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  Sugarman followed Rusty back into the master bedroom. She walked over to the oak chest of drawers that stood between two windows with a view of the mangroves and the blue glimmer of the Atlantic beyond.

  “See.” She held up the glass ashtray where his car keys were. “This is where he kept it. Kate Truman’s wedding ring, a big diamond. It’s been sitting here since I moved in. Out in the open. Always in the same place.”

  Sugarman looked into her eyes, looked back at the ashtray. He’d seen the ring lying there many times. He watched her eyes fumble around the room.

  “Maybe someone from the party stole it,” Sugar said. “There were people I didn’t know. It could be that.”

  “Nice try,” she said.

  Rusty sat down on the edge of the quilt, a burgundy and yellow creation Kate Truman had designed and stitched together when Sugar and Thorn were ten years old and becoming friends. Sugarman remembered watching Kate’s nimble fingers suture those geometric shapes together. He remembered that simple trouble-free period so clearly because it was the first time he’d been welcomed into a home where both father and mother presided together over an orderly routine, that happy, caring couple who had adopted Thorn at birth greeted Sugar as an instant family member.

  “Okay,” Sugarman said. “We need to be logical about this.”

  “Logical, yeah, okay, let’s be logical.” Rusty set the ashtray back on the chest of drawers. “You start, Sugar. Go ahead, be logical.”

  “We make a list of everybody at the party. You take half; I take the other half. We track everybody down, see if anybody saw Thorn leave. That’s logical.”

  “Jesus,” Rusty said. “What the hell is it with this guy? Things are going good. He’s happy. I’m happy. But it never stops with him, does it? One crisis after another. I thought it was going to be different. I thought I was immune.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself. There’s got to be a very simple, very obvious explanation. Let’s take a deep breath, sit down, and make a list of names.”

  They walked back to the kitchen and Rusty perched on a stool behind the counter. There was still trash and leftover food sitting out. Floating on the sunny breeze was the smell of stale beer and marijuana.

  Sugarman got a pad of paper off the counter and found a pen.

  “A simple, obvious explanation,” Rusty said. “You’re sure of that? Your gut is telling you that, Sugar?”

  He’d never lied to Rusty Stabler before.

  Meeting her eyes, working hard to keep his face neutral, he said, “Thorn is fine. My gut says he’s fine. Now, let’s stay focused and get going on this.”

  He slid the pad of paper across the counter and set the pen beside it.

  “You can’t bullshit worth a damn,” Rusty said.

  Sugarman sighed. She was right. He’d never had a knack for deceit. One of his many deficiencies.

  “But thanks for trying,” she said. “Thank you, Sugar.”

  TEN

  * * *

  THORN WAS ON HANDS AND knees, stooped over a cleft in the rocky floor. He’d found the source of the water smell. After scooping and shoveling handfuls of marl and finely powdered shale aside, he wedged his arm up to the shoulder into the opening. The hole was perfectly round and its sides were oddly slick. He could feel the air was cooler down below and knew water was only inches away. Rain runoff trapped in a pocket of limestone. Or perhaps a small pool of the surficial aquifer.

  He jammed his shoulder against the floor and stretched his hand out and skimmed one fingertip across the cool surface.

  To gain the extra inch or two to scoop up water, he was going to have to carve a much deeper depression into the soft floor.

  He was drawing his arm out of the fissure to begin the excavation when a blast of sunlight filled his prison cell.

  He scooted away from the hole and settled his back against the wall. The kettle drum inside his skull started up again, a Sousa marching band pounding out an old patriotic standard.

  He squinted up at the grinning face of Jonah. Shaved head, face of a jackal.

  “Room service,” Jonah said. “Care to place your order?”

  Shredded clouds floated against the powder blue like drifts of foam on a summer sea.

  “For starters,” Thorn said, “how about a plate of conch fritters?”

  “What?”

  Thorn drew a long breath, trying to quiet the booming.

  “A hush puppy with gristle inside,” he said. “Greasy little ball, like something that fell off your family tree.”

  Jonah blinked.

  “Don’t insult my family, fuck-breath.”

