Star Island (39 page)

“Back to business,” Ned Bunterman said.

His wife added: “Nobody here has anything to gain from the destruction of Cherry’s career. Can we at least agree on that?”

Chemo glanced across at Ann’s bodyguard, who was regarding him with neutral curiosity. “Sir, what’s your stake in this clusterfuck?” the man inquired.

“I got all the goddamn pictures,” Chemo replied, “and I also got a leash on Abbott.”

Ann seemed impressed. “Well, good for you,” she said, reaching across to pat one of Chemo’s scaffold-sized legs.

He thought:
Screw Maury. No way can I kill this girl
.

Skink took the shotgun out of the gym bag and placed it across his lap. To the Buntermans he said: “You like the Stones? Because it feels like we’re all in ‘Memo from Turner.’”

“Good track,” Cherry’s father offered feebly.

Ann said, “No, Ned, it’s a
great
fucking track.”

Chemo stared at the Remington, which trumped his weed whacker big-time. Seventeen years of incarceration had sharpened his skills at threat assessment, and he pegged the one-eyed man as the real deal. Fearless and unbalanced was a formidable combination of traits.

“How much cash are you carrying?” Ann sprung on Ned Bunterman.

“What?”

“You heard me, big boy. Out with the wallet. You, too, Janet, open your purse.”

Together Cherry’s parents came up with $1,461.

Ann folded it into a wad and said, “That’ll do. But you’re also going to pay for the captain’s new suit. I mean, does he not look hot?”

Skink told Chemo that the eye patch alone cost three bills.

“Are you shittin’ me? Is it silk or somethin’?”

“Wool blend, swear to God,” Skink said. “For three hundred dollars I could buy a whole goddamn sheep and train it to sit on my face.”

Everyone laughed except Janet Bunterman. Her husband got
on the phone and gave his AmEx number to the Zegna store in Bal Harbour. Ann made sure he instructed the clerk to tear up the sales slip for her credit card, the limits of which had been breached by the purchase of the governor’s new wardrobe.

A young man in a white ship’s uniform brought up rum drinks, lobster salad and a sterling-silver platter of tuna tataki, which was a bit too rare for Chemo but he ate it anyway.

As soon as the server departed, Ann said: “I don’t want your fifty thousand dollars, Janet. Fourteen hundred is plenty to get me back to California.”

Ever the bean counter, Ned Bunterman tried to conceal his elation, which his wife didn’t share. She knew that Maury Lykes would be equally dismayed because Annie was essentially cutting herself loose from the team—and nobody who turned down fifty grand could be trusted.

Janet Bunterman said, “For heaven’s sake, Annie, take the money. You earned it.”

“And more,” said Ann.

“Then what are you trying to prove?”

“Look, she’s made up her mind,” Cherry’s father interjected. “We should respect her wishes.”

Chemo himself was puzzled by Ann’s move, but he felt no urge to talk her out of it. The fifty thousand she was rejecting could be put to good use by the whining Buntermans as a purchase price for one of the juicier Star Island portraits.

Again Cherry’s mother said, “Take the fifty, Annie.”

“No, I’m good.” She stood to leave. Skink returned the shotgun to the Converse bag. When he rose from his chair, he cast a shadow like a cypress tree over the Buntermans.

“So where does this leave us?” Cherry’s father asked with a larval wriggle.

Ann sighed. “You haven’t been listening, have you? I’m done, Ned.”

“Yes, but—”

“By the way? Your daughter’s totally off the tracks. She’s gonna kill herself.”

“Oh, please,” said Janet Bunterman.

“She won’t make it through the tour alive,” Ann said, “not the way she parties.”

Ned Bunterman was looking straight at Chemo when he said, “We’ve got that situation buttoned down solid. It’s a whole new program, right?”

“Yeah, mon,” Chemo said with a reptilian blink.

“Don’t ever call me again,” Ann told Cherry’s parents, “no matter what happens. I don’t care if she’s in a frigging coma.”

Janet Bunterman was flustered and unmoored. “What—so this is it? For real?”

Chemo couldn’t stand to be around such people. He envied the young actress for bailing out.

