“He and the young lady are intimately involved at the moment. The black Lab seems to have taught the doc a few things. He knows some doggy tricks. Our lookout says that his ears and nose are much larger than a certain other part of his anatomy.”
That got a laugh from the group. It also eased the tension. We were a little fearful for the girl, but we were close enough to get inside in a hurry.
The lookout continued to report on what he saw. “Oops, the doc would appear to be a premature ejaculator. The young lady doesn’t seem to mind. Awhh, she kissed him on top of his head, poor baby.”
“You get what you pay for,” Betsey said.
Finally, the blond woman left and the steamy movie was over for the night. Dr. Francis stayed out on the deck, sipping a snifter of brandy, watching the moon ride high over the Atlantic.
“Ahh, the good life,” Betsey said. “Moon over Miami and all that neat stuff.”
“He only had to kill about a dozen people to get his place in the sun,” I said.
Francis’s cell phone rang around midnight. We listened to the call from the surveillance van. The call definitely got our attention. Betsey and I exchanged glances.
The caller sounded nervous. “Bernie, they’re all over this place again. They’re looking at staff now. They —”
Francis cut in. “It’s late. I’ll call you in the morning. I’ll call you. Don’t call me here. I’ve told you that. Please, don’t do it again.”
Dr. Francis hung up angrily. He drained the rest of his brandy.
Betsey elbowed me. She was smiling for the first time since we’d been watching Francis. “Alex, you recognize the voice on the other end?” she asked.
I sure did. “The lovely and talented Kathleen McGuigan. Nurse McGuigan is part of this. It’s all starting to come together, isn’t it?”
Chapter 119
IT WAS REALLY EASY to loathe Dr. Bernard Francis. He was human scum, the worst of the worst, a killer who liked to make his victims suffer. It made the late-night-surveillance job easier, almost bearable. So did the idea that Francis was the Mastermind, and that we were close to nailing him to the walls of his pink stucco, Mediterranean-style condo.
Kathleen McGuigan didn’t try to call Francis back that night. And he didn’t call her. Around one o’clock, he went inside to bed and turned on his alarm system.
“Sweet dreams, you bastard,” Betsey said as the house lights went off.
“We know where he lives. We know he did it — if not exactly how. But we can’t bring him down?” one of the agents complained once Francis had turned in for the night.
“Patience, patience,” I said. “We just got here. We’ll get Dr. Francis. We just want to watch him a little longer. We need to be absolutely sure this time. And, we want the money he stole.”
Betsey and I finally left the surveillance van around two in the morning. We took one of the Bureau’s sedans. She drove off Singer Island. Everyone else was staying at a Holiday Inn in West Palm. We headed north on I-95.
“Is this okay?” she asked once we were on the interstate. She looked more vulnerable than I was used to seeing her. “There’s a Hyatt Regency a few exits north.”
“I like being with you, Betsey. Right from the first time we met,” I told her.
“Yeah. I can tell, Alex. But not enough, huh?”
I looked over at her. I liked Betsey even more when she was a little unsure of herself. “You want candor and honesty at two-fifteen in the morning?” I joked.
“Absolutely, relentlessly.”
“I know this is a little crazy, but —”
She finally smiled. “I can handle crazy.”
“I don’t know exactly what’s going on in my life right now. I’m floating with the tide a little bit. This isn’t like me. Maybe that’s a good thing.”
“You’re also still trying to get over Christine,” she said. “I think you’re doing it the right way. You’re being brave.”
“Or very fool