Free Tourist Season by Carl Hiaasen Page A

maybe Quebec. A real alien. Best of all, her husband-boyfriend-whatever was only about five-two, a hundred-ten pounds, tops. He stood there shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun, squinting pathetically as he searched for the maroon Granada or whatever it was they’d be driving.
    Viceroy Wilson polished off the joint and slid out of the Cadillac. That old familiar growl was building in his throat.
    Thirty-one Z-right!
     
    Brian Keyes felt uncomfortable whenever he ventured back to the newsroom. In a way, he missed the chaos and the adrenalized camaraderie; then again, what did he expect? Him and his one-man office with a tank full of algae-sucking catfish.
    Whenever Keyes revisited the Sun, old friends flagged him down, briefed him on the latest atrocities against truth and justice, and offered to get together at the club for a drink. Keyes was grateful for their friendliness, but it made him feel odd. He was something of a stranger now, no longer entrusted with Serious Information, the currency of big-city journalism. Nonetheless, he was glad when they waved and said hello.
    This time Ricky Bloodworth was the first to corner him.
    “Tell me about Ernesto Cabal,” he said breathlessly. “I’m doing a big weekender on the Harper case.”
    “Can’t help you, Rick. I’m sorry, but he’s a client.”
    Bloodworth’s voice climbed to a whine. “You’re talking like a lawyer now, not like the Brian I used to know.”
    Keyes shrugged. Bloodworth was irrepressibly annoying.
    “At least tell me if you think he’s guilty. Surely you can do that, cantcha?”
    “I think he’s innocent,” Keyes said.
    “Right,” Bloodworth said with an exaggerated wink. “Sure, Brian.” He scooted back to his desk.
    Keyes figured the cops hadn’t told Bloodworth about the El Fuego letters, which was just fine. Bloodworth would have gone nuts with that stuff, and then so would the city. Nothing like a little panic to muck up an investigation.
    Cab Mulcahy was waiting in his office. Slate-colored suit, crisp white shirt, navy tie. Same civilized handshake, same crinkly smile. And there was the coffeepot steaming on the corner of the desk. Same place it had been the night Brian Keyes had walked in with his resignation.
    “It was good of you to come on short notice. Mind if I close the door?”
    “Not at all, Cab.” Keyes had been surprised to get the message on his beeper; he’d been wondering about it all afternoon. A new job offer—that was his best guess. But why would the Sun want him back? The place was crawling with raw talent, kids who were plenty tough enough.
    “Cab, are you going to ask me to come back to work?”
    Mulcahy smiled kindly and shifted in his chair. “To be honest, Brian, I hadn’t thought about it. But if you’re interested, I’m sure we can—”
    “No. No, I’m not.” Keyes wondered why he didn’t feel more relieved. “I was just curious.”
    “I called you,” Mulcahy said, “because I want to hire you as a private investigator. We have a very sensitive case. You’re the only one who can handle it.”
    Keyes was well-versed in the rudimentary techniques of bullshitting that the Sun taught all its top editors. The phrase “You’re the only one who can do it” generally translated to “No one else will touch it.” But this time Mulcahy did not appear to be shoveling anything. He appeared to be genuinely upset.
    “Brian, Skip Wiley has disappeared.”
    Keyes did not move a muscle. He just looked at Mulcahy; a look of disappointment, if not betrayal. Cab Mulcahy had been afraid this might happen. He had dreaded it, but there was no other way.
    “I’m sorry, Brian. I’d never ask unless we were desperate.”
    “Disappeared?”
    “Vanished. They found his car yesterday in the middle of 1-95. He didn’t show up at home last night.”
    Home. Keyes chuckled: Come on, Cab, just say it, I’m not going to break down in tears. Wiley didn’t show up at Jenna’s last night. God, the old man