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Ham went into the kitchen, found a bottle of bourbon and poured himself a double over ice. “You want one?” he asked Holly and Jackson, who had caught up with them.
“It’s a little early for me,” Holly said. “A little early for you, too, come to that.”
“That place is like a goddamned foreign military base, right here on American soil,” Ham said. He tossed back half the bourbon. “And it burns my ass.”
“Ham, I’m going to look into it, all right? But I don’t want to lose my job while I’m at it.”
“I don’t know why you’re so goddamned worried about your job,” Ham said. “You’re retired military; you’ve got a pension.” He sank the rest of the bourbon but didn’t pour another.
“I like my job,” Holly said, “and I haven’t gotten to the time of my life when all I want to do is fish and play golf.”
Ham was becoming calmer, now. “Yeah, I guess I can understand that.”
“Also, I’d like to find out who killed Chet Marley and Hank Doherty, and my chances are a lot better if I’m running the police department.”
“I’m sorry, Holly,” he said, putting an arm around her. “I’m just not used to being pushed around.”
“I don’t know why not,” Holly said, laughing. “That’s all the army did for the past thirty years, was push you around.”
“Well, I’ll tell you, sweetie,” Ham said, “I did a lot of pushing myself.”
“Yeah, I guess you did, Ham.”
“I’m going to watch the game,” he said. “Anybody want to join me?”
“Not me,” Holly said. “I’m going to sit out back for a while and watch the boats go by.”
“I’ll join you,” Jackson said.
“You don’t want to watch the game with me?” Ham asked.
“She’s prettier than you are,” Jackson said, nodding at Holly. “I’d rather watch her.” He took her hand and led her outside.
They took off their shoes, sat down on the dock and let their feet dangle in the water.
“Well,” Jackson said, “that’s my introduction to Palmetto Gardens, and I didn’t like it much.”
“Yeah, those folks have got way too much security. Barney Noble says the members feel better with the overkill, but it doesn’t make any sense to me. The members are supposed to be corporate CEO types, not banana republic dictators.”
“That airplane had a foreign registration number,” Jackson said.
“What country?”
“I don’t know, and I can’t remember the letters, but all U.S. aircraft have registration numbers starting with N.”
“Noble told me that they had some sort of special customs and immigrations deal, where their members can fly in directly from any foreign airport.”
“That’s unusual,” Jackson said. “Normally, when an aircraft enters the U.S. from another country, it has to land at a port of entry—an international airport—where the airplane is subject to search and the crew’s and passengers’ documents are examined. That’s what I’ve had to do when I fly back from the Bahamas. I land at Fort Pierce, clear customs and immigration, then fly to Orchid airport.”
“You fly?”
“I’ve got a license, but I don’t own an airplane. I belong to a flying club out at the airport, and I can rent their machines.”
“Why don’t we go have a look at Palmetto Gardens from the air?”
“You think they’ll shoot us down?”
“Let’s find out.”
