Picture Me Dead

It seemed to be happening on a daily basis now.

But she knew Sandy Reilly well. He’d been hanging around Nick’s for at least seven years. He looked as if he were about ninety, he was so weathered and wrinkled. She thought he was probably more like seventy, but no one ever asked him, and he never offered information regarding his age. He lived in one of the houseboats down along the pier, or, at least, he supposedly lived in his houseboat. But he spent most of his time at Nick’s.

“Hi, Sandy.”

“Hey there, kid, you’re looking spiffy in that uniform.”

“Thanks, Sandy.”

“Cops, cops, cops, we got ’em all over the place.”

“We do?”

Sandy laughed.

“You don’t know how many cops come in here all the time?”

“I know of several, of course. Not as many as you seem to think we get. But this is a public establishment, Sandy. We don’t ask people what they do for a living when they come in.”

“Curtis Markham, the gray-haired guy who drinks Coors and sits in the corner with his son, a boy about twelve. Plays a lot of pool. He’s a South Miami cop. Tommy Thistle—you know Tommy. Miami Beach police.”

“Yep, I know Tommy. And Curtis. I put them both on my list of references.”

“Then there’s Jake.”

“Jake?”

“You’d know him if you saw him.”

“I would?”

“Yeah, sure. Well, he’s not actually a regular—or he hasn’t been. But he stops by some Sundays. Tall guy. Dark. In top shape. He’s Miami-Dade. Homicide. A detective. Something of a bigshot, so they say. If you don’t know him now, maybe you should get to know him. Come to think of it, I’m sure you’ll get to know him. Now that his boat is here at Nick’s, he’ll be around more and more.”

Sandy kept talking, but she didn’t hear a word after Jake. Tall. Dark. Miami-Dade homicide.

And, of course, she knew right away. The guy she had scalded with her coffee while rushing out on Saturday.

So he was with Miami-Dade. Great. Just great.

“Isn’t it great? I really do know everyone, if you think you need a more formal introduction.”

“Thanks,” Ashley said. “I do know the man you’re talking about. I mean, I’ve seen him in here. Jake. That’s his name?”

“Jake Dilessio. Detective Dilessio. And like I said, I’ll hang around one day and introduce you. Well, of course, Nick could do that, too.”

“It’s okay, I don’t need a formal introduction.” Better to leave things as they were. She wasn’t going to be a suck-up.

She might be a lot more courteous the next time she saw the guy, but she wasn’t going to turn into a doormat just because now she knew who he was.

“You okay, Ashley?”

“Of course.”

“You’re looking a little funny. Did I say something wrong?”

Leave it to old Sandy. He probably had the lowdown on everyone who ever came into Nick’s. “No, Sandy. I’m fine. Just thinking how good it is to hear the place is full of cops—and how weird that I’ve spent most of my formative years here and you know more about the clientele than I do.”

“Well, heck, you’re gone a lot, and before that, you were a kid, and Nick was always careful to kind of keep you out of the bar. Me, I’m retired, with nothing left to do but watch who comes and goes.”

“Do you think that’s it? I was an art major for a while. I’m supposed to be a lot more observant. But anyway, that sounds good. It’s nice, knowing there are lots of people around I can ask for help now and then. But how do you feel about it? Is it good to have lots of cops around?”

“You bet. I feel nice and safe. And here’s hoping you’ll soon be one of them. I know you’ll be one of the ten to fourteen who makes it.”

“One of the ten to fourteen?” she said blankly, still coming to terms with the fact that she had scalded a detective with the same force she planned to join.

“Sure, those are the statistics, Ashley. Okay, maybe a few more, a few less, now and then. About one third of each class actually makes it onto the force, and through their first year as a cop.”

“Oh, yeah. They give us those statistics, along with how many cops are killed each year, when we go to orientation. But how come you’re so up on the statistics?”

“Well, I may be old as time, but the good Lord has seen fit to leave me with eyes as sharp as a hawk’s and ears that pick up just about everything out there. And if I learned anything in all my time on this here earth, I learned to listen. And I listen to the cops in Nick’s place.”

“I’m still feeling amazed. I grew up here, Sandy, and I don’t know as much as you do about who hangs out here.”

“That’s because you’ve got your mind somewhere else most of the time when you’re around. Anyway, cops don’t walk around on their days off with their badges hanging around their necks or pinned to their fishing shirts. Cops are just people. They like to have a day off. And they don’t always like to go around introducing themselves as cops. Especially around a place like Nick’s. People hang out here to enjoy the water, their boats, and talk about fishing.”

“But they talk to you and tell you what they do for a living,” she said smiling.

“Sure, ’cause I talk to them. I’m an old geezer. Curiosity is all I’ve got left, and what I find out is what makes life interesting.”

“Hey, Sandy,” Nick said from behind her. “You’ll have to fill Ashley in about the customers later. She won’t be a cop if she’s late to the academy too often. And by the way, we’re not open yet, Sandy.”

“Well, now, hell, I know that. You tell me that every morning. But you still have coffee brewing, and if you give me a cup, I’ll get the place set up before those scrawny young whippersnappers you call employees even make it into work.”

Ashley smiled. It was true. Old Sandy did come early several mornings a week.

But never before six-thirty. And he didn’t bother a soul. He just liked to get his cup of coffee, set up and sit out on the porch, looking out at the boats and the water.

And so did some of the other folks who lived on their boats at the marina—including homicide detectives, it seemed.

“Ashley, you all right? You’re looking kind of pale,” Nick said.

“I’m fine. Nick,” she said, staring reproachfully at her uncle. “But you didn’t tell me that our early-morning visitor the other day was a cop. A homicide cop. With Miami-Dade.”

“Honey, you were moving faster than a twister. You didn’t give me a chance.”

“Right. Of course.”

“He’s a good man.”