Bermuda Schwartz (25 page)

“A very astute question, Mr. Chasteen. One I hoped you might ask. The answer—we got a phone call.”

“Let me guess,” I say. “Anonymous?”

“But of course,” Worley says. “Desk officer said the caller was a male. Beyond that, nothing.”

I say, “Someone could have planted the ice pick, the pliers.”

Worley raises his eyebrows.

“You think?” he says.

“I was in Schwartz's boathouse the other day.”

“Sir Teddy mentioned that. And you know what my first reaction was to that, Mr. Chasteen?”

“You thought maybe I planted the murder weapon?”

Worley smiles.

“I must tell you—yes, the thought did cross my mind. But only for a brief moment. Then it occurred to me that, based upon the coroner's estimate, you would still have been in Florida at the time of Ned McHugh's death. You couldn't possibly have done it.”

“I'll consider that a vote of confidence.”

“Don't get too carried away,” Worley says.

“Teddy Schwartz did seem surprised that I was in his boathouse. Angered and surprised, actually. I remember him checking the doorknob, the lock, as if the place might have been broken into.”

“You are full of interesting observations, Mr. Chasteen. As it turns out, Mr. Schwartz remembers exactly the same thing. It is his contention that his boathouse was indeed broken in to,” Worley says. “One problem—he didn't report it at the time. Plus, if you are found to be hiding murder weapons in your boathouse then the most expedient response would be to …?”

“Claim it had been broken in to,” I say.

“Exactly. Especially if the boyfriend of your girlfriend's niece could corroborate it.”

“Gnarly lineage, but I can see what you mean.”

“What about the break-in at Ned's house?” Fiona breaks in. “Did you get anything from that?”

Worley shakes his head.

“Nothing, really. No physical evidence. Could have just been a neighborhood thief. About the only thing we got out of it was a supplementary statement from the young woman …”

“Polly? Ned's girlfriend?”

“Yes, her. She told us that Teddy Schwartz came around there looking for Ned McHugh, on the day of the murder. She hadn't seen fit to mention that before.”

“She's a little flighty,” I say. “Could have just forgotten about it.”

“Yeah, could have.”

“There's something else that's off about all this,” says Fiona.

“What's that?”

“Motive.”

“I'm listening,” says Worley.

“Why would Teddy Schwartz want to kill my brother? And why would he have wanted to kill Richard Peach and Martin Boyd seven years ago? I mean, we are still assuming that the murders are linked, aren't we?”

“We are,” says Worley. “But I don't have to provide motive to the prosecutor, only evidence. Nor must I concern myself with the previous murders when I have enough in hand to proceed with this one. A murder weapon is a compelling piece of evidence. And when a police department comes up with a compelling piece of evidence there's not a lot of internal motivation to discredit it. You understand what I'm saying? The higher-ups are ready to formalize charges.”

“But you aren't?” I say.

Worley rubs his jaw, considers his response.

“Let's just say that things are a little too neat for my liking—a phone call out of the blue, the murder weapon found, a suspect now in custody. A pretty package.”

“And one that could blow up in your face?”

“It could prove embarrassing at the every least.”

Worley's phone rings. He answers it, listens.

“Be right there,” he says.

He hangs up.

“I'm being summoned,” he says.

“The higher-ups?” I ask.

He nods, stands up from his desk. We take the cue.

As we head for the door, Fiona stops, looks at Worley.

“One more question,” she says.

“Ask.”

“Why are you telling us all this?”

Worley smiles.

“Like I said, Miss McHugh, I just want to keep you in the loop.”

Neither one of us is buying it. Worley knows it.

“Then again,” he says, “seeing as how you are a police officer and seeing
as how Mr. Chasteen is whatever he is, I can fully understand it if the two of you feel the need to second-guess this investigation, maybe even continue conducting an investigation of your own. If so, I would suggest that the time to do that is right now.”

 

“
Well, I guess Worley really can't make it much clearer than that, can he?” Fiona says as we exit police headquarters.

“You mean, short of putting us on the payroll?”

