Bermuda Schwartz (27 page)

“No, a business associate,” I say. “Where's Trimmingham?”

The woman takes a breath.

“I'm afraid we don't know where he is.”

I don't say anything.

The woman says, “According to the night nurse, he was in bed at eleven
P.M.
and received his medication. But when she stopped in at two
A.M.
he was gone. No one has seen him since.”

 

I go to Trimmingham's office. It looks the same as when Boggy and I left it a couple days earlier.

I open a filing cabinet, find the folder I'm looking for, the one with Trimmingham's personal information in it. Flip through papers—old VISA statements, bills for the ex-wife in Charlottesville, membership dues for the Somerset Yacht Club. Find a recent utilities bill—2200 Water Avenue, Apt. A-2.

As I'm leaving, the door opens across the hall. The man inside the office pokes his head out.

“Your friends were just here,” he says.

“Friends?”

“The three who were here the other day.”

“Oh, you mean the day you called the cops?”

He doesn't respond to that.

“How long ago did they leave?” I ask him.

“I don't know. Fifteen minutes maybe.”

I say, “Have you seen Trimmingham?”

He shakes his head.

“I heard he was in the hospital.”

“You heard right.”

“Is he going to be all right?”

“Too soon to tell,” I say.

 

I find Water Avenue and follow it to 2200—a quadruplex squeezed between two other quadruplexes. I park the Morris Minor on the street out front.

A-2 is first floor on the right. I knock on the door. No answer. I knock again. No answer again.

There's a window. I look through it. Nothing much to see—crummy furniture in the front room, the kind you buy at the thrift store. Darkness beyond that.

I consider breaking the window, kicking in the door. Don't really have the motivation. Not yet, anyway. Maybe later, if it comes to that.

I turn to go, see the gray van parked behind the Morris Minor.

Paul Andrade gets out of the passenger side. I can see two other guys in the van—Barros behind the wheel, Moraes in the back seat.

I walk up to the van. Andrade slides open the side door, nods me to get inside.

“Papi wants to see you,” he says.

“That's nice,” I say.

“Get in.”

I don't move.

“Where's Brewster Trimmingham?”

Andrade shrugs.

“Get in the van,” he says.

I'm standing three steps away from Andrade. For a small, wiry guy you'd think he might have quick reflexes. Turns out, they aren't quick enough. Either that or I'm getting faster in my old age. Doubtful.

I knee Andrade in the nuts. He doubles over and I flip him around, get him in a headlock. I squeeze, lean back. His feet leave the ground. He kicks, grabs at my arm, coughing, fighting for air.

Barros sits frozen in the driver's seat, but Moraes makes a move, lunging through the open door.

I drag Andrade back with me, one arm locked around his throat. I wrap the other arm around the top of his head, get a grip just under his jaw, twist.

“One more step, I break his neck,” I say.

Sounds bad-ass anyway.

Moraes stops.

“Get back in the van,” I say.

He does it.

“Now close the door.”

He does that, too.

I remove my arm from the top of Andrade's head, reach behind his back. The pistol is stuck in his waistband. I pull it out, hold it up for Barros and Moraes to see.

“You're going to drive. I'm going to follow,” I say.

“What about him?” Barros says, nodding at Andrade.

“He's riding with me,” I say. “Don't do anything stupid.”

I let go of Andrade, point him to the Morris Minor. We get in and follow the gray van. I keep his pistol on my lap.

“Now let me ask you again,” I say to Andrade. “Where's Brewster Trimmingham?”

He glares at me.

“How the fuck should I know? Papi says he wants to see the both of you. We go looking for Trimmingham, we find you. That's all I know.”

We keep driving. Leaving Pembroke Parish, we cross a bridge. I take the pistol from my lap, make a hook shot over the car. I don't see it hit the water, but it's a high-percentage shot.

And the look on Andrade's face tells me all I need to know.

“That was brand new, I just got it.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So, why?”

“Don't like guns,” I say.

