Crooked River(44)

Perelman began to wad up the oily rag, reconsidered, and instead folded it neatly and placed it atop the engine cowling. There was something about this young woman that put him on his best behavior, and he understood himself well enough to know what it was. About a decade ago, just before he’d left the Jupiter PD for this promotion, he’d dated a high-fashion model. The two of them had had about as much in common as King Kong and Fay Wray, but in their brief time together she had educated him about some things. Among those that had nothing to do with the bedroom, she’d taught him the difference between real taste and mere gaucherie. She devoured magazines like Grazia and L’Officiel, and Perelman had followed in her path, smitten by her beauty and picking up a great deal of esoteric information. Florida was thick with both the real rich and the wannabe; being able to tell the difference was most useful in his line of work. In the case of Constance Greene, for example, he recognized her handbag was an extremely rare black-and-orange Hermès. He couldn’t recall its name, but he remembered the long list of impossible tasks his ex-girlfriend had stated she’d do in order to get one. Then there was Constance’s wristwatch: he recognized it as a vintage Patek Philippe Nautilus, Reference 5711, white gold with an opaline dial. Subtle, understated…save that, for those in the know, there was a ten-year waiting list to acquire one. He did not recognize her dress or shoes. But it was the way Constance wore these items with a casual grace, a lack of self-consciousness, that Perelman found so interesting—and unusual.

“How can I help you?” he asked.

Constance nodded again, as if appreciating his directness. “The place we’re staying in—the Mortlach House.”

“I heard about that. I was glad to hear the demolition had been postponed.”

“As a tenant, I’ve taken an interest in the house’s history.”

“How so?” Perelman said cautiously.

“I’m curious about the murder. There’s quite a lot of it that seems puzzling. I was hoping you’d assist me.”

“Assist you with what?”

“Understanding what happened. Surely you participated in the investigation?”

Perelman frowned and looked away. When he did not respond, she continued.

“The body was never found, apparently, but a determination of wrongful death was made based on the sheer quantity of blood at the scene, which amounted to virtually all that would be found in a large human male. And the signs of a terrific struggle of the occupant against an intruder wielding an ax.” She reached into her bag, produced a thin sheaf of glossy photographs, and handed them to Perelman.

He flipped through them quickly, surprised and annoyed to see they were official police photographs, complete with annotations. Just looking at them brought back a flood of unpleasant memories. Where the hell did she get these? he asked himself—but then, just as quickly, he realized the answer.

“I’d think these pictures would answer any question you might have about the murder. I’m not sure what I can add. As you know, it was never solved.”

His tone had been curter than intended, and a silence fell over the boat, broken only by the cry of seagulls.

“This is an unusual boat,” Constance said, changing the subject. “Does it go fast?”

Despite himself, Perelman smiled. “It’s a cigarette boat. And yes, it goes very fast.”

“Cigarette?”

“They were originally used during Prohibition by rumrunners trying to avoid the Coast Guard. At some point they acquired the name because they were long with a narrow beam, like a cigarette, to go as fast as possible.”

“What is their purpose now, with the repeal of Prohibition?”

“Point-to-point powerboat racing is very popular today. The go-fast design proved ideal.” He made a vague sweeping gesture with the back of one hand. “I bought this thirty-two-foot frame a couple of years after becoming chief. It’s a relic, built in the late sixties, but it had new crate inboards that caught my attention.”

“Crate inboards?”

“Engines, already fitted out with manifolds, heads, other car parts.”

“Car parts? You mean this boat is powered by automobile engines?”

“Sure. They’re often salvaged from car wrecks and repurposed for boats.” He patted the rear hatch. “This baby has twin Corvette 454s, old big-block Chevys tweaked for additional horsepower.”

“I would think boats and cars incompatible.”

“The conversion isn’t difficult. It’s actually easier to drive them in a boat than on four wheels. No gears.” He laughed. “Just turn the key, push the throttle forward, and hang on, you know.”

“Actually, I don’t know, but thank you for a fascinating explanation.”

“You’ve never driven a boat?”

“I’ve never driven any sort of motorized vehicle.”

“I—” Perelman stopped himself. This was a surprise. But it also helped highlight the fact that the interest she was showing was mere courtesy.

“Of course,” he went on, changing tacks, “this particular boat spends far more time tied up at a slip than it does out in the gulf. Took me two years to finish repainting it, and I still haven’t thought of a name.” He turned to Constance. “Any suggestions?”