No Sunscreen for the Dead Page 13

  “Yeah, who are you?”

  “Trent Dryden, owner of the park.”

  “That’s why you’re banging on our door?” said Buford. “Because our grandson hasn’t left fast enough for you? Have you no shame? . . . Well, don’t you worry. His suitcases are in the car and he’s ready to go. We don’t know where, but he’ll be out of your soulless life!” He began turning around to go inside.

  Dryden’s hands shot out. “No! No! No! Don’t let him go! Please, make him stay! I’m begging you!”

  “What?” Buford looked back. “I thought you wanted him out of here?”

  “That’s the last thing I want!” Dryden exclaimed. “There’s been a horrible misunderstanding. I had no idea what my staff was doing, and as soon as I found out, I said, ‘What kind of sick people are you? We’re a family-friendly park, and you’re treating this fine young man like this?’ Then I fired them. Sam can stay as long as he likes.”

  “It’s Scott,” said the young man, joining Buford on the porch.

  “Scott! Yes! I’ve heard so much about you! You can stay! You must stay!” He pointed at the Buick in the driveway. “I’ll get your suitcases!”

  Grandson and granddad looked at each other, puzzled. Dryden ran back to the porch steps and set down the luggage. “Anything else? Good. Great! Tell all your friends and any other interested parties that we’re cool. Okay! . . . Almost forgot!” He reached out to Scott. “Here, this is for you. For all your inconvenience. Forget about the wheelchair.”

  “What are these keys for?”

  Dryden pointed at the driveway. “Your new golf cart. Just tell your friends!” He ran away.

  Buford shrugged. “Live long enough and you’ll see everything.” They went inside.

  Scott’s grandmother met them at the glass doors. “What are the suitcases doing there? What’s that in the driveway?”

  “You’re not going to believe this . . .”

  Tampa

  A Nissan Versa sat on the shoulder of the road as the morning rush hour blew by.

  Benmont pumped the handle of a tire jack, lowering the back of his car after putting on the spare. “Darn, now I’m going to be late.”

  The office of Life-Armor was unusually quiet as Benmont arrived. Actually, it was almost empty.

  He slowed his steps and apprehensively neared his desk. His eyes darted around as he set down a lunchbox. “Where is everyone?”

  Answer: In the lunchroom, and there wasn’t a breakfast special.

  Benmont approached the crowd from behind. “What’s everyone watching?”

  A collective “Shhhhhh!” Then they all faced back up at the flat screens.

  “. . . The three double homicides in the last forty-eight hours still appear to be unrelated, as the victims had no connection to one another and were spread across three cities and different economic levels. However, murder-suicide hasn’t been ruled out as all the cases took place at retirement communities . . .”

  Benmont saw a familiar head in the front of the audience. He wormed his way through the pack and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Sonic, what’s going on?”

  Sonic turned and startled. “Benmont! Jesus, come here!” He pulled his colleague out of the crowd. “Nobody knew where you were . . .”

  “Had a flat tire on the way in.”

  “I need to give you a heads-up,” said his friend, quickly looking around again. “The lawyers are looking for you.”

  “Lawyers? . . .” Benmont thought to himself: It can only get Sonic in trouble if he finds out. For his sake, I need to play dumb. “I don’t understand. What for?”

  “The last two victims lived only ten blocks from here.” Sonic took shallow breaths. “More alarmingly, they were on our frequent flyer list.”

  “What’s that?” asked Benmont.

  “You wouldn’t know because you’re not in the privacy division, but our type of business naturally attracts a lot of paranoid types who call every other day. Very high maintenance, and we put them on a black list and dump them with a brief, prepared script whenever they call. This particular couple, the Treadstones, swore that enemies were trying to track them down and kill them. So we told them that they weren’t paying us good money for nothing. They had the very best identity protection available and would be alerted within seconds of the tiniest problem.”

  “Right,” said Benmont. “Our company is the best.”