  Thorn held a hand up to shade his eyes.

  “You hear me, Thorn?”

  “I hear you. Your entire family is off-limits.”

  Jonah digested that for several seconds as if he was trying to decide if Thorn was mocking him.

  “Okay, then. So how’s it going? You and the whale doing some business? Bonding a little, are you?”

  Ground level where Jonah squatted was roughly twenty feet above, maybe a bit more. Stalling, Thorn glanced around, using the sunlight to make a quick survey of the cavern’s vertical walls. Earlier, he’d run his hands across the perimeter, searching for the source of water. The floor was coated with several inches of sand and pea-sized pebbles, the walls were rough limestone and sedimentary layers he couldn’t identify. Some kind of rock or ancient shells compressed into deposits thin as wafers, while others were thicker slabs the width of mattress pads. Clumps of weeds and grass grew in a few nooks, a small fern was rooted in one shady corner and had sent runners along the wall. Signs that this deep pit had been above the water table for a while.

  Now with a clear look he decided it might be a sinkhole. A collapse in the karst and limestone shelf beneath the surface of the ground. The substrata beneath the Florida soil was honeycombed with fissures and cavities, a sieve that allowed rainwater to filter through and recharge the aquifer. Steady rains could erode a crevice until it widened and eventually failed. When it did, the land above it caved in and these pits appeared. Sinkholes in Florida had been known to eat cars and houses. Sometimes they swallowed entire lakes or subdivisions or portions of the interstate. Rare in the southern part of the state, but there he was, way down inside the earth. So they weren’t quite rare enough.

  Over the opening of this particular sinkhole someone had fashioned a wooden cover made of heavy planks, and cut into it was a hinged lid, making it a perfect holding pen for idiots like Thorn.

  “I asked you a question, dude. You still operating on your full mental faculties, or has the whale taken you off into a fugue state?”

  “We’re getting along,” Thorn said. “I’ve always had a soft spot for cetaceans.”

  “You know about whales, do you?”

  “I know they’re mammals. A lot smarter than some humans.”

  Jonah stared down at Thorn for a few moments as he processed that.

  “You getting thirsty? Need a drinkie? Maybe an icy bottle of Evian?”

  “I wouldn’t turn it down.”

  “We can trade. You give me what I want to know, I might take pity on your sorry ass and provide some liquid refreshment.”

  Propped against the pebbled wall, Thorn tilted his head, trying to get a better view of Jonah, to read this guy, decode his clothes. Anything that might be useful.

  Jonah held up a shiny object. The sun was directly behind him, and Thorn couldn’t make it out. He changed his angle again, tipped his hand to better shield his eyes, but it was no use. The sun blinded him.

  If it was the pistol from last night, Thorn didn’t have many choices. Throw rocks. Flatten himself against a wall. Plead for mercy.

  “Okay, so what I’m going to do, Mr. Thorn, I’m going to speak a person’s name and you’re going to tell me the first thing pops in your head. Like a game show, you know, Name That Tune. You give me the right answer, I’ll talk to the chef. See what he’s got on special today.”
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br />   Thorn ached in so many places it was hard to know what was hangover, what came from the fall. He had to give the alcohol some credit for no broken bones, the softening effect of being massively drunk at the moment of impact. A rag doll thumping against the thick layer of sand on the floor of the pit.

  Several ribs felt bruised, and his butt and lower back were throbbing as though he’d spent the evening trying to tame a mechanical bull. But all in all it had been a miraculous landing. Nothing broken, nothing sprained. A few lumps and scrapes, some deep-tissue bruising, but not even a bad cut.

  “So here we go, Thorn. Ready for round one?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You and the governor, Herbert Sanchez, you two been chummy lately?”

  “The governor?”

  “That’s right. Governor of Florida. The entire state.”

  “Guy who did that publicity stunt with workdays? News cameras follow him around while he pretends to be a mailman, cab driver, pizza-delivery boy.”

  “That was about ten governors ago.”

  “I always liked that governor. Now, there was a classy guy.”

