Bermuda Schwartz (28 page)

There's tape along the walkway to the boathouse, too. I've never understood the whole crime-scene tape thing. Seems like if cops really wanted to keep people away from crime scenes, they'd figure out a way to electrify the tape. Or do something to make it a little more daunting. Like run razor-wire along the edges. Or lace it with anthrax. Otherwise it just looks like a bad job of gift wrapping.

I duck under the tape and step inside the boathouse. I look around. It's as if the place got hit by its own private tornado.

Stacks of lumber lay scattered like a game of giant pickup sticks. The diving equipment is strewn all about. Boxes have been ripped open, their contents in heaps.

I don't know what I'm looking for. I'm just looking.

I step over power tools—drills and saws. I edge around an acetylene torch and the tanks that go with it, banging a shin against a small anvil in the process.

I finally make my way to the workbench in the center of the room. The blue tarp that once covered it lies on the floor. Gone is the carpenter's box that once sat atop the workbench, along with the tools that were in it. Gone, too, are the small jars filled with pieces of jewelry and bric-a-brac.

The books that held down the tarp have been knocked to the floor. I kneel and sort through them. Glossy picture books from museums, catalogs from auction houses.

At the bottom of the pile, lie several sheets of paper. I pick them up, flip through them.

And suddenly I am looking at something I recognize: a sketch of the Reliquarium de Fratres Crucis.

 

The paper I'm holding contains a copy of the same drawing that Janeen Hill showed Fiona and me the night before at her house, the one made by the goldsmith who designed the reliquary.

Some notes are scribbled in pencil, with lines drawn to different parts of the reliquary. I can make out some of them—“.925 silver (French),” “I.G. copper 60%.” Others are indecipherable.

I fold the paper, stick it in a pants pocket. I'm still nosing around the books, seeing if anything else jumps out to surprise me, when I hear a voice: “Can I help you?”

I stand, see a young police officer in the doorway of the boathouse. He takes a step my way, suspicious.

I say, “Is Inspector Worley around?”

I know good and well that he's not. But it never hurts to drop a name. And since that's the only cop name I know …

“No, Worley's not here,” says the cop.

“What time is it?”

The cop looks at his watch.

“Almost two thirty,” he says.

“Dammit, where is he then? He was supposed to meet me here at two.”

The cop sputters for words.

“I don't know, sir. I …”

“Look, I don't have time for this. I've got things to do,” I say, moving
past him toward the door. “When Worley finally decides to show up tell him Zack Chasteen was here.”

And in a full-blown, self-righteous huff, I head out the door.

Then the cop says, “Hey, wait a minute.”

I stop. The cop already has his cell phone out and is punching buttons.

“I can get Worley for you right now,” he says.

“No, that's all right, you don't have to.”

“No problem, sir, I'm happy to.” And then I hear him speaking into the phone: “Yes, Inspector, this is Officer Dodwell at the Schwartz house. There's a gentleman here, a Mr. Chasteen …”

He listens, cut his eyes my way. He turns, so I can't hear what he's saying. He listens some more. Then he hands me the phone.

“Hello, Inspector,” I say. “I hope you have a good excuse for standing me up.”

“Just what the hell do you think you're doing in that boathouse, Chasteen?”

“Why, yes, Inspector, I suppose I could reschedule our appointment if you like.”

A pause on Worley's end. When he speaks, he speaks low.

“Anything I need to know?”

“Maybe,” I say. “When is good for you?”

“I've been trying to find you, Chasteen. I've arranged a few minutes for you with Sir Teddy this afternoon.”

“Yes, I think that will work for me.”

“It better. I've had to pull a few strings, go behind a few people's backs to make this happen. Situations like this, no one gets in to see a suspect except the attorney. And even then, perhaps only for a single visit. I don't want this to come back and bite me.”

“So what time then?”

“Five o'clock,” says Worley.

“Fine,” I say, “I'll have my secretary call to confirm.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Worley says.

And the line goes dead.