“It was decent of him.”

“Yeah, but he's covering his ass, too,” I say. “This way he doesn't have to buck department politics and give the appearance of torpedoing an investigation that looks as if it's locked up tight. At the same time, he's got us out here doing the legwork for him.”

The parking lot has emptied out since we arrived. The Morris Minor sits all by itself at the far end, under a streetlamp. We head for it.

The air is heavy, anticipating rain. Not enough breeze to stir the palm fronds. From the bars of Front Street comes the sound of revelry. Two more cruise ships have put in along the pier.

“Ned's GPS,” Fiona says. “I still need to see where it takes us.”

“One problem—we no longer have a boat at our disposal.”

“Did the police impound
Miss Peg?”

“I'm guessing they did. Probably want to check it stem to stern for any physical evidence.”

“I could ask Michael when we have lunch tomorrow,” Fiona says. “I don't see why he would object to taking us out.”

“Worth a shot,” I say.

I unlock the Morris Minor. We get in.

“To the Oxford House, madame?”

“Yes, driver,” she says. “And be quick about it. I am ready for a long, hot bath.”

I turn on the ignition. It's only then that I notice the business card that has been tucked under one of the windshield wipers.

I get out and grab it. The card bears the logo of the
Royal Gazette
with Janeen Hill's name under it.

I turn it over. Written in block letters, the message reads:

 

I NEED TO SPEAK WITH YOU. MY PLACE. PLEASE …

 

I get in the car, hand the card to Fiona. She reads it.

“You mind postponing that hot bath?”

She shrugs, noncommittal.

“Because I could go by there by myself if you're ready to call it a night,” I say. “I know how prickly it got the last time you were around her.”

“What do you think?”

“I think Janeen redeemed herself, at least a little bit, by calling Worley after we left there the other day, trying to tell him what she knows. That counts for something. She's reaching out.”

“Then let's go hear what she has to say.”

 

I couldn't believe it when I heard they were holding Sir Teddy for questioning,” Janeen Hill says. “I know damn well he didn't kill your brother, Fiona. He didn't kill Peach and Boyd either.”

We sit around the table in Janeen's apartment. We've dispensed with the pleasantries and put aside recent bad history. Janeen and Fiona haven't exacdy kissed and made up, but they aren't at each other's throats either.

“That's all very well and good,” Fiona says, “but until we can actually prove who did commit those murders, then Sir Teddy is staying right where he is.”

I look at Janeen.

“The other day, when I was getting ready to leave here, you told me there was a lot we didn't know about this Lost Cross thing.”

“There is,” Janeen says, “a whole lot.”

“Time to educate us,” I say. “I don't need the long version. It's late. I'm tired. Just tell me how you think it's related to the murders and who the hell is behind it.”

“The Sangrento Mao,” Janeen says.

“Sangrento what?”

“Mao,” Janeen says. “Spelled just like Mao in Mao Tse-tung, but no relation whatsoever.
Mao
is Portuguese for ‘hand.'
Sangrento
means ‘red.' The Red Hand.”

“Bad guys?”

“Can be. You remember what I told you about the Fratres Cruris?”

“Yeah, yeah. The secret brotherhood. Supposedly found the last piece of the True Cross, put it in a fancy reliquary, shipped it off to the New World on some ship …”

“The
Santa Helena
.”

“Whatever. And it was never seen again, blah-blah-blah-blah. Does this Sangrento Mao have something to do with that?”

“They most definitely do,” says Janeen. “But first, let me show you something. Just so you have a physical point of reference here, just so you know that the reliquary really did exist.”

She steps over to the bookcase and returns with a copy of Richard Peach's book,
The Legend of the Lost Cross.
There's a sheet of paper stuck in it. She pulls it out, lays it on the table in front of Fiona and me.

“Behold the Reliquarium de Fratres Cruris,” says Janeen. “As drawn by the unfortunate goldsmith who met his end after showing this around town.”

There are two sketches on the sheet, actually. One shows a front view of the reliquary. It's shaped like a cross with arms of equal length. At its juncture there's a grating held shut by an elaborate latch.