“Nobody dies from gastritis!” said Cherry’s mother. “You’ve got some nerve, Annie.”

Ned Bunterman, who was eager to seal the deal and save the family fifty thousand bucks, chose the amenable approach. “Don’t worry, we’re going to take super-good care of Cherry on the road. Mr. Chemo will be watching her like a hawk.”

“Uh-oh. I hope he does a better job than the night he was watching me.”

The dig by Ann caused Chemo to reconsider his decision not to murder her, but then she nudged him playfully with her foot. “It was your first carjacking,” she teased. “You’re forgiven.”

They all got up and followed Skink and Ann down to the main deck, the yacht rocking gently from the wake of a passing tour boat. Standing at the gangplank, the governor asked about Chemo’s arm. The bodyguard removed the Cobra Golf bag cover and demonstrated the motorized weed trimmer by shredding the colorful insignia of the Coral Gables Yacht Club, which had been flapping gaily from the stern.

“Fantastic!” Skink roared, his thousand-watt smile causing Janet Bunterman to tingle self-consciously.

Chemo had always felt more comfortable discussing his disability with somebody who had one of their own—in this case, a missing eye. “Battery’s in a holster,” he explained, patting his side.

“Pure genius!” Few men were tall enough to whisper in Chemo’s ear, but the governor leaned in and said, “Regardless of your loyalties, nothing must happen to fair Annie.”

“I like her,” Chemo conceded, “but she’s the only one of this bunch.”

Skink nodded and followed Ann down the gangplank.

“Take care of yourself now,” Ned Bunterman sang out lamely.

“I am
so
touched,” Ann said over her shoulder. “Toodle-oo!”

Cherry’s mother grabbed the rail and squinted fretfully into the sun. “What is it you want from us, Annie? Don’t play games.”

Ann had to laugh. “Good luck with your ‘maximum buzz’!” she shouted. Then she took Skink’s arm and whispered, “Poor Janet.”

“Hold up, captain!” It was Chemo, reaching into his trousers.

On the dock, Skink stepped in front of Ann just as the one-armed bodyguard lobbed something down from the yacht. Skink caught the small object and looked it over.

“Gimme,” said Ann.

It was a BlackBerry phone with a tangerine-colored shell.

Chemo called out: “Fucking thing never shuts up.”

Ann smiled and slipped the device into her handbag.

As they strolled off toward the Grove, she heard the governor grumble, “This damn shirt is too tight.”

“It’s Hermès, old man. Suck it up.”

They identified Jackie Sebago’s body by the swollen balls. Turkey vultures had already gnawed off the face.

“That’s definitely him,” Detective Reilly said to Corporal Valdez.

“Who uses a speargun?”

“Sends a message,” Reilly said. “Also, it’s quieter than a pistol.”

The state trooper whistled. “These real-estate guys,” he said.

“Yeah, what a shitty racket.”

Valdez had been called to help secure the scene, which was unnecessary because the location of the homicide was so remote. He and Reilly positioned themselves upwind from the corpse,
which had been discovered by a butterfly collector in some woods half a mile off of County Road 905, a short haul from the Ocean Reef Club. Somebody had shot Jackie Sebago in the heart with a Hawaiian sling, a lightweight apparatus popular with skin divers and lobster poachers. The spear had been discharged with such force that it had passed through the developer’s chest, pinning him upright to a gumbo-limbo tree which had soon filled with the hungry buzzards.

Reilly said, “Could be our sea-urchin dude who did it.”

Valdez was skeptical. “Half the people on that hijacked bus were ready to strangle this jerk.”

“Yeah, but still.” The detective paused to watch the crime-scene investigators measure the portion of the fish spear that was protruding from the remains of the developer. “They found a campsite near here,” he said. “We took a fingerprint off a plastic water bottle, got a match with an individual named Clinton Tyree.”

“So he’s got a record,” Valdez said.

“Naw, he’s clean. The army had his prints on file—the guy did three tours in Nam.”

That would explain how he survives in a crocodile preserve, the trooper thought. If it’s the same man.

