Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,27

the nonviolent type,” I replied.

“I still believe that. But I’m starting to wonder. Robby and his family are in the development business—beachfront condos and shopping malls. Mostly in the Vineyard and Buzzard’s Bay, but a few projects in Florida, too. See, we signed a prenuptial—”

“Where in Florida?” I asked.

Cressa didn’t like being interrupted. “I’m trying to explain my situation. Can you save the interrogation for later?”

“I’m trying to understand,” I replied. “Background would be helpful. Their projects in Florida, what kind?”

“Rob doesn’t exactly include me in the company’s business. I don’t know . . . they do gated communities . . . some low-cost housing if Tallahassee offers the right perks, and they speculate on real estate, which has gone to hell in the last few years. That’s what I was telling you—we signed a prenuptial agreement. I didn’t want to, but Rob—well, his father, Robert Senior, actually—he insisted. Which didn’t turn out the way they expected, because the prenup figures we agreed on don’t fluctuate with the housing market. That’s why his family’s so against a divorce.”

I nodded the way people do when they’re impatient with the obvious, saying, “Money, of course.” Then winced when she pressed the gauze to my face and scrubbed harder than was necessary.

“Cat scratches are dangerous,” she reminded me. “If I don’t get deep enough, you could end up in the hospital. They’re carriers, you know. A type of fever.”

I wondered if there was a message hidden between the lines but resigned myself to her nursing. The woman was thorough. While she worked on me, she addressed the dangers of cat scratch fever, but soon returned to the thread.

“Rob never calls between ten and eleven—ever. That’s when he meets with his online fantasy-league guys, and he’s a sports junkie. A tornado could land, a burglar could break into our house at ten-fifteen, it wouldn’t matter. But last night, around nine, I don’t know why, I turned off the GPS thingee on my cell just to see what would happen. And an hour later, my phone rings. Rob. It was ten-thirty.”

I acknowledged the significance with pursed lips.

“Tomlinson and I were on his boat playing Beach Boys cassettes. Maybe I shouldn’t have answered my cell, but I was thinking, you know, an emergency, like someone in his family had died. But it was nothing like that. Rob told me he called because he’d had a ‘premonition.’ He was worried I was hurt or in trouble. That’s what he said, anyway. Trust me, men like my husband don’t have premonitions. Especially not on the nights they’re drafting their fantasy baseball teams.”

“That was it, no details? How long did you talk?”

“He was checking up on me, that’s what I think. It still gives me goose bumps, the feeling I got”—Cressa held out an arm to prove it—“like he was watching me. Could see me right through the phone. His tone was weird, too. Suspicious . . . passive-aggressive. My husband knew I was with another man, I’m sure of it.”

I glanced out the window toward A-Dock, where the no-name Kevlar Stiletto was moored. Then said, “The guy’s ten years younger than you, but has no problem with his wife spending part of every month in Florida?”

“Nine years,” she corrected. The woman was adding salve to my scratch marks, but gentler now. “I’m not getting into our personal life. He’s not gay, but sometimes men get injuries playing sports . . . or there’s a chemical imbalance. I’ve stopped wondering or blaming myself. So let’s just say he prefers fantasy sports to fucking.”

It wasn’t just the profanity, it was the angry emphasis that caused me to look up. But the woman was still focused on her work and carried on. “Robby might be laid-back, but Robert Senior isn’t. Robby has a younger brother, too, who’s crazy—I mean that literally—and seems to be getting crazier. The Arturo family is very powerful in some circles”—she let it float there a moment—“if you know what I mean.”

I understood. She was insinuating a popular fiction about Italians and an underworld organization that had been dismantled by the Justice Department decades ago.

“No kidding?” I said. “So the crazy brother or his dad might have Tomlinson killed because you’re having an affair? A debt of honor? Swimming with the fishes?”

“Make jokes, if you want, but I’m scared. Something’s going on. I’ve never given Rob or his father reason to be suspicious—until the last month or so.” In response to my expression, she snapped, “That’s the