Free Tourist Season by Carl Hiaasen Page B

was funny sometimes, Keyes thought. Trying to spare me a little pain. It was two years ago that Jenna had dumped him for Wiley—Wiley, of all people! Why couldn’t it have been an artist, or a concert musician, or some anorexic-looking poet from the Grove? Anyone but Skip Wiley—and right in the bitter worst of the Callie Davenport business. What a couple: Jenna, who adored Godunov and Bergman; and Wiley, who once launched a write-in campaign to get Marilyn Chambers an Oscar.
    “Did you call the cops?” Keyes asked.
    Mulcahy shook his head and reached for the coffee. “We decided not to. I’ve pretty much ruled out foul play.” He told Keyes about Wiley’s eccentric behavior, and about his visit to the psychiatrist the day before.
    “So you think he’s hiding out?”
    “I do. So does Dr. Courtney.”
    Remond Courtney’s opinions didn’t carry much weight with Brian Keyes, who knew something of the doctor’s meager talent. In the aftermath of the terrible 727 crash, when Keyes was being fingered by imaginary severed limbs, Dr. Courtney had advised him, by way of therapy, to get a job as an air-traffic controller.
    “Forget that idiot shrink,” Keyes said. “What about Jenna? What does she think?”
    Mulcahy said, “She’s pretty worried. She thinks Skip might do something crazy.”
    “Would that surprise you, Cab? Wiley may be talented, prolific, tough as hell—all the things you people put a premium on—but he’s also a card-carrying flake. He could be anywhere. Vegas, Nassau, Juarez, who knows? Why don’t you just wait a few days? He’ll get so miserable not seeing his byline in the paper that he’ll rush right back with a stack of fresh columns.”
    “I don’t think so,” Mulcahy said. “I hope you’re right but I just don’t think so. I need him back now, here—where we can keep an eye on him.”
    So that’s it, Keyes thought. Mulcahy was worried less about Wiley’s well-being than about all the trouble a man like that could create. Wiley presented an explosive public-relations problem for the Miami Sun; no newspaper can afford to have its star columnist turn up as the proverbial sniper in the schoolyard.
    And in Skip Wiley’s case, another factor loomed large: he had an enormous public following. If his column didn’t appear for a few days running, lots of readers would stop buying the Sun. If the days turned into weeks, the attrition would show up in the next ABC audits. And if that happened, Cab Mulcahy would have to answer to the highest possible authority; good journalism is fine, but circulation is sacred. No wonder Mulcahy was nervous.
    “You know him better than any of us,” Mulcahy said. “You sat next to him in the newsroom for three years. You recognize his moods, how he thinks, if he thinks … “
    “I haven’t seen him since I left the paper.”
    Mulcahy leaned forward. “He hasn’t changed that much, Brian. True, his behavior is a bit more extreme, and his writing is certainly more irresponsible, but he’s still the same Skip Wiley.”
    “Cab, you’re talking to the worst possible person. You ought to know that: I can’t take this case. I’m not ready to deal with him.” Keyes stood up to leave. “Why, Cab? Why would you do this to me?”
    “Because Jenna asked for you.”
    Keyes sat down hard. His heart was skipping along nicely now. All he could think was: Cab better not be lying.
    “I told her I didn’t think it was fair,” Mulcahy said with a sigh. “But she’s very worried about him. She said it would be a great favor if I asked you to look into it, and not some stranger.”
    Keyes knew it wouldn’t do any good to lecture himself about Jenna, and it was pointless to act like he was going to waltz out of Mulcahy’s office and forget the whole thing. The old man was right—it wasn’t fair.
    Mulcahy was careful not to go on too much about Jenna. “Please, Brian, will you try to find Wiley? We’ll pay you five hundred a day, plus