 

I've got time to kill and, as long as I'm in the neighborhood, I drive down Bedon's Alley and stop at Ned McHugh's house. There's a pickup truck in the driveway. It bears the logo of Deep Water Discoveries.

Polly is on the front porch with a broom, sweeping. She stops when she sees me get out of the car. She turns toward the door, says something. By the time I near the house, Bill Belleville is stepping onto the porch.

“Hey, man,” Belleville says. “Good to see you again.”

Polly smiles.

“I was just getting the place cleaned up,” she says.

“Have you moved back in?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“No, I'm still too weirded-out by everything to do that. I'm just getting it fixed up again so I can get the deposit back from the landlord. He's got someone else who's ready to rent it.”

“Where you going to live?”

“Well …” She looks at Belleville.

“I've got a spare bedroom at my place,” he says. “I made her a good deal on it.”

“It's just for the time being,” Polly says. “Bill is helping me move a few things over there.”

Belleville unfolds a chaise lounge, moves it alongside a rickety Adirondack chair.

“Here, man, sit. You want a beer? I've got some in a cooler. I was having one.”

“No, I'm fine, thanks. But go ahead.”

I take a seat. Belleville grabs his beer from inside and joins me.

I peek inside the house. The mess of a few days earlier is gone. Boxes are stacked in the living room. The refrigerator door is open so it can air out.

“Looks like you've about got everything shipshape,” I say.

“I've been working like crazy since the service yesterday,” Polly says. “Came back here and just dived into it. Think I was getting rid of nervous energy, know what I mean?”

“I'm told housecleaning can be therapeutic,” I say. “Can't speak to it firsthand.”

Belleville laughs.

“Me neither, man.” He looks at Polly. “Although I might have to change my ways now that I'm getting a housemate.”

Polly smiles, starts in with the broom again, working her way down the porch steps.

“So how did you like playing for Don Shula?” Belleville asks.

I get asked that a lot, so I've got my standard spiel: Shula was a class act all the way. One of the greats. Then I tell a Shula story or two.

Polly finishes sweeping.

“I almost forgot,” she says. “I did find something else missing from the break-in the other day. Ned's box is gone.”

“Ned's box?” I say. “What's that?”

“It was this box he picked up in Thailand. It was nice, hand carved and everything. He hid it under the bed. I didn't see it all that often, so I didn't think of it at first. Ned kept stuff in it.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Little odds and ends. Things he'd picked up in his travels. He had all this leftover money in there, from Thailand and Indonesia and other places he'd visited. It might have looked like a lot of money, but it really wasn't worth much. Just mementos from the road. Whoever took the box might have thought they were getting something, but it was just a bunch of foreign money and some of Ned's papers.”

“What kind of papers, Polly?”

“His passport, his work visa. That sort of thing. And the papers for that salvage permit he was working on.”

“The one he was getting ready to turn in to the curator of wrecks office?”

“Yeah, that. He was all done with it, I think. He was excited about finally being able to file it and everything.”

Polly leans the broom against the porch rail, picks up the doormat, gives it a shake.

Belleville says: “You sure I can't get you a beer or something, Zack? I've got plenty more.”

He gets up from his chair.

“No, really, I need to be going.”

I get up, step off the porch.

“Thanks for stopping by,” Polly says. “If you hear anything …” She grabs a Post-it pad from a table by the door, scribbles phone numbers on it. “Here's where you can find me.”

Belleville says, “Hey, man, what are you doing tomorrow night?”

I blank for a moment. Then I remember—Aunt Trula's party.

“There's this birthday party I'm going to.”

“Too bad. I was gonna say, you could join us for a night dive out at Fish Rock like I was telling you about. Got a couple of spaces left,” Belleville says. “Maybe another time, huh?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Maybe another time.”

 

It's still only four o'clock by the time I make it back to Hamilton, so I pay Daniel Denton a surprise visit.

