Hacker and Rawles-both of whom had been cops for a good many years, Rawles in both Cleveland
and
Calusa- should have realized that honest people and thieves do things in different ways. If an honest person, for example, knew that I there was something he needed or wanted in Otto Samalson's office, he would simply go to the office and ask for it. A thief, on the other hand, doesn't think that way. A thief thinks
There is
us
and there is
them,
and they are the ones who are on our backs and keeping us from getting what we want and need,
that is the way a thief thinks,
so we will
steal
it from them.
Even if it's possible to get the thing by
asking
for it politely, the thief will steal it anyway. That is his nature. That is why honest people go around shaking their heads in bafflement over what thieves do. They can no more understand the psychology of the thief than they can the theory of relativity. Cops, however, are
supposed
to understand the psychology of the thief.
It was surprising, therefore, that it never once occurred to Hacker or Rawles-though it did occur to May-that perhaps they were dealing with a bona fide thief here and not an amateur like Nettington.
It never occurred to Matthew, either.
Matthew had a good excuse; he himself was an amateur.
Rawles and Hacker had no excuse at all, unless eagerness to close out a case could be considered an excuse.
Not understanding the way a thief's mind works, Matthew concluded that an amateur like himself had broken into Otto's office. But Nettington seemed too obvious a choice- the man wasn't
that
stupid, was he?-and so Matthew, still thinking like an amateur, tried to think of any other amateur who might have wanted that tape desperately enough to have stolen it.
The only other amateur who came to mind was Carla Nettington.
You mean the
police
will be listening to that tape?
And…
When can I hear it?
And…
I wish the goddamn
police
weren't in this.
And…
Thank you very much, Mr. Hope, please send me your man's report,
and
the tape, and of course your bill.
Carta's words.
Eager to get that tape.
Worried about the police hearing it.
He went out to see her that afternoon.
It was still raining when he got to the old house on Sabal Key. He made a forty-yard broken-field run-skirting puddles and fallen palm fronds-from the Ghia to the front door, and then stood under an ineffective shingled portico that dripped gallons of water down the back of his neck while he rang the doorbell.
"Yes, just a minute!" Carla called from somewhere in the house.
He waited.
He was going to drown.
The door opened.
So did her eyes. Wide in surprise.
"May I come in?" he said.
"Yes, certainly," she said. She was not happy to see him. Her voice and her body language told him that. Voice chilly and distant. The words saying "Yes, certainly," the tone saying "Who the hell invited you?" Her body half-turned away from him as she stepped aside to let him in, her posture suggesting that she would have preferred showing him her back but was too polite for such blatant rudeness.
The house had the musty smell of all Florida houses. Mildew and dust and fetid growing things. Air plants hanging near the windows. Orchids with their gnarled roots. Silvery slashes of rain hit the louvered windows, rattled on the roof. There was an enclosed feeling, almost claustrophobic, moist and dim. He remembered hiding in closets when he was a boy, overcoats covering his face, boots and galoshes underfoot. The smell of a closet on a rainy day.
She was wearing black. Black designer jeans and a black crew-neck sweater. Pale oval face and dark lipstick. Eyes as green as the plants in every corner of the room. Black enameled earrings. Barefooted. Her feet very white in contrast to the black. Fingernails and toenails painted the same color as her lips.
"What is it you want?" she asked. Facing him now. But her posture still denying him, excluding him. "The police have already been here," she said.
"Looking for your husband?"
"Yes. I told them I didn't know where he was. I'm telling you the same thing. Now if you'll forgive me, Mr. Hope…"
"That's not why I'm here," Matthew said.
"Then why are you? I thought I told you your services were no longer-"
"Otto Samalson's office was broken into last night."
"So?"
"Someone stole the tape he made of your husband and Rita Kirkman."
She looked at him in puzzlement for a moment, seeming not to understand the innuendo. And then her green eyes widened in recognition and surprise, and the corners of her mouth turned up in faint amusement.
