Buried Dreams (24 page)

I put the pistol down on the same chair he had flung his coat on, and I said, "Where in hell did you learn to speak French?"

He went into the kitchen and I followed. He dropped the plastic bag on the counter. "Just the other day, back in St. Pete," he said. "Remember the two sisters I was telling you about?"

"The ones with the orange and green bikinis?"

"The same," he said, pulling two containers of coffee from the bag. "Well, they both come from Quebec City, and instead of competing against each other for my attention, let's just say that they decided to cooperate. I taught them the joys of... well, let's say I taught them some joys. And I got a language lesson in return. Plus a cooking lesson and... well, let's leave it at that."

"I can see. What did you say to me when you came in?"

He started going through my refrigerator, and then my cabinets, shaking his head now and then, I guess, at the paucity of materials there. Besides his real work, Felix prides himself on his skills in the kitchen, skills I've never once called into question.

"Oh, I said good morning, my child, it's time to get moving," he said, his head in the open refrigerator. "You got eggs around here?"

"In the back of the first shelf. What else did they teach you?"

"
Ah, monsieur; tu es bien servi en faisant l' amour."

"And what does that mean?"

He came out of my refrigerator, expertly juggling a single egg.

"Sorry, Lewis, that's a bit personal, even for you. I believe it's a compliment on my prowess, and I don't mean on the firing range."

I got up on one of the kitchen stools and said, "All right, besides the French lessons, what in hell did you accomplish down there?"

"Two more things, as you will shortly see," he said, taking down a container of flour from one of the cabinets, and then a mixing bowl. "One is a wonderful recipe for crepes, which we will shortly be having for breakfast. Bacon. Got any bacon?"

"Some in the freezer."

He made a face. "Fresh would be better. Oh well."

Felix opened up the freezer compartment to the refrigerator, moved some items around, and came out with a plastic-wrapped package, which he tossed in my direction. "See if you can't defrost this and get it cooking. Least you could do is be helpful in the kitchen."

"And the second thing?"

"Hmmm?"

I was beginning to wonder if I was going to have to get my pistol and wave it under his nose, to get his attention, when he looked up at me, eyes twinkling. "Ah, you are so demanding. Not like Quebec City, from what I understand. Or so Nicole and Monique would have me believe. They say it's like Paris up there, slow and peaceful, and... you're about five seconds away from beating my head in with this frozen bacon, am I right?"

"Correct."

"Very understandable. All right, my friend, the second thing I learned down in St. Pete is where your buddy Ray Ericson is residing, right at this very moment, and after you and I are fortified by some French crepes and some bacon --- that is, if you get off your ass and start cooking it --- we'll go for a nice drive and pay him a pleasant visit. That sound all right?"

I nodded. "That sounds fine. Why in hell didn't you say that when you first came in?"

Felix started measuring out Hour into the mixing bowl and his voice took on a hurt tone. "And not let me have any fun? That's not very nice, Lewis."

"You're right," I said, finally smiling. "It's not very nice."

"There you go. Oh. How about a quick favor, first?"

"Name it."

He looked at me and then ran some water from the sink. "Go on upstairs and get dressed, will you? I don't mind half-naked breakfast guests. But I do mind half-naked male breakfast guests. No offense."

I got up. "None taken. But you'll have to start the bacon on your own."

"That I can certainly do," Felix said.

A half hour later, the kitchen was still filled with the scents of bacon frying and crepes expertly cooked by Felix on my stove. He washed the few dishes and said, "I can't see how you can survive with a frying pan like that. Ugh."

"You have a better idea?"

"Yep," he said, drying a bowl. "Nice steel crepe pan. Makes the best crepes you've ever had. Nicole and Monique brought theirs down on vacation. Used it at their rental place."

"These were pretty good," I said. "Thanks."

He wiped his hands dry, and I said, "Your information as good as your crepes?"

"Oh, you know it," he said, opening up my refrigerator again, pouring the two of us fresh glasses of orange juice. "Here's the story. I go down to St. Pete, I run into Old Pete Tringali. Old Pete's been retired for a bunch of years, but like most with that background, he likes to keep his fingers in a few pies. Keep him sharp, you know? Besides dying in a federal prison somewhere, most of these guys are afraid of getting old and senile, spend their time playing bingo and planning their days around the early-bird specials. Even if they don't need the money or attention, they like to keep active."

"Sounds fair to me."

"Oh, you know it. And seeing Old Pete was a real break for me, Lewis, like you wouldn't believe."

"Tell me, then."

Felix took a swallow of his orange juice. "All right. When I was a young pup, learning my way around, Old Pete was in charge of a portion of Providence."

"Rhode Island? Really?"

"Oh, Christ, yes. Some parts of Rhode Island are more mobbed up than New Jersey. I was near Providence, feeling my way around, when something bad happened to Old Pete's daughter, Krista."

"How bad?"

He gently put the glass down on the counter. "Pretty bad. Was at some party at Brown University, a couple of guys slipped something in her drink. Date-rape drug, you know? Three of them were involved. Took her to an off -campus apartment and took turns with her, later dumped her in a restaurant parking lot. Old Pete heard about it and there was a row, 'cause at that time, Old Pete knew he was under some serious Fed surveillance, and the Feds, my, they thought they were going to get a break. Have Old Pete on some surveillance tape, ordering hits against these three characters. Old Pete didn't care, I remember him saying. He'd do whatever it took to get his family honor back, to avenge his daughter. But some of the guys in his organization, they wanted him to take his time, do it right. They didn't want him to chance getting nailed by the Feds."