 

After we reach Flatts Village and Ferreira Grocery, I follow Barros, Moraes, and Andrade to the back of the store. There's someone leaving the back room—the young man I saw outside, playing dominoes, on my first visit here, the one who works with Michael Frazer. He eyes me. I eye him. Neither one of us says anything as we pass each other in the aisle.

We step inside the back room. Papi Ferreira sits behind his desk, eating from a big white bowl. The smell of garlic mixes with old cigar smoke. It is not unpleasant.

Andrade speaks, says something in Portuguese. Ferreira barks a response. Andrade stammers a meek reply. Ferreira grunts something. Then Andrade, Barros, and Moraes step out of the room and leave me with Ferreira.

Ferreira ignores me, goes in with his spoon for another slurp of soup.

I feel too much like a supplicant, standing up as I am. I sit down in a chair by the desk.

Ferreira watches me, slurps more soup.

“Smells good,” I say. “What is it?”

“Sopa alentejana”
Ferreira says. “My wife, she makes.”

“What's she put in it?”

He shrugs.

“The garlic, the chicken broth, a piece of toast, some cilantro, and two eggs.”

“Eggs, huh? They get stirred around like egg-drop soup?”

“No, no stir. See?”

He tilts the bowl so I can see inside. There's one egg left in the yellow broth.

“Oh, like a poached
egg.”

“Yes, poached,” he says. “Is good for breakfast.”

“I'll have to try that sometime.”

Ferreira dabs his lips with a napkin, pushes the bowl aside. He swallows a burp. He looks at me.

“Where is my money?”

“Where is Brewster Trimmingham?”

Ferreira shrugs.

“That I cannot tell you,” he says.

“Can't tell me, or won't tell me? Where is he?”

Ferreira turns up his hands.

“I cannot tell you because I do not know. I send out those three
babacas
to find you and Trimmingham, and they come back just with you. I know they are not telling me everything,” he says. “I think maybe you knock them around again some, eh?”

“Didn't take much knocking around,” I say.

Ferreira studies me.

“So, Trimmingham. You cannot find him?”

“No, I can't. He's not at the hospital. Not at his office, not at his home.”

Ferreira shrugs.

“So, he is missing,” Ferreira says. “But you see, this is not my problem. You are my problem. Where is my money?”

“You'll get it.”

“When?”

“When I get it.”

Ferreira shakes his head.

“This is not the way I do business.”

“I know the way you do business,” I say. “You pull out people's eyes.”

Ferreira doesn't react. He settles back in his chair. He says nothing.

“That's the way it works, isn't it? Someone crosses you, you pull out their eyes, and then stick an ice pick in their ear.”

Ferreira chews his lip. Then he opens his desk drawer. He pulls out a pistol. He puts it down on the desk in front of him, keeps his hand on top of it.

“You hear too many stories,” he says. “It is much easier with a gun.”

“So why didn't you just shoot Richard Peach and Martin Boyd?”

Ferreira closes his eyes, shakes his head. Then he looks at me again.

“You think it was me who killed them?”

“You or someone in your organization.”

“My organization?”

“The Sangrento Mao.”

Ferreira's lips narrow. It might almost be a smile.

“I am just a grocer,” he says.

“Play it however you want.”

He picks up the gun, moves it to his other hand.

“Maybe I want to shoot you right now.”

“You don't want to shoot me.”

“Why not?”

“Because it will cost you eighty thousand dollars. You'd rather have the money.”

Ferreira holds my gaze. He puts the pistol back down on the desk. He settles back in his chair.

I say, “I can think of two reasons why you might have killed Peach and Boyd.”

“But I tell you, I did not kill them,” Ferreira says. “The one, Boyd, I thought about killing him, yes. But Cristina, my son's wife, she was not worth the blood. Antoni, though, he very much wanted to kill Boyd. That is why I sent him away. To Miami.”

“OK. That takes care of one reason. But what about the wreck of the
Santa Helena?”

Ferreira stares at me, says nothing.

“The Reliquarium de Fratres Cruris. Is that worth killing for?”

Ferreira sighs. He seems suddenly weary.

