Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,55

buddy. “This should be interesting,” he confided, leaning back in his chair. “Just stay cool, man. If we tried to escape over the railing, he’d know for sure we’re lovers. This way, we’re just two neighbors who stopped by for a drink. A welcome-to-our-island sort of visit.”

I turned to face him. “Cameras,” I said. “Or did you forget?”

Yes, judging from the man’s reaction. “Oh, yeah . . . that,” he nodded and sat up straighter. “Well, I’ve jumped off higher balconies, but I wouldn’t panic just yet. Always let the woman handle these situations. No matter what they say, they’ve rehearsed their story over and over in their heads. A guy gets involved, though, the husband dude really will get pissed off.”

I replied, “Some vet should have neutered you years ago,” then got to my feet and had a last sip of beer. I wanted to be ready just in case the husband dude came crashing into the room with a bat in his hand or even a gun. It was possible. Who could blame him?

When Robert Arturo Jr. appeared in the foyer, he was fuming but not enraged and polite enough to wipe his feet before sliding past his wife. Instead of the couch potato she’d described, I was looking at a man, late twenties, who might have played college basketball or was a competitive swimmer and still competed weekends. Tall, good-looking, slacks pleated, shirt fresh from the laundry, his hair combed just so. Tortoise-rimmed glasses added a professorial touch and gave his nervous hands something to do when he turned to Cressa and accused, “Screwing my brother wasn’t enough? What do you think Dad will say when he sees this?”

I was thinking, She’s sleeping with the crazy brother-in-law, too? while Arturo drew his arm back and hurled something across the room that bounced off the soiled couch, then spun to a stop on the floor.

A DVD, I realized. Video of the married mistress with another man fresh from the surveillance cameras?

Tomlinson, still sitting, informed me, “It’s always a bad sign when they throw stuff,” which caused Rob to notice that two strangers were listening in. My truck was in the drive, I don’t know why he was surprised but he was. The man stabbed at his glasses, unsure about how to handle the situation, then glared at his wife. “You are un-goddamn-believable. Know that, Cressy? Doing threesomes now, are we?”

“How can you be so filthy-minded in front of my guests?” the woman countered. “That’s just sick. My god—your brother? Take that back and apologize right now!”

“It’s true and you know it!”

I decided it was time to get the hell out of there and I tried, saying, “We were just leaving,” then indicated the patio door, the steps to the pool just beyond. “Thanks for the drinks.”

“The hell you are!” Arturo shouted and came toward us with long strides, but slowed when he got to the couch. He was momentarily distracted by the mud stains, then got madder when his eyes settled on Tomlinson as he knelt to retrieve the DVD. “It’s you,” he said finally. “It is you. Of all the goddamn gall!”

He turned to his wife. “You can’t do better than this? Some pathetic hippie loser? As crazy as Deano is, he was right about your whoring. Here”—he shoved the DVD at her—“you tell my father to watch this sick . . . garbage for himself. I dare you.”

Cressa said, “Robert, are you insane? I have no idea what you’re talking about! Is it Dean? Call the goddamn facility if he’s making threats again.”

Now I was thinking, The crazy brother’s in an asylum? a question that was answered when Rob Arturo told his wife, “This was playing on the screen when I started the Lexus,” meaning the DVD clenched in his hand. “The car at our condo twenty miles from here?”

“That can’t be!” The expression on the woman’s face suggested shock and also asked How?

“I didn’t catch a five a.m. flight for the fun of it,” Robert snapped. “Dean escaped!” He turned to me. “My brain-damaged brother ran straight for Florida when he took off. More than a week ago, and she’s been here the whole time. What’s that tell you?”

The wheels in my head were turning. I said to him, “Let me ask you something. Did you plant the cameras outside? Because if you’re not paying for the surveillance . . .”

“Surveillance?” The husband looked at the wife, both of them confused, or at least pretended