“The design is after the
crux immissa quadrata,
also known as the Greek cross,” says Janeen. “The goldsmith likely chose that design because it was more compact and stable—better suited for traveling—than the traditional Christian cross. Made out of gold and silver and studded with jewels. Probably rubies and emeralds. They were much more popular than diamonds back then.”

The second drawing is a close-up. It shows the juncture of the cross with the grating open to reveal the interior of the reliquary.

“That's where the piece of the cross would have been displayed,” says Janeen. “It's hard to tell from the drawing, but there was probably a layer of glass inside the grating to offer further protection. It wasn't like they had vacuum-sealing back then, you know.”

I pick up the piece of paper and study the drawing more closely.

“So where did this come from?” I ask Janeen.

“The original is at the Museu de Marinha in Lisbon. But I copied it from a copy in Richard Peach's papers. According to his wife, he was considering this drawing as the cover illustration for his uncompleted book.”

“Peach have a name for the book?”

Janeen nods.

“Working title was
Finding the Lost Cross”
she says. “Peach was quite optimistic regarding his search here.”

“So, out of all the other possible places where the
Santa Helena
might have met its end, how did Peach settle on looking for the reliquary in Bermuda?”

“It was thanks to a bit of serendipity, actually,” says Janeen. “Shortly after his first book came out, Peach was planning to focus his search along the coast of North Florida. But first, he and his wife traveled here for vacation. Like everyone else who comes to Bermuda, he was just looking for some R and R. And then, just by chance, he visited Spanish Rock.”

“Spanish Rock. I think I remember seeing a sign for that when I was riding around with Barbara the other day.”

“Yes, it's a part of Spittal Pond Nature Preserve. A big rock on a bluff overlooking the ocean. There's a bronze casting of a curious inscription that was found carved into the rock. The original has long since been removed.”

“What do you mean by curious?”

“Well, the inscription is hard to make out. It's very worn. The earliest theories were that it read ‘TCF—1543.' Alongside it was a crude carving of a cross. It was attributed to a Spanish explorer, Theodore Fernando Camelo. Hence the name Spanish Rock,” says Janeen. “But it was later suggested that the inscription was made by Portuguese sailors who were shipwrecked here and the initials they carved were actually ‘RP' for ‘rex portugaliae,” king of Portugal. When Richard Peach visited Spanish Rock, he looked at that inscription, along with the carving of the cross, and saw something else—RFC.”

“For Reliquarium Fratres Cruris,” says Fiona.

“Exactly,” Janeen says.

“But what about the date—1543? That doesn't jibe with when the
Santa Helena
left Portugal,” I say. “That was 1499, wasn't it?”

“It was. But Peach had proof that the Fratres Cruris launched another ship to search for the
Santa Helena
around that time. It was his theory that it, too, wrecked in Bermuda and that survivors etched those initials in the rock,” Janeen says. “He planned to lay out all the evidence in
Finding the Lost Cross.
After, of course, he found it.”

Fiona asks, “Is that what you're calling the book you're working on, too?”

“No, not unless by some miracle the cross is actually found. I don't really have a name for my book yet.” She gives Fiona a sad smile. “Look, I apologize again for the way I handled the whole book thing the other day. I'm sorry.”

“We're past that,” Fiona says. “Let's move on.”

“Yeah, let's talk about this Sangrento Mao outfit,” I say. “How do they fit into things?”

“Well, as you might imagine,” says Janeen, “when the
Santa Helena
was lost, and the reliquary with it, it dealt a devastating blow to the Fratres Crucis. They sank a lot of money into funding search expeditions for the
Santa Helena.
And faced with financial difficulties, the brotherhood eventually began to abandon its spiritual quest in favor of, shall we say, more secular pursuits. It leveraged its sizable following and secretive methods into a natural venue—extortion, gambling, whatever illegal activities presented themselves. In short, by the early eighteen hundreds Fratres Crucis had morphed into the Portuguese version of the Mafia. It became known as Sangrento Mao, the Red Hand.”