  “When we saw the news this morning with their names as victims, we got curious and did a system-wide search. Sure enough, their personal information had been compromised.”

  “How so?”

  “We sold it.”

  “We?”

  “Actually, you.”

  “I didn’t sell anything!” said Benmont.

  “Yes, you did.”

  “What!”

  “A marketing list you compiled last month.”

  “But how is that possible?” said Benmont. “I just assumed that the names of anyone paying our company for privacy protection would be shared with us so that we would make sure not to include them in any of the data we sold.”

  Sonic shook his head. “Sharing their information with your division would be considered a privacy breach. We have to maintain integrity.”

  “That’s insane,” said Benmont.

  “That’s pretty much what our lawyers told us,” said Sonic. “The entire company is circling the wagons for the lawsuits.” He nodded toward the crowd watching the flat screen. “Starling knew the victims personally, the only one with the patience to take their freaked-out calls. She’s devastated.”

  “Who’s Starling?”

  Sonic pointed. “Purple hair, crying inconsolably and blowing her nose into a planet-friendly Jamaican handkerchief.”

  Benmont didn’t recognize the dizziness at first. Then he had to deal with it. “I need to get back to my desk . . .”

  It was an arduous trek back across the building’s second story. He entered the open office floor and saw his own little cubicle in the distance. His steps faltered as his legs malfunctioned, and he had to sit down to take a break at someone else’s desk. He summoned resolve and struggled the rest of the way. He hit a power switch, and his computer came to life. With a blank screen. “What the hell?”

  Benmont stood up and checked the back of the computer, where panels were missing and loose wires sticking out. He lost his balance and fell back into his chair.

  From a nearby desk: “Benmont? Are you okay?”

  “I have to see Quint.” He tried to stand and fell back down again in his chair. Then another attempt with even worse results. But the chair had wheels, so Benmont shuffled his feet, propelling it backward up the aisle. Heads poked out the sides of cubicles as his chair squeaked by. The back of the chair crashed into the door of his supervisor’s office. Benmont spun it around and knocked. No answer. He scooted over to the window and peeked inside. Nobody home. He called out: “Has anyone seen Quint?”

  “He’s not in yet,” said a disembodied voice rising from a cubicle.

  So Benmont just sat and conducted an emotional breakdown in a loud kind of way, and his colleagues rushed to his aid. A glass of water, a wet cloth for his forehead, an offer to call an ambulance that was turned down.

  “Does he have a history of mental problems?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “I need to talk to Quint!”

  “He keeps saying that.”

  “Benmont, why do you need to talk to Quint?”

  “The news on TV!”

  “Wow, those murders must have really gotten to him.”

  “And we thought Starling was taking it hard.”

  The company had three huge office buildings that were linked by covered walkways in what they liked to call a campus. It was large enough to justify an on-site nurse, who currently raced down the walkway from Building Two on a Segway. Under certain circumstances she was allowed to administer a single tablet of Valium, and when she saw Benmont, there was no questi
on. He was now flopping on the floor—“I have to see Quint!”—with others sitting on his arms and legs until she could get there. She crammed the pill between his pursed lips and propped up his head to insert a water tube from a sports bottle.

  “Has anyone called an ambulance?” asked the nurse.

  “He said he didn’t want one.”

  “And you listened to him?” She pulled out her cell phone.

  But by the time the paramedics arrived, the tranquilizer had dialed Benmont down a bit. The EMTs said it appeared to be a simple panic attack, and gave him an oxygen mask for a few minutes so they could say they did something in case it came up later.

  Benmont’s coworkers were finally able to get him back up in his chair. Word spread and others came to check on his welfare.

  “Everything’s going to be okay, buddy . . .”

  Four serious men in dark suits arrived. “Which one’s Benmont?”

  “Who are you?”

  “The lawyers.”

  Everyone stepped back and pointed accusingly toward the chair.

