They sat for a while, Sugarman eating pork rinds, Thorn staring at the Clay-Liston photograph. Those five people sitting side by side. Four of whom they had names for. Only the blond woman was left.
Every few seconds while Sugar munched, he took a look out the blinds.
A minute or two later Thorn drew the cell phone from his pocket and dialed 911 for the second time in a few hours.
“Turning yourself in?” Sugar said.
Thorn said to the dispatcher, “I want to report a homicide.”
Sugarman turned back to the venetian blinds.
“Name is Alan Bingham.” Thorn gave her the street and approximate address. Then he hung up while she was asking him for more information.
“You’re guessing these guys, Snake and Carlos, they killed Bingham?”
“They showed up at Alexandra’s and knew Lawton had the Clay photo. Bingham gave it to Lawton as a gift. Who else would know that but Bingham? Lawton thought he heard gunfire at Bingham’s last night, and I blew him off. Bingham didn’t show up at his gallery this morning like he was supposed to, and didn’t answer his phone when the gallery guy called. And when I was up on the roof I saw his cleaning lady arrive and the key wasn’t in the mailbox like she was expecting. His car was there, but he didn’t answer her knock. My bet is he’s inside that house and he’s dead.”
“Aw, man,” Sugarman said.
“Something else I want to know,” Thorn said. “Why’d some seventy-year-old government goon show up in Alex’s hospital room, trying to strangle her? I’m getting the feeling there’s two different agendas working here.”
“You’re losing me.”
Thorn stood up, dug the invitation list he’d gotten from Carbonnel out of his back pocket. Scanned it fast.
“Stanton King and wife Lola were at the gallery opening last night.”
“You got a list? How’d you manage that?”
“Lawton and I dropped by there first thing this morning. I was just sniffing around at that point.”
“You been a busy man.”
“Okay, here’s how it went,” Thorn said. “Mayor goes to a gallery opening. He spots himself in a photo up on the wall. There he is, 1964, he’s sitting two down from Lansky, cheek to jowl with these other people, two of whom, Humberto Berasategui and Runyon, were at the murder scene later on that night.
“The photo’s hanging up on the wall for anybody to see. All it would take is one person standing there, noticing the young mayor or remembering one of these guys. Lansky was a public figure, so was the mayor, then eventually Runyon became one, too. A lot of people in this town might’ve even recognized Humberto Berasategui from the newspaper stories. If somebody identifies one of these people, starts asking questions, there’s a reasonable chance it all gets exposed.
“So what does the mayor do? He freaks and sics his deranged sons on the thing. Snake and Carlos break into the gallery, destroy the photos, go to Bingham’s house. Before they kill him, they squeeze Lawton’s name out of him, somebody else who’s holding a copy, bingo, we’re off to the races.”
Sugarman thought about it. He didn’t say anything for a minute, looking down at his Coke can.
“That’s means King has a different motive than Snake. Snake wants to know who killed his family. He thinks the photo’s going to show that.”
“Yeah, I think that’s it,” Thorn said. “The two times I’ve been around him, he wanted to examine the photo, not destroy it. He and Carlos had it in their hands long enough, if they wanted, they could’ve just ripped it up right then.”
“King and Edward Runyon coming from one direction, Snake coming from another. I don’t like the sound of that.”
“It’s like Sophocles,” Thorn said. “Oedipus.”
“Oh, boy.”
“A father tries to keep the truth from his son but accidentally winds up doing stuff that causes the son to discover the very thing the father’s trying to hide. Cosmic irony.”
“There’s another way to read it.”
“All right.”
“There are no accidents.”
“Stanton subconsciously wants to be exposed?”
“Maybe it’s not something he can put words to.”
“Well, if that’s true, then I’d like to help him out.”
Thorn stood up, carried the morning Herald over to a green chair near the tiny kitchen.
While Sugar kept an eye out the blinds, Thorn opened the paper and began to read the article on the Porn Shop Massacre. They’d printed an old police photo of Lawton and had run a fairly current shot of Alexandra posed against a white background like a school picture. She looked beautiful nonetheless. Black hair freshly brushed, a slight, knowing smile. Those dark eyes that Thorn found fascinating: probing one minute, alluring the next.
At the bottom of the front page the article mentioned a suspect wanted in the killings. A man of about six feet, medium build with dreadlocks.
Dreadlocks?
Thorn read the sentence again, then turned the page and there was the artist’s rendering of the prime suspect in the porn-store murders.
It was a sketch of a black man, early twenties with a blocky face, a scar across his right cheek, and long Rasta dreads.
Thorn got up, carried the paper to the table, and lay it in front of Sugar.
“This is their person of interest for the porn-shop thing.”
Sugarman looked at it for several seconds, then looked up at Thorn.
“They missed the twinkle in your eye.”
“This isn’t funny, Sugar.”
Sugarman ate the last pork rind, had a sip of Coke, looked out the blinds, then turned back to the newspaper.
“Where’d they dig up this guy?”
“They invented him,” said Thorn. “Article says two witnesses identified him as the killer of Carlos Morales and Lawton Collins. Old lady clerk at the porn shop and some customer. Their descriptions matched.”
“Putting it on a brother, wouldn’t you know?”
“Why doesn’t this make me feel relieved?”
“What it means is, Snake or Runyon or somebody got to the clerk, gave her her marching orders. Send the cops wild-goose chasing in one direction, so Runyon or whoever is free to come after you. Neat trick.”
“It’s why they attacked Alex in the hospital. So she wouldn’t contradict any of it. Last thing they want is for the cops to start digging around. Alex knows about the photo, she knows what really happened at the porn shop. She’s a danger to them.”
“So are you, Thorn.”
Sugarman wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Took a long drink of his Coke. Stifled a belch.
“Whole thing’s getting complicated,” Sugar said.
“We need the blonde,” Thorn said.
“Maybe she’s just a floozy, somebody’s date.”
“Doesn’t look like a floozy to me. Looks like a tough broad.”
“Forty years later, that isn’t going to be easy, identifying some woman. A town like this, everybody coming and going. She’d be in her sixties by now. She could be a grandmother in Milwaukee. Waste a lot of time looking, and it might not explain anything.”
“I know somebody I can ask. Guy with links to that time. Boxing, gambling, you name it, he was into it.”
Thorn looked again at the sketch of the black man with dreadlocks. Then he folded up the paper and laid it on the floor by the chair.
“Who the hell do you know in Miami?”
“Remember Jimbo?”
“Jimbo? That old crook still alive?”
“I don’t know,” Thorn said. “But I know where to find him if he is.”
“If it were me running the investigation,” Sugar said, “I’d go confront the mayor. He’s smack in the middle of this.”
“I’ll put him on the list.”
“And this guy Shepherd Gundy.”
“Gundy?”
“One of the investigators of the Morales murders.”
“I must’ve missed that.”
“It’s in the pages you Xeroxed, a few days after the murders. Second Lieutenant Shepherd Gundy, military investigator based at Homestead Air Force Base.”
“Military? Why was the military investigating this?”
“That’s exactly the reason I’d want to talk to him.”
Sugarman looked out the blinds again.
“Look, Sugar,” Thorn said. “You and Alex need to get back down to Key Largo till this is over. Keep her out of harm’s way. Take her to a doctor down there. She’s going to need somebody to look at that arm.”
“And leave you in the middle of this.”
“It’s my mess, Sugar. I need to clean it up myself.”
“I’m okay with getting Alex somewhere safe. But leaving you on your own in Miami? I don’t know, man. We’ve already seen how that turns out.”
“You could keep on arguing. But you know it won’t change my mind.”
“Yeah, I know that. I surely do.”