Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 01 - Galveston (16 page)

The frown on his face deepened.

I continued. “The other day when we were here, there was a can of British Paint under here. It’s gone now.”

“So?”

“So, British Paint was a big contributor to the District Attorney last year. What easier way to smuggle in a shipment of diamonds than in a paint can?”

Virgil scratched his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Simple. Say a local vendor imports a shipment of British Paint for distribution to its stores. In that shipment is a single can filled with diamonds. By whatever means, Cheshire learned the location of the can, so he picked up an identical can and filled it with fake diamonds.”

“Not bad. Probably the stevedore working the hold is in this with him. Takes the can, makes the switch, then goes about his business.”

“Yeah, leaving Joe Vaster hanging and Abbandando with a handful of glass.”

Virgil frowned. “But, who could have known the can was here, in Cheshire’s apartment?”

I arched an eyebrow. “Morrison.”

AS frown wrinkled Virgil’s broad forehead. “I thought he was leaving town.”

With a wry grin, I replied. “I’m sure he is. He just forgot to tell us when.”

“What’s our next move?”

“Sea View Plaza.”

“Morrison’s place.”

“Yeah.”

 Surprise, surprise. The apartment showed no evidence that Ted Morrison was packing to leave town. And surprise, surprise again. There was no trace of the British Paint can.

Standing by the snack bar and peering up into the open cabinets, Virgil shook his head. He looked around at me, frustration etching lines of disgust in his rugged face. “Maybe Morrison ain’t part of it, Tony. He’s a wimp, and he seemed awful scared to me. Too scared to mess with Abbandando and that bunch.”

I surveyed the apartment once again. There were just so many hiding places for a gallon-sized can of paint, and we’d searched all of them. “Maybe.”

Virgil grunted and reached for a glass. “I bet he wasn’t the one who took the can.”

Frowning at my good-natured bodyguard who was drawing a glass of water, I wondered. Who else would know of the fake diamonds? Abbandando? Briggs? No. They were the ones Cheshire was double-crossing.

“If not Morrison, then who, Virge?”

He looked at me blankly, holding a glass of water in his hand.  He blew out through his lips and shook his head. “Beats me.” He turned up the glass, in three great swallows, gulped it down. “I got no idea,” he added, setting the glass on the snack bar.

I muttered a curse. “Morrison was the one.”

“What’s this?” A sharp exclamation from Virgil caused me to look back around. He was studying a clear object between his thumb and forefinger.

“What’s what?”

“This. It was in the kitchen sink.” Suddenly, his eyes grew wide. He looked at me in disbelief. “Tony. This is it. This is what we were looking for.” Before I could reply, he blurted out. “It’s a diamond.”

For a brief moment, I was speechless. I groaned. Surely, I hadn’t screwed up again. The diamonds were already in. I closed my eyes in frustration. I stuck out my hand. “Let me see.”

I studied the diamond in the palm of my hand.

“Is it real, do you think?”

 Nodding to the empty glass, I replied. “Give me that. We’ll soon see.” Mentally, I crossed my fingers as I drew the diamond down the side of the glass.

Nothing. No scratch, no scar. I studied the diamond facsimile. The drinking glass had worn one corner from the imitation diamond. It was nothing but a cheap replica. A surge of exultation washed over me.

My theory was right. Move over Sherlock Holmes. Make way for Tony Boudreaux. Morrison had the can of fake diamonds. Somehow, he was going to make the exchange. At least, attempt to make it.

But how? Who was his contact? And what kind of plans had Joe Vaster made to pick up his shipment?

I shook the imitation diamond in Virgil’s face. “We’re getting close, Virge. We’re getting close.” I clenched my jaw in determination.

He grinned. “How close?”

“Close enough that all we have to do now is find out which of the two ships, the California tomorrow or the Voyager later on has a shipment of British Paint on its manifest.”

Virgil arched a skeptical eyebrow. “How do we go about doing that?”