  “The rest of you, scram!” said the lead attorney.

  They scattered. One of the other lawyers unlocked Quint’s office, and they wheeled Benmont inside and closed the door. Disaster control filled the air.

  “My name’s Ramsey,” said the tallest. “I’m your lawyer, so anything you say has attorney-client privilege. Do you understand?”

  Benmont nodded.

  “Have you talked to anyone?” asked Ramsey.

  “About what?” said Benmont.

  “That theory your boss sent us.”

  Benmont began shaking again. “That’s why you’re here?”

  “Not the theory itself,” said Ramsey. “But your boss made the stupid move of sending it to a friend of his in the government. I really wish he’d talked to us first . . . Think hard: Have you mentioned your theory to anyone else?”

  “Oh my God!” Benmont covered his face with his hands. “So it’s true! The lists that I compiled for our client! Those poor people! What have I done?”

  “Stop right there,” said Ramsey. “Don’t say another word and just listen. Your lists had absolutely nothing to do with this, so you can’t be blurting out stuff when you aren’t thinking straight. Not even to us, because then we’re ethically bound not to tell you to lie on the witness stand or else it’s suborning perjury.”

  Increased shaking. “You mean testify?”

  “It won’t come to that.” Ramsey grabbed Benmont by the shoulders. “So lose that idea right now! We just have to get out ahead of this thing because heartless jerks are always looking to cash in on tragedies. Some asshole’s bound to sue.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because we do it all the time,” said Ramsey. “We’re very good.”

  “But why are you sure that my lists are unrelated to that stuff on TV?” asked Benmont.

  “Our forensic experts gave us an initial assessment. Do you know how many people were in your report?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Five-point-six-two million,” said Ramsey. “Exactly.”

  Benmont whistled. “That many?”

  “More than half the population in your geographical sample area,” said the attorney. “Which means it would be stranger if some of these crime victims didn’t appear on your list. Does that make you feel better?”

  “A little,” said Benmont. “But you’re making me kind of nervous with all your seriousness.”

  Ramsey extended a used-car-salesman arm all the way around Benmont’s shoulders. “It’s like this: The whole identity fraud and protection field is still new. We’re not worried in the least about your list causing these unfortunate incidents. What does get a little sticky is that a couple of the victims paid your company to guard their privacy, and then you went and sold it. You can see how some unscrupulous people might spin that the wrong way.”

  Benmont sighed and nodded. “Okay, I’m good. I’m feeling better.”

  “Then back to square one: Who have you told about your theory?”

  “Just my boss.”

  “Keep it that way,” said Ramsey. “Not even your most trusted friends or relatives. And this part is most important of all: Since your boss sent your report to the feds, they may be in contact. More like they definitely will.”

  “Jesus, what do I say?”

  “Nothing. You’re lawyered up.” Ramsey handed him a business card. “You give them our number and tell them you’re represented. After you say those magic words, they’re not allowed to even ask any more questions or we’ll rip them to shreds. You’ve got a whole team of junkyard dogs guarding your back.”

  “Thank you, I guess,” said Benmont. “Now what?”

  “Here’s the plan. You take a much-deserved vacation.” Ramsey removed a bulging money clip from his pocket and peeled off several thousand. “That’s cab fare. Call us if you need more.”

  “Thanks.” Benmont stood. “I just have to tie up some loose ends at my desk . . . I’ve actually been thinking about Aruba for a while.”

  “That’s more like it.” A hard slap on Benmont’s back that jolted him.

  The data analyst stood up to leave the office. He noticed something. “Hey, the back of Quint’s computer has been ripped open. What’s going on?”

  “Oh, that,” said Ramsey. “We sent an advance team before dawn to sanitize the scene.”

  “Wait,” said Benmont, turning and pointing out the window toward his cubicle. “Are you the ones who took my hard drive, too?”

  “No need to thank us.”

  “But why did you steal all my data?”

  “To protect your privacy.”

