Free The Nomination by William G. Tapply Page B

hadn’t been cleaned out of the carport. Nor had the boat’s hull been scraped or the shutter repaired or the lawn cut or the gardens weeded.
    Now, after five trips past her place, the maroon VW with the daisy on the antenna still hadn’t showed up.
    Bunny Brubaker, he figured, had gotten lucky. She was shacked up for the night.
    He smiled to himself, remembering his night with her. If she was shacked up, he thought, it was definitely the guy who’d gotten lucky.
    I could do it now, he thought. She’s not coming home tonight.
    Nope. Can’t take that chance.
    So he drove the rental—it was a Chevy sedan this time, rented under a different name with a different credit card from a different Miami rental agency—back up Route 1 to his motel. Not the same motel as last time, either.

    THE NEXT MORNING he thought about going to the dolphin place, but he couldn’t risk Bunny spotting him. So he looked up the number in the motel directory and called it on his cell phone, and when a guy calling himself Carlos answered, he said, “May I speak with Bunny Brubaker, please?”
    If Carlos said he’d go get her, hang on a minute, Moran would hang up. If he said Bunny was busy, could he take a message, he’d make something up.
    What Carlos said was: “She not here.”
    â€œWhen do you expect her?”
    â€œI don’t,” said Carlos. “Bunny don’t work here no more.”
    Moran sighed. “Damn. That’s disappointing.”
    â€œSorry, man.”
    â€œLook,” said Moran. “I’m her cousin Joey, see. We used to be real close. I haven’t seen her since she moved to Florida. I finally get down here, first thing I want to do is see Bunny. I talked to her, it was only a couple weeks ago, told her I was coming. I just got in this morning, tried calling her house. No answer. She mentioned that she worked there. I figure, she’s at work . . .” He sighed. “You don’t know how I could reach her, do you? Maybe she took another job . . . ?”
    â€œCan’t help you. Bunny told me nothing.”
    â€œIs there anybody there who she might’ve told what she was doing?”
    â€œNo,” said Carlos. “Just me. She quit, that’s all. Called last week. Told me she wasn’t coming back. Too bad. Bunny a real nice lady, hard worker, good with the kids.”
    â€œWell, okay,” said Eddie. “Thanks anyway.”
    â€œSorry, man.”

    HE LEFT THE Chevy at the turnaround at the end of her street and walked back. It was a little after noon, the best time to commit a burglary. That’s when houses were empty and most of the neighbors would be out, and in the midday heat of the Florida Keys, those who were home would be huddled inside with their air conditioning turned up high and their curtains drawn against the sun.
    Besides, normal law-abiding citizens always assume that burglars work at night, which is, of course, fallacious. But it’s what they assume. They’re more likely to notice a stranger in the neighborhood after dark than at noontime.
    All the burglars Moran knew, which was quite a large number, worked in the middle of the day.
    He strolled up the street, a middle-aged guy in khaki pants and a blue short-sleeved shirt and a straw hat, neither tall nor short, fat nor skinny, an average-looking white guy with sunglasses and a forgettable face, although Bunny thought he was still cute and women seemed to remember his deep brown eyes and the tiny starshaped scar on his cheekbone and the hard bulk of his chest and shoulders when he slipped out of his shirt.
    â€œWell, officer, I remember a man. He was wearing a straw hat and sunglasses. No, that’s really all I remember about him.”
    He assumed he was being watched. It was always best to operate on that assumption. He turned up the path to her front door and rang the bell. If by chance she was home and answered the door,