"Please," she said. "Don't be absurd."
"The tape was stolen, Mrs. Nettington."
"And you think I stole it, or had it stolen?" She still looked amused. "You really don't understand, do you?" she said.
"I'm sorry, I don't," Matthew said.
"Mr. Hope," she said, as slowly and as patiently as if she were instructing a backward child, "the moment Otto Samalson was killed… the moment that tape became virtually public knowledge… it was no longer of any possible use to me."
"I assumed, Mrs. Nettington-"
"Yes, I know what you assumed. You made that clear the last time I saw you. You assumed I was looking for a divorce."
"That's what you led me to believe."
"Yes." The amused look still on her face, annoying now because it seemed to be mocking him. "But you see, Mr. Hope, things are not always what they appear to be, are they?"
"Apparently not," he said.
"What I told you when I first came to see you," she said, "was that I wanted my husband followed because-"
"Yes."
"-I suspected he was having an affair. And I further said-"
"Yes."
"-that if indeed we could prove this, I would initiate divorce proceedings."
"Yes."
"Yes. But I was sort of lying, you see."
"Lying?" Matthew said.
"Yes. About divorcing him."
"You didn't plan to divorce him?"
"That's right."
"Then why did you ask me to hire a private detective?"
"To follow him."
"Yes, why?"
"To get the goods on him."
"Yes,
why?"
"Mr. Hope, you're an attorney," Carla said, "so I know you're familiar with Chapter 61.08 of the Florida Statutes. Regarding alimony?"
"Yes, I'm familiar with it," Matthew said.
"The part about determining a proper award? That would be Section One, do you know it?"
"Yes, what about it?"
"Where it says, The court may consider the adultery of a spouse and the circumstances thereof in determining whether alimony should be awarded to such spouse and the amount of the alimony, if any, to be awarded? Do you know the section I mean?"
"Yes, I know the section."
"Well?" she said.
"Well what?"
"Well, that's why I wanted to get the goods on Daniel."
"I think you read the section wrong," Matthew said, shaking his head.
"No, I read it correctly. I once had a friend who was a lawyer."
"If you were thinking… well, I don't know
what
you were thinking, actually, since you just told me you weren't planning on a divorce at all. But if you
had
been planning one, and you were thinking your husband's adultery would increase the amount of alimony…"
"No, I wasn't thinking that."
"Good, because you'd have been mistaken. The section was designed to protect a husband with an adulterous wife. The chapter says the court may grant alimony to
either
party, but very few men ever ask for alimony. In practice, it's the wife who normally gets alimony, and if a husband can prove his wife was playing around, alimony will often be cut substantially and in some instances even denied."
"Yes," Carla said. "That's my understanding of the chapter."
"So you see-"
"I
am,"
she said.
"You are what?" he said.
"Playing around," she said.
Behind her, rain lashed the windows, and the palms and pines outside tossed fitfully in the wind.
"I
have
been playing around for a long, long time," she said.
Matthew looked at her. Green eyes still amused. Mouth turned up in a smile.
"And I figured if my husband ever decided to divorce me, I wouldn't get a cent in alimony unless I could show that he was
also
playing around, which would sort of balance the scales of justice, don't you think?"
You lift a rock, Matthew thought, and there are all sorts of fat, white-bellied slugs twisting and squirming under it.
"Which is why I decided to protect myself," she said. "Get the goods on
him
before he got the goods on
me.
Make sure I had insurance if he ever told me he wanted a divorce. Show him the pictures, here you go, Charlie, here's you going down on the fat lady in the circus."
She was smiling broadly now. Her amusement had turned to absolute glee.
"You see," she said, "I
never
want to get divorced, not
ever.
I like things just the way they are. Daniel paying the bills and never bothering me about where I go or what I do. That's where I was the night your man was killed, Mr. Hope. Not out with a girlfriend but in bed with a boyfriend." Her smile was wider now. "That's what I call having your cake and eating it, too, Mr. Hope. That's what I call a real good life."