I took a sip from my orange juice. It was cold and tart and cut nicely through the aftertaste of the maple syrup. "I take it you offered your services."

"In a way. You see, I was new to the area. Feds and cops didn't know me, didn't know anything about me, and they didn't care. So I found out who these three characters were, their names, and where they were living. And I took care of it, over a weekend. End of story."

I shook my head. "Nope, that's the start of a story, Felix. What happened?"

"They left town. Were never seen again. Got it?"

I looked at that calm face, the brown eyes, the strong arms, wondering again what went on in that mind of his. "I guess... I guess there's no statute of limitations on some... matters, right?"

He offered me a thin smile. "Very good. On some matters, there is no statute of limitations. Which brings me back to Old Pete Tringali, who has no statute of limitations on gratitude. I looked him up, paid him my respects, he asked me what he could do for me, and I told him. Took him a couple of days, but your man Ray Ericson is living up in Sanford, Maine. In a little house at the end of a certain dirt road. And he's right there, right now, and will be there all day."

"How the hell do you know that?"

Felix leaned over the counter. "Because Old Pete has pull with the group that Ray was working for. Ray knows he's being hunted, knows he's the suspect in his brother's death. And he's been hiding out at this house ever since then, and his boss just talked to him last night, told him to stay put. That a couple of young fellows were going to arrive there today to pick him up, and bring him to a safe house somewhere in New York."

"I don't feel that young," I said. "Too bad."

"Why in hell did we just have breakfast, then?" I asked.

He took the dish towel off his shoulder, tossed it at my head, and it just barely missed. "Because it's the most important meal of the day, fool. You feel like a ride?"

"Absolutely."

"Then let's make tracks." Which is what we did.

Chapter Fourteen

On I-95 we made our way north, and I thought ruefully of the many times I had gone up and down this stretch of roadway these past few days, all as part of this damn great quest. Felix was driving another anonymous rental car, and in the rear seat were a number of black duffel bags containing a fair number, I was certain, of firearms and other means of coercion and destruction. My own firearm and means of coercion was in a shoulder holster under my coat.

I looked over at him as we approached Porter, and I said, "You said Ray was working for a group down in Florida."

"That's right."

I said, "The postcards you found at Ray's antique store. From Florida."

“What about them?"

"A signal, right?"

"You are correct, sir."

I thought for a moment, and then said, "They were indicating something was going to happen on a schedule, right?"

"Right again. Care to guess what?"

"Something to do with antiques?"

"Let you in on a little secret, Lewis. It has everything to do with antiques."

I pondered that as we passed around Porter and headed over the Memorial Bridge, spanning the fast-moving Piscassic River, which separates the state of New Hampshire from the state of Maine. I looked quickly to my right, saw the beached memorial of the
USS Albacore
submarine, and shivered for a moment at the memories.

"A shipment," I said. "The postcards were letting him know about a shipment."

"So far you're doing well, grasshopper. Continue.”

"A shipment of stolen antiques, from…. wait."

Felix waited. I thought some more and said, "You said Ray was working with a group from St. Pete?"

"Yep."

"This group active up here?"

"Not particularly."

We were over the bridge and were officially in Maine, passing a sign that said MAINE, THE WAY LIFE OUGHT TO BE, and I said, "Hold on. I was looking at this wrong. The stolen antiques... they weren't being shipped from New Hampshire to Florida. They were being shipped from Florida to New Hampshire. Ray was working a scam. Like money laundering. But this was antiques laundering. Right?"

"You should get on a game show or something one of these days. Yeah. That's the case. Look, who goes to live in Florida?"

"Retirees."

"Right. Retirees from New England who are sick of the snow and ice. They pack up and move south, and what do they do when they pack up and move south?"

"They take their antiques, their heirlooms, with them."

"Bingo."

"And they live there for a while and pass away and... Oh."

"There you go. People go to Florida from up here, they want to help ease the big move. Because it is a big move. Read a study somewhere, that the most depressed part of the elder population down there are people who've moved there recently. They're away from old friends, family members, the local newspaper. They're cut loose and they have to adjust. And it's comforting for them to have their old things with them. So, Lewis, when they do pass away, what happens then?"

"Their stuff gets stolen during the funeral. Or somebody comes in and pays almost nothing for stuff that's worth tens of thousands of dollars. Or more. And then it gets shipped up north --- "

Felix passed a lumbering tractor trailer as he said, "Yep, back up north, where antiques are still high priced, are still valuable. Best I found out was that old Ray was a central distribution center. Stuff comes in-mostly stolen-sits there for a while, and then gets laundered out to legitimate dealers throughout the whole region. Not a bad scam as scams go. You said Ray had dealings with his brother?"

"Yes," I said, watching the bare branches of the maples and oaks whiz past us as we headed north. "Besides his hunt for Viking artifacts, Jon also found other items as well. Old coins. Nautical artifacts. Stuff like that."

Felix said, "Ray would probably want some real local stuff from your buddy Jon to sprinkle in with the stolen stuff. Help make it legitimate. And then when Jon found the Viking artifacts, well, I bet Ray wanted in on the deal. Maybe he wanted to sell them, make a fortune, through his contacts, and maybe Jon wanted to keep them for a museum or something. What do you think?"

It was a good guess, but it nagged at me. Something about it didn't seem right, and it took another couple of miles driving before I figured it out.

"No," I said. "A good guess, but I don't think so."

If Felix was upset at being contradicted, he sure hid it well.