  “This the way it’s going to be with you? Jokes? Bullshit. ’Cause if it is, ’cause if you keep this up, don’t start playing straight, I’m going to nail this trapdoor shut and the whale’s going to swim out to sea with you in its belly. This whale’s going to be your coffin, cute guy.”

  “I don’t know Sanchez. You got any other names?”

  “How about Shelton? Antwan Shelton, black dude.”

  “Football player. One-Ton Antwan.”

  “There you go. See how easy this is. So what you and Antwan been up to?”

  “Don’t know him. Saw him on TV in a bar once. That’s it. Dolphins running back a few years ago. Got injured, retired.”

  “That’s all you know about him, what you saw in a bar once?”

  “Running back, a real bruiser. One-Ton Antwan. I remembered his nickname. I should get extra credit for that.”

  Jonah shifted his position, moving away from the sun. The shiny object in his hand wasn’t a pistol. It was oblong, about the size of a cell phone. Thorn let himself take a breath, relax a notch.

  “Okay, next name on the list,” Jonah said. “Browning Hammond.”

  “Hammond?” Thorn said too quickly and with too much weight.

  An image formed in his mind: that butterfly in Argentina or wherever the hell it was, fluttering its wings, sending a wisp of air off into the atmosphere, then that puff travels down a long line of unpredictable causes and effects, and bingo, a category 5 hurricane swirls to life. Chaos theory—every part of the universe connected by a web of fragile pulses no one could predict. Earl Hammond. Coquina Ranch. Florida Forever. The land swap. Thorn tries to do a good deed, and a few flutters of a butterfly wing later, he lands on his butt twenty feet down a sinkhole. Detained by the karma police.

  “Okay, good,” Jonah said. “That name rings a bell. We’re moving ahead.”

  Thorn debated it quickly and decided. Better to engage, take the risk, see what he could extract from the shit-eater. Not that Thorn was any master manipulator. But Jonah didn’t strike him as the sharpest cheddar in the fridge.

  Then there was Rusty. Her name was on the legal documents alongside his own, making her a player in this transaction, too. More reason to stay engaged. As long as Thorn was the target, Rusty was safe.

  “Hammond,” Thorn said. “Hammond’s a pretty common name.”

  “Browning Hammond isn’t.”

  Thorn’s right hand closed around a stone. Then again, maybe he should take a shot at the guy, a fastball to the forehead. If he was lucky, he might crack his skull, bring the slinky son of a bitch tumbling into the hole. A tempting thought.

  “Okay,” Jonah said. “How about Earl Hammond? Earl Hammond Jr. You got any connections with him? Business, personal, professional, or otherwise.”

  “I do,” Thorn said.

  The smirk drained from Jonah’s face.

  “Don’t be fucking with me.”

  “I wouldn’t think of fucking with you. Not for all the condoms in the world.”

  “Talk to me, funny man. What kind of business you and Earl up to?”

  “You said something about food and drink.”

  The angle was too awkward for a fastball into Jonah’s strike zone. And truth was, Thorn wasn’t all that confident of his aim. Oh, he’d skipped his share of rocks across the flat waters of Key Largo. He still had good snap in his arm. But the risk-reward calculation wasn’t good. If he missed, Jonah would be on heightened alert thereafter. If he injured him but didn’t bring him down into the pit, the guy would surely retaliate. He let the rock roll from his hand.

  “See how much fun this is?” Jonah said. “Cooperation is a beautiful thing. So I’m asking you again, dude. What kind of deal you got going with Earl Hammond?”

  “You know Earl?” Thorn said.

  “Everyone knows Earl.”

  “You work for him? He your boss? You going behind his back? Messing in his business.”

  “I’m running this show, meat puppet. Don’t get fancy with me.”

  “Just curious. I’m a curious fellow, that’s all.”

  “Answer the question. What kind of business you doing with Earl?”

  “It’s complicated. Lots of lawyers, all that double-talk, you know.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “Real estate,” Thorn said.

  “Yeah? You buying or selling?”

  “Neither,” Thorn said. “I’m partnering with him.”

  “You and Earl are partners?”

  “On this one deal, yeah.”

  Jonah laughed.

