Cape Coral, Florida

CAPE CORAL, FLORIDA

It was hot in Florida. Summertime hot and humid, although it was only late April.

Glynis had insisted on going to Florida to see Dr. McGruder and question him about Mrs. Sinclair’s cancer. Jake thought it was a wild-goose chase, at best, but once he realized how utterly determined she was, he decided to go along with her. So on the Friday after Tomlinson’s victory in the primary, the two of them flew to the Southwest Florida International Airport, in Fort Myers, and drove a rental car to McGruder’s home in Cape Coral.

“What do you expect to find?” Jake asked, as he followed the car’s GPS directions through the unfamiliar streets. The sun was glaring, the car’s air-conditioning up to maximum. Jake was surprised at the traffic. Fort Myers was a considerable city. The people ambling along the streets were all in ultracasual T-shirts, tank tops, shorts, sandals. Just about everyone wore sunglasses.

“I want to know if she actually had cancer,” Glynis replied. “And if she did, who her oncologist was. McGruder’s just a GP. She must have been attended by a specialist—if she really had cancer.”

“You think Harraway was lying,” Jake said. It wasn’t a question.

“I know he was lying,” Glynis said, absolutely certain. “I just don’t know if he was telling the truth about her condition.”

The address turned out to be a modest bungalow on a palm-lined street that ran along a canal. Jake could see boats moored behind several of the houses, mostly small outboards for fishing, although there was one sleek cigarette boat hanging from davits across the waterway.

Feeling uneasy about this expedition, Jake rang the bungalow’s doorbell. In the Florida humidity, he felt as if a hot, wet towel had been wrapped around him. Glynis seemed unaffected by the heat; she had had the foresight to dress for the climate in shorts and a sleeveless blouse.

A thickset swarthy woman opened the front door a crack. She was short and blocky as a bag of cement.

“Que?”

“Dr. McGruder, please.”

The woman frowned. “No here. They take him away.”

“Away?” Glynis asked. “Where?”

“Two days ago.”

“Where? Where is he?”

Jake searched his pitiful Spanish vocabulary. “Dónde está?”

That brought a burst of rapid-fire Spanish. Overwhelmed, Jake made a pacifying gesture with both his hands. “Slower! Uh … lentamente, por favor.”

It took several minutes, but at last they figured that McGruder had been taken to the Alhambra Hospital, in Cape Coral.

As they slid back into the car and Jake revved up the engine—and the air-conditioning—Glynis said, “I didn’t know you speak Spanish.”

“Just a few words. Comes in handy now and then.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Dos cervezas,” Jake said. “That’s my favorite Spanish phrase.”