least, there went his chance of ever getting a license for the gambling boat. They owned him from then on."

Maggie pretzeled up her legs, twisted onto her side to stretch her hips. She said, "But if Veale was a victim too—"

"Then why did the Ortegas hate him?" I said. "Because they didn't know. The cops used him as their point man. When they'd made the tape of Lydia, it was Veale they sent to put the squeeze on Lefty. Veale had to fake being involved. Lefty believed him. Lydia still thought it came down to Veale when she walked into the house and started shooting."

Even in the hot water under the hot sun, Maggie gave a little shiver. "And a good thing she showed up."

"A good thing two cars followed Ozzie," I said. "When Lydia's flunkies reported that we were heading off with shovels, it was a pretty good bet that she'd visit."

Maggie sipped some wine, then went into another yoga stretch, one that arched her back. The effect was pretty stunning. She said, "And the water-sports business—as much as they hated each other, Ortega and Veale really shared it?"

"Ortega and Veale," I said, "were names on paper. Probably they'd been hit up for some seed money. But the business belonged to Cruz and Corallo. And I'll bet it was quite profitable, since most of the Jet Skis had been stolen."

"Stolen?"

I sipped some more prosecco. It was tasting fabulous. I said, "That's why we couldn't figure out what they were smuggling with the Jet Skis. What they were smuggling was Jet Skis. Associates would grab them from other operations all up and down the Keys, from as far away as Lauderdale. They'd disappear into The Lucky Duck and come out with new serial numbers. Handy too if the cops needed an untraceable craft for when they put their snorkels on and went off to kill somebody. Or even for making little jaunts to the Bahamas."

"So you think it was one of them who found Kenny on Green Turtle?"

I shrugged. "Seems reasonable," I said. "The handwriting on the matchbook seems to be the same as on the note that was pushed under my door. Plus, what the guy told Kenny happened to be true: The pouch was worth nothing—except to the people it incriminated."

There was a pause. Maggie slipped down lower in the water, made it look as though her chin was floating. The wispy hair at the nape of her neck was plastered down. Her smooth face darkened, and in completion of some unspoken train of thought, she said, "Poor Lydia."

"Poor Lydia," I agreed. The mention of her name sent me reaching for my wineglass once again. "A victim of good old-fashioned hypocrisy and family craziness."

"How so?"

"Here's what I think. Take it for what it's worth. Lefty was a macho papa. I think he wanted a son, and Lydia felt that every day. Lefty would have wanted his boy to be a hell-raiser and an ass-kicker and a stud. Lydia got even by trying her best to be exactly those things—even to the extent of snorting coke and doing sex shows for the cops. Here's your ideal, Dad—in your face."

Maggie thought that over. "A little pat," she said.

I admitted that it was. "But pat doesn't mean wrong. Look, Lydia found the perfect way to humiliate herself and to hold an unbearable mirror up to Lefty. So of course he'd do anything to keep that tape from being shown around. He gave Lydia the money to buy it back, then she rubbed his face in it still more by putting the dirty prize in his safe."

Maggie shook her head. "On the night that Kenny pulled his robbery."

"Which was just Kenny's lousy timing and piss-poor luck."

She bit the delectable nub at the center of her upper lip. "Very sad," she said, and then she tried to brighten. She lifted an arm from the tub, and shook it off, and grabbed a soggy paper folded on the edge. Snapping it open, she said, "But hey, according to the Sentinel, at least you solved the whole thing brilliantly."

According to the Sentinel, yes. But of course, the Sentinel was seldom accurate. From the banner headline on—local p.i. cracks linked murders—the paper gave me entirely too much credit. It hinted at expert detection, when in fact I'd only blundered into information here and there. It suggested deep commitment, when the truth was that I'd fought involvement at every turn. It conjured for the reader a climactic and heroic shootout, but the reality of that confrontation was that I'd been sitting there watching a porno flick when all hell broke loose, at which point I trembled on the floor till it was over.