Wednesday, Raylan brought his prisoner, the man barefoot and handcuffed in bathing trunks, through the parking structure and into Miami Beach police headquarters by way of the sally port in back. Check your weapon through a window slot and they close the outer door before opening the inner one to the holding-cell area.
Lt. Buck Torres was there waiting.
“I thought finding them in bed asleep was the way to do it,” Raylan said. “Get ‘em sunbathing’s even better, no surprises under the covers. Buck, we have here Carl Edward Colbert, escapee from the West Tennessee Reception Center, down for armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon, a pitchfork.”
Torres, looking up at Colbert, said, “Man, he’s a size.”
“Yeah, but sunburnt. All you have to do is touch him and he minds. If it’s okay with you,” Raylan said, “I’ll leave him here till I can arrange transportation, have him shipped back. Carl, how about packed in ice, would you like that?… Carl isn’t talking; he’s lost faith in his fellowman. A buddy of his, guy works at one of the hotels on the beach, turned him in to avoid getting brought up for harboring.”
Torres said, “You could’ve taken him over to Dade, they got more room there.”
“Yeah, but I wanted to ask you something,” Raylan said, “you being a good friend of Harry’s and all. He’s disappeared.”
Torres said, “Again?”
“Last Friday he was to meet a guy collected on some old bets for him-this was up in Delray Beach. The guy never showed up. Harry left the restaurant and that’s the last anyone’s seen of him.”
“Friday,” Torres said. “Maybe he went back to Italy, decided he liked it.”
“Harry wouldn’t leave without making a big production out of it. He goes to the bathroom, he calls Joyce and tells her. She checked with Harry’s travel agent; he said Harry hasn’t gone anywhere that he knew of. I was thinking one of Harry’s sheet writers might know who did the collection work, but I can’t find any of those guys around.”
“No-we closed Harry down, they left,” Torres said. “Let me think a minute. If Harry couldn’t find a certain guy, he’d call me to check, see if he was in jail. As a last resort he’d hire a collector. I know once in a while Bob Burton helped him out. Burton’s a skip tracer-you know, a bounty hunter, always working. He’d do a collection for Harry as a favor. There was another guy, a bounty hunter, went up on a manslaughter conviction…”
“Harry told Joyce the guy was Puerto Rican,” Raylan said, and right away saw Torres nodding.
“Bobby Deogracias-that’s the guy-they call him Bobby Deo. This one, man, I’m telling you is dirty. It used to be we find a guy shot in the head and it looks like an execution? We bring in Bobby Deo. We knew he worked sometimes for the wiseguys, Jimmy Capotorto, when he was around, but we could never close on him. He did that kind of work and he went after fugitives,” Torres said. “Same thing you’re doing.”
“How about that,” Raylan said. “You think he’s the one?”
“Could be. How much was Harry trying to collect?”
“Sixteen thousand five hundred.”
“That kind of money, yeah, it could be Bobby Deo, it could be anybody. He tells Harry no, the guy didn’t pay him and keeps it.”
“But he called Harry and told him the guy did pay, and to meet him in Delray Beach.”
“So he changed his mind. All that money in his hand? What’s Harry gonna do, call the police? Listen, if it was Bobby Deo-anybody hires a guy like that deserves to get ripped off. Harry realizes too late he should’ve known better, so now he’s feeling sorry for himself. You know how he is. Underneath all that old-time hip bullshit he puts on he’s a baby. Hides out so we have to look for him.”
“Wants attention,” Raylan said.
“Loves it. He’ll give it a few more days. You don’t find him, he’ll get tired of hiding and come out. Ask him, ‘Where you been?’ He’ll say, ‘What do you mean, where’ve I been?’ He doesn’t show up by this weekend I’ll give it to Missing Persons.”
“I think you’re right,” Raylan said. “But I still wouldn’t mind talking to Bobby… What’s his name?”
“Deogracias. I remember seeing it on a Corrections release report when he got out. DOC’ll have his address. But whether it’s any good or not…”
“I appreciate it,” Raylan said. “You might run a trace on Harry’s car, brand-new Cadillac. See if it might’ve turned up abandoned.”
Torres nodded. “I can do that.”
“And you might run a name for me,” Raylan said, “while we’re covering the bases. A Dawn Navarro?”
Raylan walked into the cool, tiled lobby of the Santa Marta on Ocean Drive, South Beach; salsa, mambo, some kind of Latin music coming out of the bar. Raylan crossed to the desk clerk, a good-looking young Hispanic in a dark suit, hair shining, rings on his fingers, and said, “Excuse me.”
The desk clerk was busy working a computer behind the reception counter, his hips twitching to the Latin beat. He didn’t answer Raylan or look up from the screen.
Raylan said, “I was here one other time…”
The desk clerk tapped some more keys and then looked at the computer screen to see how he was doing.
“You might recall I was with a group,” Raylan said. “Bunch of fellas had DEA written big on the back of their jackets?”
He had the desk clerk’s attention now, the guy looking right at him.
“We had search warrants, but you didn’t want to let us in any the rooms. You recall that? So we busted down some doors, found who we wanted and took you with us when we left. Remember that time? You give me any shit, partner, I’ll run you in again, handcuffed and shackled. What I want is Mr. Deogracias’s room number.”
The clerk hesitated.
Raylan let him.
The clerk said, “Four oh eight.”
“Is he in?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I called, some guy answered the phone.”
“That would be Santo.”
Raylan said, “Much obliged.”
A girl wearing a green Harley-Davidson T-shirt and short white shorts opened the door, barefoot. Cute, but needing to comb her hair and maybe take a bath.
“I called a while ago,” Raylan said, “asked for Bobby Deo and some guy said he didn’t speak English and hung up on me.”
The girl turned her head and yelled, “Hey, Santo!” Looking back at Raylan she leaned her shoulder against the door frame, one bare foot on top of the other, and it reminded him for some reason of high school girls back home. She said, “I like your hat,” and even sounded like those girls, this one acting coy, giving him a look.
A man’s voice said, “Who is it?” and a young Hispanic guy wearing sunglasses appeared out of the bedroom where a radio was playing Latin riffs, a little guy about five-six with his pants open, sticking in his shirttails.
The girl turned her head again. “He’s looking for Bobby.”
“What’s he want him for?”
Raylan saw the guy as one of those tough little banty-rooster types as the girl was saying, “What am I, your fucking interpreter? Ask him yourself.” She moved away from the door in time to the music coming from the bedroom. Raylan took a step inside, glanced around to see a mess of clothes thrown on chairs, towels, newspapers, beer cans on the coffee table. He looked at Santo.
“I want to ask Bobby if he did a job the other day for Harry Arno. Is he around?”
Santo zipped up his pants, pulled his belt tight around his waist and buckled it, taking his time.
“Who is this Harry Arno?”
“How come,” Raylan said, “you can’t answer a question without asking one?”
“It’s the way they are,” the girl said. “They think you can’t trust anybody that isn’t like them. Where’re you from anyway?”
“Right here,” Raylan said, getting his I.D. out and showing his star, “with the United States Marshals Service. I’m not looking to give anybody a hard time. Okay?”