Send Down the Rain(34)

He nodded painfully. “You would if Jake had been driving the truck you’d insured.”

Allie turned even paler. “What do you mean?”

Dawson pulled out several pictures depicting the burnt and mangled truck on the rocks. “This is not the truck you insured.”

Allie slapped the pictures. “Of course it is. Jake was driving it.”

“Yes, ma’am, Jake was driving it. But it’s not a Peterbilt. It’s a Mack. According to the VIN stamped on the frame and some of the other markings our investigators pulled from the wreckage”—Dawson pointed to individual pictures—“it was an older Mack truck not insured by your policy. Or by us, for that matter.”

Allie’s hands were shaking. She stood, stuffed half the papers back into her bag, and walked out. When we reached the truck, she walked to the grass, bent at the waist, and vomited. Then she vomited again. Her body tried to heave a third time, but the first two had emptied her, so she heaved dry.

The ninety-minute drive back to Cape San Blas was quiet. I drove to the cottage, thinking she would pull the covers over her head, but when she exited the truck she walked to the restaurant. Briskly. She unlocked the door and walked immediately to the bar, where she pulled out a dusty bottle of bourbon, poured a tumbler full, and turned it up. Followed by a second. Then a third. Finally she looked at me. “I don’t ever remember signing that.”

I kept quiet.

Another tumbler. “Never.” She looked around. “I’ve lost it. For good.” Without a word, she returned to the cottage and shut the door.

I stood at the base of the dunes scratching Rosco’s head. Something was bugging me about the whole life insurance thing. I believed Dawson was telling us the truth. I just wasn’t sure he was telling us the whole truth.

I got a number from Allie’s phone and dialed it.

He answered after the third ring. “Hello?”

“Bobby, it’s me. Before you left, you asked me if there was anything you could do. I think there might be.”

I told him what I needed, and he was quiet a minute. Finally he said, “Give me a few hours. Maybe a day.”

“Thanks.”

He stopped me. “Jo-Jo?”

I knew what he was about to ask, and he was right to ask it. “Yes.”

“Let’s say you’re right. I mean, think about it . . . Are you sure you want to be?”

Politics had taught him well how to think two and three moves down the line. To ask what is the effect of this decision and the next. “No, I’m not. Honestly, I’d rather be wrong. But I have a feeling I’m not.”

“I’ll be in touch . . . You’d better give me your number.”

I figured Allie would be asleep for several hours, so I returned to Tallahassee. I didn’t know if Dawson Baker would be there or not. I imagined he kept a rather full schedule, but I only needed about sixty seconds. I rode the elevator to the sixth floor and spoke to the receptionist, who phoned his secretary. She came out to meet me. “I’m sorry, Mr. Brooks. Mr. Baker is tied up for the remainder of the day.”

“Ma’am, if you could just tell him. I only need a minute. That’s all.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help. If you’d like to make an appointment for tomorrow or next week . . .”

“No, thank you.”

With that, she returned to her office. While I stood there feeling rather foolish, the receptionist scribbled on a piece of paper, turned it upside down, and tapped it with a pencil. It read Governor’s Course. 2:30 tee time.

I punched the button to the elevator and said, “Thank you.”

The Governor’s Course wasn’t difficult to find. I found Dawson on the practice range. He saw me and leaned on his club. Staring at me through dark sunglasses. He was younger than me by maybe ten years. He did not look impressed that I’d found him. And while his voice had been kind inside his office, it was not now. “How can I help you?”

“Where’d you earn your Purple Heart?”

This took him by surprise. “Someplace we weren’t supposed to be. You know something about them?”

“I’ve got a couple.”

That got his attention. He took off his glasses. “Where?”

“Four tours. Most inside Laos. Or somewhere along the supply side of the Ho Chi Minh Trail.”

He glanced at his watch. “I’m real sorry about your situation.”

I stepped closer. “I realize you’re in a bit of a pickle and there’s only so much you can tell us, but . . . is there something you’re not telling us?”

He used the blade of the iron in his hand to drag a ball out of the pile in front of him. He stood over it, swung backward slowly, and then struck the ball, which traveled about 175 yards in the air. When it landed, he culled another ball from the pile, stood back, and looked at me.

“Did Jake Gibson own a second life insurance policy that named someone other than Allie as beneficiary?”

He didn’t respond.

“I’m not a legal expert, but I have a feeling that since Allie is Jake’s legal wife, she can hire an attorney who can compel you to answer that question.”

He took off his hat. “What do you gain from this?”

“Honestly, I will lose far more than I gain.”