"That's what I call…" Matthew started, and then simply shook his head and turned his back, and walked to the front door and out into the rain.
***
What he called it was a triumph of illusion over reality.
Or something.
We're going to turn you into a Wasp princess from Denver,
Colorado, he told her. Daughter of a rich rancher. Spoiled rotten, there's nothing any man on earth can possibly give you. It'll flatter Pudgy to death to think you
might,
if he minds his fat little spic manners, actually deign to
talk
to him.
We won't do anything with your hair, you truly have lovely hair, long and blonde, is it natural? Well, Pudgy'll find out, won't he, dear? Put it up in a bun, perhaps, to give you an elegantly glacial look. We're going for an image, darling. It's the image that'll get you into that palace of his and into his bed and into his safe.
And then we'll find a gown, he told her, sexy enough to cause Pudgy to drool, but not
cheap,
do you follow me, darling? Something in an ice-blue, don't you think, to echo those gorgeous peepers of yours. Enough bust showing to entice, but careful, careful, mustn't touch, Pudgy, uh-uh-
uh
. Something very clingy, ice-blue, yes, and slit very high on one leg, thigh showing whenever you choose to show it, a long-legged stride into the Kasbah Lounge, Pudgy's eyes will pop.
Jewelry, we'll have to get you something that
looks
genuine, he's a fool when it comes to telling a hooker from a nun, but I'm sure he knows Tiffany's from Woolworth's. We'll find something small but tasteful, run up to Bal Harbour one day, shop the better stores. One piece is all we want. Something for just here, do you see? Right where the cleavage begins. Draw his eyes to the bust, not that you need any help, darling, don't be offended. And shoes. Wonderful shoes to go with the gown. I want you to come into the lounge all starry-eyed and aghast, virtually
popping
out of the gown, tits, tits,
wonderful,
looking for someone who
should
be there but isn't, Miss Colorado who's been stood up, searching the room, Oh my goodness where is he, slippers that look as if they're made of glass, they do wonderful things with plastic nowadays, we'll find something in Bal Harbour, this will cost us a penny or two, but well worth it.
And we'll rent a black Caddy, it shouldn't cost more than twenty, thirty an hour, should it? And of course a chauffeur will accompany you into the lounge. Oh, Charles, where is he?-that's the chauffeur, Charles-he
promised
he'd be
here. And then a Wasp snit, Oh, wait for me outside, this is
so
annoying…
Exactly the way it worked.
She came in all breathless and starry-eyed, Junior Prom time except there was a chauffeur in gray behind her, who'd have dreamt she was a hooker going after four, five, six, who-the-fuck-knew keys of cocaine? Ice-blue gown, cost twelve hundred dollars, slippers looking like glass for another three, brooch that looked like a sapphire surrounded by tiny diamonds, fake but gorgeous, who'd have known? You walk in trailed by what looks like a real chauffeur, everything else looks real.
They were going for the gold.
She sits at the bar, looking at her watch. Seventy-five dollars, but it looks expensive. If the chauffeur looks real, the sapphire looks real, the watch becomes real, too. Only real thing here is a hooker from L.A. who knows this is her ticket out of the life. One last trick. No more hands on her after this one. After this time, she won't have to
look
rich, she'll really
be
rich. Meanwhile, she's the fake rancher's daughter from Colorado. Annoyed. Tapping her foot in the looks-like-glass slip-per. The chauffeur pops in every six minutes, wants to know is. she going to wait any longer or should they start for the party? She keeps telling him another five minutes, that's
all
I'll give him, waiting for Pudgy to make his move. Pudgy keeps watching her. Does he suspect a scam? He's sort of cute, actually, with cheeks you want to pinch and a Bugs Bunny smile. She is not going to give him much longer. If she sits here at the bar another two minutes, he'll know she's a hooker with a gimmick and he'll run for the hills.