Reilly wasn’t done. “Guess what else? He was the governor of Florida for about fifteen minutes.
The
governor.”

“You’re kidding,” Valdez said, playing it close.

“It was back before you were born, and I was still sleeping with a Binky. One day he just disappeared off the planet. Mental breakdown, according to the newspapers.”

The trooper listened. The Keys was a relatively laid-back place, and detectives such as Reilly had limited experience with flamboyant Miami-style homicides. However, as a road officer, Valdez knew better than to volunteer an opinion about anything more exotic than a DUI.

“The go-fast that was stolen at Ocean Reef, it turned up in South Beach,” Reilly was saying. “I mean, literally up on the damn beach. Empty except for a few beer bottles.”

“Any latents?”

“None,” said the detective. “But the very next night, not far from where the boat came ashore, some loon matching Tyree’s description torched a lady’s suitcase and ran off with her dog. This is in the lobby of a Marriott.”

“Big dude with a fake eyeball?” Valdez asked.

“Yup. There were other sightings, too.”

“Weird.” The trooper wondered why the volcanic hermit had left the safety of his swamp for the clamor of Miami Beach. And why would he return to Key Largo on a mission to murder Jackie Sebago? The man had graphically made his point with the developer—and he could have offed him during the bus hijacking, if he’d wanted.

“When did Sebago die?” Valdez asked.

“Last night. Maybe early this morning.” Reilly knew what the trooper was thinking. He said, “It’s not a long ride from South Beach to here. Ninety minutes in traffic.”

“So you think he came back to the island.”

“If not, somebody else committed this murder.”

Valdez didn’t believe that the ranting man who had diapered a sea urchin to Jackie Sebago was the same individual who’d killed him, but the guy was impossible to ignore.

“You check his camp?” Valdez asked.

“No signs of life. So tomorrow I’ve gotta drive up to the beach, interview these witnesses.” Reilly chuckled ruefully. “I don’t even have a recent picture of the sonofabitch to show ’em. He hasn’t had a driver’s license in thirty years.”

The crime-scene technicians had finished taking photos of Jackie Sebago’s body, which was now being strapped in a black bag to a stretcher. A bulge the size of a Kona pineapple delineated the victim’s engorged testicles.

“I bet he didn’t do it. I bet it was somebody else,” Valdez said at last. He couldn’t stop himself.

The detective received the comment thoughtfully. “You might be right but, either way, the dude seriously needs to be taken off the streets. Did you know he took a dump in some rich guy’s washing machine?”

“Get out.”

“Oh yeah,” Reilly said. “It happened up at Ocean Reef.”

Valdez was still laughing when he got in his patrol car.

I hope they never catch him
, he thought, but this he would never say aloud.

The former Cheryl Gail Bunterman had flashes of self-awareness that stopped just shy of introspection. She knew she wasn’t the most talented blond singer in the world, but she was happy to play the part. Vanity, petulance and tardiness were expected, and she delivered. As for the partying, it wasn’t a desperate cry for help; it was fun. Cherry hooted every time a blogger theorized she was subconsciously rebelling against her parents, or lashing out at Maury Lykes. She loved being a star and moreover was equipped for no other role. Her ambitions fully realized, coasting was all that remained. The possibility of losing her fame never occurred to her. She wouldn’t have known how to live a private life, although occasionally she imagined it might be cool to work as a croupier on a Caribbean cruise ship.

Cherry seldom pondered the erratic arc of her singing career, but she recognized a shrinking entourage as a sign of hard times. Having only one bodyguard—and an untouchable one, at that—was humiliating, although Maury had promised that another would be added for the
Skantily Klad
tour. Cherry was lobbying her parents to hire an ex–middleweight boxer who’d formerly worked for Mary J. Blige and was rumored to be hung like a range bull.

“I’m on the case, sweetie,” Janet Bunterman said.

She and her husband had stopped by the Fillmore, where their
daughter was rehearsing. Cherry stood before the mirror in her dressing room, examining the Axl Rose tattoo. “You think it needs a butt?” she asked. “The zebra part, I mean. Maybe I should go back and ask the dude to finish.”