Cut and Run (18 page)

“You hum the tune,” said Calleigh, “and I'll play along.”

N
ATALIA PARKED
the Hummer and she and Tripp got out. Tripp stopped on the sidewalk, hands on his hips, and looked up. “On a Roll Bowl,” he said. “Twenty-four-hour bowling. Nice sign.”

Natalia had to admit it was. Miami was home to a lot of neon and a lot of Art Deco—but even so, On a Roll Bowl's storefront was impressive. Electric-blue neon wings radiated from the backs of chrome angels, one on either side of the door, their wingtips touching in the center. The sign above them spelled out the name of the place in bright red, race-track logo letters, while a yellow bowling ball spitting lighting blazed from one end of the sign to the other, over and over.

“Looks like the entrance to Heaven for people who rent their shoes,” said Tripp.

“I don't think the words
Heaven
and
rented shoes
belong in the same sentence.”

She pulled open the large wooden door and stepped inside. The interior was a little more rundown than the exterior; while the bowling alley had clearly once been an impressive establishment, its glory had faded. The walls, painted a rich purple, were cracked and peeling; only three-quarters of the chromed light sconces on the walls were working; and the thick pile carpet underfoot was badly worn and scarred by decades of dropped cigarettes and spilled drinks. Like most bowling alleys, it was simply a very large, single room, with a diner-style counter that ran along one back wall. Twenty-five lanes filled most of the space, stretching from one wall to another, although only five of them were being used at the moment. A country station played over the PA system, the signal just weak enough to add a layer of static to the steel guitar. The singer seemed to be saying something about buying her Lexus in Texas, though that didn't make a lot of sense to Natalia.

“Hey,” said Tripp. “Check this out.” He jerked his thumb at a poster on the wall.

The poster advertised a bowling tournament, hosted by On a Roll Bowl, with a two-million-dollar first prize. “Pretty high stakes,” said Natalia. “You think it might have something to do with the case?”

“Could be. Especially if what Davey's files said about this guy are true.”

Natalia approached the woman behind the counter, who was listlessly spraying disinfectant into a pair of shoes. “Excuse me. I'm looking for the owner—is he around?”

The woman, a bleached blonde in her sixties with a tired, pinched face, said, “Gord? Yeah, he's over on lane twelve. The big guy with the gray hair.”

“Thank you.”

Lane twelve was in use, but it didn't look as if they were keeping score; the area above the lane where the scorecard was usually projected was blank. A tall, rangy man with sideburns and a trucker's hat was poised to bowl, the ball held in front of him and his eyes fixed on the pins. He launched the ball as Natalia and Tripp walked up, his delivery careful and much slower than Natalia expected. The ball—an iridescent gold in color, not black—almost seemed to creep toward its targets. When it finally reached them, though, its accuracy made up for its velocity; every pin fell down.

“Good roll, Leroy,” said the man sitting in the booth behind the lane. He had a shock of curly gray hair, and a wide, smiling face.

“Mister Dettweiler?” said Natalia.

The man turned to her and said, “I surely am. What can I do for you?” He had a low, deep voice that seemed to merge naturally with the basso thrum of ten-pin balls rolling across polished wood.

“I'm Natalia Boa Vista with the Miami-Dade crime lab, and this is Detective Frank Tripp. We'd like to talk to you about Hiram Davey.”

If the fact they were police officers bothered Dettweiler, it didn't show on his face. He levered himself out of the booth, revealing a prodigious gut on a heavy, short frame. His smile got even wider, and he stuck out his hand to Natalia. “Call me Gord, everybody does. I'd be happy to help in any way I could. Leroy, take a break.”

Leroy nodded and slipped off to the counter without saying a word. Dettweiler shook Natalia's hand, and then insisted on shaking hands with Tripp, too.

“Now, what's this about Hiram Davey?”

“Excuse me, Natalia,” Tripp said abruptly. “I haven't eaten all day, and I would just about kill for a chili dog. You mind if I grab a quick bite while you two talk?”

“Uh—not at all. Go ahead.”

Frank nodded. “Thanks.” He turned and walked back toward the counter.

“So, Gord. I understand you knew Mister Davey.”

“Well, I wouldn't say I really knew him. He dropped by to bowl a few now and then. I recognized him from his column, said hello. Even bought a round of beers for him and his friends.”

“I see. So there were no hard feelings between you two?”

Gord shook his head. “Oh, no, no. Very sad, him passing. City'll be a little darker without him.”

“Yes, it will. Tell me, Gord, did Davey ever mention anything to you about a book he was writing?”

Dettweiler's forehead corrugated in thought. “No…no, I don't believe he did. Not that I can recall, anyway.”

“Okay. Just one more question, all right?”

“Shoot.”

“Does everyone fall for your folksy act, or do some people tell you just how full of crap you are?”

The smile on his face never wavered. “Well, I suppose some people don't cotton to me right off—”

“No? How about Francisco Girelli? They ‘cotton' to you when your hair is dyed black and you're wearing an Italian suit instead of a snap-button cowboy shirt?”

The smile stayed in place, but he stopped talking.

“Or how about Olaf Kirkenstein? Little blonder, bushy mustache, real hearty type. Said he was a real estate developer to an investment group in Oklahoma and disappeared with a bunch of their money. You did time for that one, Gord.”