  Chapter 15

  Boca Shores

  “Let’s play . . . The Price Is Right! . . .”

  Earl looked up from his small black-and-white TV as a contractor’s van with a salesman at the wheel turned in the entrance of the retirement park. The guard stepped outside the booth and stuck his thumbs inside the hips of his pants, ready to serve and protect.

  The van stopped short of the gate and pulled over to the curb. The driver noticed a new sign attached to the front window of the booth. He got out his phone.

  The voice on the other end of the cell was so loud that Earl could hear it from the driver’s open window: “. . . Get out! Now! . . .”

  The van made a screeching three-point turn in the driveway and took off.

  Earl chuckled to himself and went back in the booth.

  He wasn’t inside long.

  A Ford Falcon rolled up and the driver hung out the window. “Hey, Earl, how’s the sign working?”

  “Like gangbusters. Salesmen have practically dropped off to nothing.”

  “That’s great to hear.”

  The Falcon drove into the park, and Earl walked around to the front of the booth. He chuckled again at the hand-printed placard in the window:

  Serge on Duty.

  The Falcon pulled up in front of a white metal house with orange trim, careful not to run over the concrete domes guarding the edge of the lawn. Serge and Coleman bounded up the porch steps and were met by the owner before they could knock.

  “You invited us to dinner?”

  Lawrence Shepard had a slight smile as he shook his head at Serge. “I still don’t know what to make of you.”

  Serge extended innocent arms. “What?”

  “I’ll play along,” said Lawrence. “You don’t know anything about what happened. That makes you the only person in the park.”

  “I still don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

  “Anything you say.” Lawrence walked down the steps. “Follow me . . . Nancy, you coming?”

  “Be right there . . .”

  Serge looked back in the direction of the kitchen. “What about dinner?”

  “It can wait,” said Lawrence. “I want to show you something. It’s a surprise.”

  “Come on, Coleman! It’s a surprise!”

&n
bsp; The foursome strolled down the quiet, darkening street. The fountain was still going in the lake, and a formation of pelicans glided low over the water. Unseen bullfrogs made their presence known in the reeds. The breeze carried a light taste of salt. A lizard ran across the road. A neighbor waved as he pedaled by on three wheels.

  “I can see now why you like this place so much,” said Serge.

  “Our little piece of paradise,” said Lawrence.

  Another neighbor waved. This one was rocking in a patio chair on his screened porch. “Serge!”

  “Mr. Hornsby!”

  “Thanks so much.”

  “For what?”

  “You know.” Buster pointed upward. A new American flag—even larger than the first—flapped atop the pole. “The park’s owner personally presented it to me for my service and even hoisted it himself. I don’t know what you said to him.”

  “Me?”

  Buster laughed. “He was real nervous the whole time and kept saying, ‘Make sure you tell your friend!’”

  Serge looked at the ground. “That’s weird.”

  “It’s sunset.” Buster got out of his chair and opened the screen door. “Time to show proper respect. Flag protocol.”

  “Let me help you . . .”

  Serge and Buster worked the ropes together, slowly lowering the Stars and Stripes. Serge reached for the lowest tip of fabric so it wouldn’t touch the ground. Then the two grabbed the flag by each end and folded it toward each other until it was a small triangle.

  Buster held it to his chest with one hand and shook Serge’s hand with the other. “Thanks again.”

  “For what?”

  “Right.”

  The quartet resumed walking. Serge did an impulsive cartwheel. “I’m dying to know what this surprise is.”

  “You’re about to find out, because we’re here.” Lawrence stopped at the end of a driveway.

  Serge looked at the trailer. “The Packers?”

  “I know you’re an unusual kind of person,” said Lawrence. “That’s an understatement. And I know you’re up to some stuff that’s not exactly kosher and that I definitely don’t want to know about. But deep down inside your heart . . . Well, anyway, I brought you here because you deserve to see how happy they are.”