He says, “These are just stories. Old stories. Like stories of the Sangrento Mao. They are stories that people want to believe. Seven years ago, the police they came and asked questions. And I tell them the same I tell you. I did not kill those men.”

“Have the police come asking questions lately?”

“No. What questions would they ask?”

“About the death of Ned McHugh.”

Ferreira furrows his brow.

“Yes, I hear about him. In the same way of the others, eh?”

“Yes,” I say. “Exactly the same way.”

“Is very unfortunate.”

“I tell you something else that's unfortunate.” I look at Ferreira. He waits. “Teddy Schwartz is in jail for it.”

“Yes, I hear that, too,” he says. “I am very much surprised by this. Sir Teddy, he is a good man.”

“I want him out of jail.”

Ferreira shrugs.

“About this,” he says, “there is nothing I can do.”

“But see, Papi, here's the deal. I'm not real good at multitasking.”

“Multitasking? What is?”

“I work better when I can concentrate on one thing at a time. You understand?” Ferreira nods. “Right now I'm concentrating on getting Teddy Schwartz out of jail. You know what that means?”

“Tell me.”

“It means until I get him out of jail, then I can't concentrate on getting my money. Which means I sure as hell can't concentrate on getting your money.” I stand up from the chair, put my hands on the desk, look Ferreira in the eye. “So if you want to get paid any time soon, then you better figure a way to help me out.”

 

I pull up in front of the Oxford House just as Fiona McHugh and Michael Frazer are walking out the front door.

Fiona spots me and waves. I get out of the car and wait for them by the curb.

Fiona sports a yellow sundress, lace at the hem. She looks quite fetching in it.

“Well, hello there,” she says. “Michael and I were just heading out to lunch.”

“Sorry,” I say. “I'd forgotten about that.”

“Why don't you join us?” Fiona says. “You don't mind do you, Michael?”

“Oh no, not at all,” Frazer says. “Thought we'd hit the Whaler Inn. Great view.”

“Thanks, but no,” I say. I look at Fiona. “Just wondering if you had mentioned anything to Michael about him taking us out in his boat, see if we could get that GPS to show us anything worth looking at.”

“She did,” Michael answers for her. “But I can't. Not this afternoon, anyway. I have a couple of meetings I can't afford to miss. Perhaps tomorrow, eh?”

He seems anxious to go. Can't say that I blame him. A pretty girl in a yellow sundress, heading to lunch on a gorgeous afternoon. Ah, the possibilities.

“You heard anything from Worley?” I ask Fiona.

“Not a peep,” she says. “What have you been up to?”

“Been an interesting morning. Had a little face time with Papi Ferreira.”

It gets a reaction from both of them.

“Grabbing the bull by the horns, eh?” says Fiona.

“Not the part of the bull I was grabbing for, actually.”

I give them a brief rundown of my conversation with Ferreira.

“You asked him straight on if he did it?” Fiona asks. “Now that took some spine.”

“Don't tap-dance on the line of scrimmage,” I say. It gets blank looks from both of them. “Football talk. Something a coach of mine used to say.”

“So what did Ferreira tell you?” Fiona asks.

“He said he didn't do it.”

“And you believe him?”

“Let's just say I'm leaning in that direction.”

“Plenty of people have taken Papi Ferreira at his word and regretted it later,” Frazer says.

“That's why I'm only leaning. I haven't fallen head over heels in love with the guy.”

Frazer checks his watch.

“Reservations are for noon,” he says. “We best be off.”

“I'll check in with you later, Zack,” Fiona says. “Where will you be?”

“Thought I'd drop by Teddy Schwartz's place.”

She seems surprised. So does Frazer.

“What for?” asks Fiona.

“Don't know yet,” I say.

 

A police van and two cars occupy the driveway at Teddy Schwartz's house when I arrive. I park down the street and walk back to the house.

The front door is open and I can see a group of policemen sitting around the dining room table, eating food out of Styrofoam containers. Looks like a lunch break.

I step around to the back of the house.
Miss Peg
is moored at the dock, just as we left her the day before, except for the yellow crime-scene tape that runs between the mooring pilings.