“All right, all right. No need to raise your voice. True, I've made mistakes in my past, but that's all behind me. I run an honest business here, have for years. You wouldn't hold a few youthful indiscretions against me, would you?”

Natalia wasn't smiling. “Stop trying to con me, Gord. You knew Hiram Davey a lot better than what you've admitted to, and you knew all about the book.”

Dettweiler sighed, a man with the undeserved weight of the world on his shoulders. “I suppose I did. I didn't want to say anything, because I knew how it would look.”

“How's that, Gord?”

“Like I hadn't changed. See, I'm something of a talker, and Hi was a real good listener. Plus, I admit I was a little starstruck—I was a big fan of his. So when we started swapping tales after a few beers—and Hi knew how to spin a yarn—I guess I tried to impress him. Told him a few stories from my bad old days, some of the scams I used to pull. He asked me if he could use them in his book, and I said no; I told him they were strictly off the record.”

“I see. Were you aware that he was planning on using them anyway?”

Dettweiler frowned. “I very much doubt that. I talked to a lawyer, and he said any unauthorized use of my name in a work of fiction was grounds for a lawsuit. Hi may have liked my stories—hell, I think he was even a little jealous—but he wasn't stupid.”

“No, he wasn't. He was a journalist, and he knew the rules.” Natalia reached into her bag and pulled out a sheet of paper. She handed it to Dettweiler. “He also knew how to do research. He had a copy of your arrest record and corroborating details from several of your victims. You can't sue someone for telling the truth, Gord—even if it makes you look like a scumbag.”

Dettweiler glanced at the piece of paper, then handed it back. “Is that so? Well, my lawyer was of a different opinion. According to him, even the hint of a lawsuit is enough to scare off a publisher. He seemed to feel he could make Davey see reason.”

“Uh-huh. And if Davey insisted on being unreasonable? What were you going to do then?”

“Let the court decide, of course.”

“Mister Dettweiler, where were you the morning Hiram Davey was killed?”

“Out doing a little bass fishing. Nice and quiet early in the morning.”

“You have a way of proving that?”

Dettweiler chuckled. “Well, I've got a couple of big-mouth bass in my freezer, but despite their name they don't talk much. Leroy was with me, though.”

“I'll get him to confirm that.”

“You go right ahead. This whole thing is all moot now, anyway; Davey's dead, and I don't think he ever got around to finishing that book.”

“Now, how would you know that, Gord?”

He smiled at her, just a good old boy shootin' the breeze. “Oh, Hi told me he wasn't that fast a writer. Last time we spoke was a few weeks ago, and he'd barely got the thing off the ground. Unless he was hit by one heckuva burst of inspiration, I doubt there's much more to his novel than a few notes and an outline.”

Natalia nodded. “If I were you, Gord,” she said, “I wouldn't worry about Hiram Davey's abilities. I'd worry about
mine
.”

“So,” Natalia asked Tripp once they were back in the Hummer, “what's up with the sudden urge for a chili dog?”

“Sometimes you have a better shot at a wingman,” said Tripp. “Guy like Dettweiler always surrounds himself with people he can easily manipulate—reinforces the idea that he's smarter than everyone else. Seen it a hundred times. Building a fence around you made of idiots might be all right if you need cannon fodder, but it's not a great way to protect your secrets.”

“So—a chain-link fence? With Leroy being the weak link?”

“Exactly. He looked to me like the kind of guy you could sit next to and have a conversation with—second banana to second banana, you know?”

Natalia pretended to be shocked. “Why, Frank—is that how I treat you? Like a—a piece of
fruit
?”

“'Course not. But Leroy doesn't know that, and playing the ‘I have a bitch for a boss' card usually works with jokers like him. Just two guys commiserating in the trenches, you know?”

“Right. How'd it work?”

“So-so. He's not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he's not much of a talker, either. I got him going about bowling, though, and managed to move the conversation toward the tournament.”

“What's the story with that?”

Tripp shifted in his seat. “All Dettweiler's idea. He's got a few local merchants to put up part of the prize money, figures on using participation fees from competitors for the rest.”

“Really? That seems like a lot of money to raise.”

“Lot of money to lose, too. Davey telling the world the tournament's being run by a professional con man might have killed the whole deal.”

“Except he got killed first—and two million dollars is definitely motivation.”

Tripp nodded. “What did you get from Dettweiler?”

“A lot of down-home-flavored manure, mostly.” She filled him in. “And you heard what Leroy said when I asked him about the fishing trip.”

“Yeah. Backed up everything his buddy told you. Thought it sounded a little too rehearsed, myself.”

“So did I. But you know what?”

“What?”

Natalia smiled, holding the steering wheel in one hand, staring straight ahead. “I may not be much with a rod and reel myself, but I'm pretty good with a net.”

 

Wolfe met Delko at the entrance to the MDPD impound yard, both of them dressed in blue coveralls and carrying aluminum equipment cases.

“You ready to do this?” asked Delko.

“Aye-aye,” said Wolfe.

They walked in. Their objective wasn't hard to find; it sat in the middle of the yard, taking up thirty parking spots. The
Svetlana 2,
resting now on a drydock trailer.

“I'll take inside, you take outside,” said Delko. “False bulkheads, hidden compartments, anything at all.”