  “Well, I think your venture might’ve got dissolved last night.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Old Earl won’t be lording it over anybody ever again. Snooty bastard’s gone off to herd cattle on the big ranch in the sky.”

  Thorn was silent. Earl Hammond dead. Thorn in a pit. His fogged brain was clearing fast. The butterfly had done its work. News of the Florida Forever deal had leaked, and somebody didn’t want Coquina Ranch donated to the public domain. Had to be that. Had to be.

  “So tell me, how was that going to work, you and Earl partnering up?”

  “We had a deal, Jonah. I give you something, you give something back.”

  “Whoa, there, beach boy.” Jonah chuckled. “In case you didn’t notice, you’re the one wallowing in whale guts. So here’s how it works. You give, I take. That simple. Only reason you’re alive is because of me. You were going down, hombre. You were supposed to be whacked last night. But I gave your ass a reprieve. So you owe me. Got it? You owe me big time.”

  “Why keep me alive?”

  “I’m asking the questions, humpback.”

  “ ’Cause you’re sniffing around,” Thorn said. “You’re trying to find an angle.”

  Jonah faltered for a second, which wasn’t proof of anything. But close.

  “You a college boy, Thorn?”

  “A dropout.”

  “Then don’t try to outfox me, man. ’Cause I got the degree, bachelor of fucking arts, man. I stacked the whole four years, major university, magnum cum rah-rah. I’m a certified smart guy.”

  “Impressive,” Thorn said.

  “So spare me the bullshit.”

  “Consider it done. Don’t insult your family and zero bullshit from now on.”

  Jonah rubbed his hand back and forth across the stubble of his shaved head, and then rubbed it some more as if trying to sand his palm smooth. Or maybe keep the blood flowing to his meager mind.

  “What kind of deal were you and Earl working on? No more cute stuff.”

  “Who in the world would want me dead? I’m such a congenial fellow.”

  Jonah’s lips pressed flat as if he was fighting off some impulsive reply.

  “It was one of those guys, wasn’t it? Shelton, the governor, Browning Hammond? One of them is your bo
ss. That’s who put a hit on me. But you and your brother decided to weasel into their business instead.”

  “I’m not the guy you want to piss off, Thorn.”

  “Hey, where am I anyway? Is this Coquina Ranch? You got wildebeests running around here? Bison, wild boars?”

  Jonah took a step back from the opening.

  “You know about this place, do you?”

  “Just a guess.”

  “As a matter of fact, yeah, you’re inside the Coquina hunting preserve, my man. With the wildebeests and the axis deer and the buffalo and all that shit. That’s exactly where you are. Behind a fifteen-foot fence of razor wire. So you can forget about escaping. You’re here for good till I’m done with you.”

  “What’re you doing here? You one of the zookeepers?”

  “I’m running this interrogation. Get that straight, pud whacker.”

  “I’m done,” Thorn said. “Tell the chef he can take the day off.”

  Jonah’s shit-eating grin resurfaced. It must have been his default look.

  “All right, fine. Twist yourself into a lotus position, meditate your ass off. I’ll be back when I’m back. Ciao, baby.”

  The lid slammed shut and Thorn was again in twilight.

  He leaned against the wall. Running it through, trying to unsnarl the tangle. Maybe he was in a fugue state. His mind still sluggish with booze. Add dehydration, throw in the bone-rattling crash into the pit. Blend at full speed and what you got was froth. Thorn, the useless head on a beer.

  The trapdoor swung open again and sunlight flooded the sinkhole.

  “I forgot something, party dude.”

  Jonah was holding up the silver object.

  “Don’t want you to expire before you spill your guts.”

  He tossed it into the pit, and Thorn fielded it with his left hand.

  A small tin of skinless, boneless sardines.

  “Whale food, baby. Heavy-duty protein, high in omega-3s. Think of it as your reward for being such a good little Eagle Scout. There’s more where that came from, if you behave.”

  He slammed the trapdoor shut and bolted it.

  Thorn sat in the murky light with the can of sardines in his hand. He waited a full minute before he peeled open the can, gave it a cautious sniff, then tipped it to his mouth and slurped down the contents.