I headed for the door. “Where else. The computer. At least for a start. We’ll take a look at their cargo manifests. If that doesn’t work, then like the old commercial says, we’ll do it the old fashioned way.”

“How’s that?”

“Legwork.”

With a grunt, Virgil closed the door behind him. “I was afraid of that.”  He hesitated. “Tony?”

“Yeah?” I glanced around at him.

“What if there ain’t no shipment of British Paint?”

I glared at him. “Don’t say that, Virge. Don’t even think it.”

“Blast!” I resisted the urge to slam the computer mouse against the pad. Last time I had given into such an urge, I had to buy another mouse.

“No luck?”

I looked around at Virgil. “No. I can’t get through to the manifest of either vessel. I guess we’ll have to go down to the port and see what we can dig up.”

Virgil cleared his throat. “I ain’t no expert, but where does this British Paint come from? I mean, where is it put on the ship?”

“I don’t see what that—” My words stopped abruptly as the point of his questioned became clear to me.  “Yeah. Yeah, I see what you mean. Find out which vessel made that port of call.” I slammed the heel of my hand against my forehead. How simple.

I pulled up my favorite search engine, typed in British Paint, and presto, the British Paint website. At the bottom of the home page, a trailer proclaimed the factory was in Liverpool, England, which made that city the logical shipping port.

A quick trip to the computer and I pulled up the port of call manifest for the two vessels. With a groan, I stared at the screen. Both vessels had put in a week apart at Liverpool. That didn’t help us.

Virgil stared at the screen. “The California is due in tomorrow.”

“It’s probably waiting offshore now.”

“Probably.”

I considered our situation. “I don’t suppose you have a cousin who’s a stevedore for Maritime Shipping, Abbandando’s place.”

“Sorry,” Virgil replied. “But I do have a nephew who takes the pilot boat out to the vessels.”  

“That’s something.” I leaned back in the chair and studied Virgil. “Any ideas how he could get me aboard the ship?”

He considered the question a moment. “Not a chance. Besides, it’s probably a container ship.”

“Container? What’s that?”

“You know, those large aluminum containers they load straight off the ships onto the eighteen wheelers.”

“Well, then that means we’ve got to take care of it when it berths.”

“Got any ideas how to do that?”

“Not exactly, Virge. But, it’ll come to me. Here’s the way I see it. Morrison has the can of fake diamonds. Obviously he plans to switch them with the real ones. I don’t know if he’ll do it onboard or later. I’m guessing later because I can’t see him and Cheshire involving a third party.”

“Yeah, but wouldn’t it be easier for them to have a third party on board?”

“Maybe, but there’s a security risk. What if the third party decided to see what was inside? He could pull a switch on them. They wouldn’t discover the switch until they opened the can. No, I think they planned to wait until it was unloaded, then make the switch.”

Virgil nodded slowly as he sorted through the scenario. “Right out in plain sight of God and everyone, huh?”

I chuckled. “Yeah.”

Chapter Eighteen

The clerk at the East End Hardware rang up my purchase of a gallon of British Paint, a pint of paint thinner, and four  panes of window glass 18”X24”.

“What’s the glass for?” Virgil asked when we climbed back in my pickup.

“Diamonds.”

He frowned, then a small grin ticked up his lips.

Back at the motel, we used a funnel and poured about half the paint into an empty three-liter soft drink container, filling it three-quarters full.

I placed the paint-filled bottle at the end of the vanity.

Next, we had to make our diamonds, which we simply did by shattering the glass and dumping it in the can, filling it to the brim after which we refilled the can with paint and tapped the lid down snugly. Using the paint thinner and towels, we wiped the excess paint from around the rim of the lid. A couple quarts of paint still remained in the three-liter bottle. I poked some toilet tissue in the neck.