If Denton is pleased to see me, then he does a dandy job of not showing it. And when I tell him I'm on my way to visit Teddy Schwartz, he bags all pretense.

“Really, Mr. Chasteen, your involvement in this matter cannot in any way advance Sir Teddy's cause. Our firm is presently assembling the best defense team available in Bermuda, or anywhere for that matter, and the last thing we need is you blustering your way into things.”

“Blustering?”

“Yes, I've seen the way you do business—heavy-handed, full of swagger, bull in a china shop.”

“Gosh, that hurts. Does this mean you no longer want to be my attorney?”

“Believe me, Mr. Chasteen, had you not invoked Mrs. Ambister's good name and bludgeoned me into doing that nasty bit of work involving Mr. Trimmingham, then I never would have agreed to represent you in the first place. As it is, I performed my services, you paid me, our account is clear and I am free of you. I do hope you didn't come here in hopes of retaining this firm for another of your misbegotten schemes.”

“Wow, misbegotten. That sounds almost biblical. But no, that's not why I'm here,” I say. “I was just wondering—who is Sir Teddy's attorney?”

“That would be Russell Urban; he heads our criminal division. You won't find a better trial lawyer.”

“Then I'd like a word with Mr. Urban.”

Denton thinks it over.

“Certainly, why not? I'm sure Mr. Urban would like to weigh in on this as well.”

He picks up his phone, makes the call, and Russell Urban soon joins us. He's a big, good-looking guy, prematurely gray in a way that probably serves him well. He exudes fatherly authority. A high degree of pomposity, too, but that goes with the turf.

Denton says, “As I was just explaining to Mr. Chasteen, we are looking after Sir Teddy's best interests and, to employ terminology he might understand, he should remain on the sidelines.”

Urban nods, fixes a look of deep seriousness on his face.

“Yes, by all means. We have our game plan …” He flashes Denton a grin to show he's hip to the metaphor. “… and you are not a part of it, Mr. Chasteen.”

“So what's the game plan?”

“Well, in the event that charges are filed against Sir Teddy, which does seem rather likely at this point, considering the evidence at hand and the ticking of the clock, we intend to attack the prosecution's case on all fronts. I have no doubt that should the case come to trial, which, I'm afraid, might also be rather likely, then I have every confidence that we will gather sufficient evidence of our own, along with testimony, that will acquit Sir Teddy.”

“As far as gathering evidence, what have you done on that front so far?”

“Our firm does not employ full-time investigators. We have contacted an agency that we've done business with in the past—a very reputable agency, I might point out—and I would anticipate that we would formally retain their services within the next few days.”

Just a lawyerly way of saying they haven't done jack-shit.

Denton says, “So do we understand each other here, Mr. Chasteen?”

He rises behind his desk. Urban stands. I get up, too.

“Sure, I understand. But as long as we're tossing around football terms, here's one you might add to your list: ‘You don't drop back and punt when it's only first down.'”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Urban says.

“It means, you boys follow your game plan, I'll follow mine.”

 

The police are keeping Teddy Schwartz at Westgate Prison, just outside of Hamilton. Worley isn't there when I arrive.

“He just called. Won't be able to make it. Tied up in a meeting,” a woman working the reception desk tells me when I sign in. “But he did make arrangements for you to visit briefly with Mr. Schwartz.”

A few minutes later, I'm sitting in a dingy, overlit room with a metal table and four chairs. And a few minutes after that, Teddy Schwartz is escorted in by two guards. As soon as Teddy is seated, the guards step outside.

Teddy wears the same thing he wore on
Miss Peg
for Ned McHugh's memorial service—khakis, a navy blue shirt, and boat shoes. His eyes are puffy and he looks a little tired, but, all things considered, he's bearing up well.

“Sorry to get you sucked into all this,” Teddy says.

“Don't worry about it. Besides, I sort of sucked myself in.”

“And I appreciate that,” Teddy says. “How's Trula?”

“OK, I guess. But this has thrown her for a loop.”

“Yes, I would imagine.”