"Make it 65," I shot back coolly.
"You bastard," he muttered in grim assent. I whisked the files off the table and made for the door before they could change their minds.
On the flight to Miami I started rereading Uvula's file but stopped, awestruck, when I got to the photographs. Maybe Kurtz wasn't crazy, I thought. Maybe he was just a hostage of lust.
My pulse was still galloping as I boarded the Chalk's pontoon plane to Nassau. From there it was a twin-engine Beech to Marsh Harbour, dodging thunderstorms in the company of the same pilot who'd brought in Kurtz and the former Ms. Schoendienst two weeks before.
"How did he seem to you?" I asked.
"Intense," the pilot said.
"And the woman?"
The pilot sighed. "A goddess."
"I meant, what was her mood?"
"She slept the whole way," he reported with unconcealed disappointment, "her head on his shoulder."