I shook the can. It rattled. I grinned at Virgil. “Instant diamonds. Now, all we have to do is figure out how to make the switch.”  I paused and glanced at my note cards stacked on the desk. On the top card was the set of enigmatic numbers and letters, 1-146-1-21, ccc, bp, 1-22.

Picking up the card, I indicated the first five digits. “The secret is right here, Virge. We know twenty-one is the berth, but the rest, well, I don’t know how to go about breaking it. We can’t ask anyone at the dock. They might get suspicious.”

“There’s always the Seaman’s Center.”

I frowned. He explained. “Sort of a YMCA for seaman new in port. You know, a place for them to go and relax, shoot a little pool, chew the fat.”

In an instant, his point became clear. “One of them might know what the numbers mean.”

“Could be.”

“Even if they don’t, at least we have it narrowed down to the Voyager and the California. Both are due in this week and both fit the three c’s.”

“I been thinking, Tony.” Virgil cleared his throat. “With Cheshire out of the picture, Morrison has to move fast. I don’t think he can afford to wait until the container is off-loaded.”

Virgil’s theory made sense to me.

As far as we knew, Abbandando and Briggs knew nothing of Morrison. They would be making plans to move the container into the warehouse. Morrison would have to get to the container ahead of them. “Since we don’t know where the diamonds are, our surest bet is to stake out the dock and see if Morrison is going to make a play.”

Virgil grinned ruefully. “Yeah. Wherever he goes, there’s the diamonds. If I was Abbandando, I’d unload that container first.”

“Let’s hope Morrison beats him to it.”

“And then we’ll follow Morrison and wait for the opportunity to make our switch.”

“Yeah.”

“What if he don’t give us the chance?”

I shook my head. “He’s got to. A guy walking off the dock with a single can of paint is too obvious. He’ll stash it somewhere.”  A sudden thought hit me. I grimaced.

“What?” Virgil frowned up at me.

“You know, if we hang around the docks long enough, someone might get curious.”

“Maybe not.”

“But if they do, then what? We need some kind of identification that says we can be there.”

Virgil thought a moment, then grinned. “No problem. Why don’t you make us a couple visitors’ passes on that computer of yours. Stick ’em in those clear plastic nametags. Nobody’ll pay no attention.”

I stared at him. What a slick idea. I slapped Virgil on the shoulder. “What would I do without you, Virge?”

“And overalls,” he added. “Blue ones. You know, like uniforms.”

All I could do was shake my head at his inventiveness.

A visit to the local discount house supplied all our needs, blue overalls and tags. Back at the motel, I printed up a couple cards with the word, visitor, in twenty-two point Century Gothic font.

I rose and stretched, working the kinks from my muscles. “You hungry?”

“Yeah. Now that you mention it. Where do you want to eat?”

“I’m too beat to go for a ride. How about the restaurant downstairs? In the morning, we can give the Seamans’ Center a shot. Maybe someone there can tell us what the numbers mean.”

Virgil rose to his feet, rolled his massive shoulders, and nodded. “I gotta go to my room first. Wait for me.”

I started to protest, but I was too tired. “Okay. I’ll call the hospital. See how Ben is.”

Virgil left, and I dialed the hospital, muttering a silent prayer that Ben had come out of the coma. I wasn’t quite sure just how all this diamond business was going to clear me of the shooting, or if it would.

I spoke with the nurse on Ben’s floor. No change.

Disappointed, I replaced the receiver.

Virgil pounded on the wall. I pounded back and headed for the door.

I opened it and gaped at two surly thugs standing on the gallery in front of my door glaring at me, each with an automatic in his hand. Instantly, I slammed the door, catching one of the goons’ hands between the door and jamb. He screamed in pain and dropped his automatic.

Then another bellow sounded outside the door.

Virgil!

I yanked the door open.

Virgil had slammed his shoulder into one, driving him back into the second thug. I had no idea where the other automatic was, but I figured I might as well join the fight. I ran at the second thug, slamming my hands in his chest and shoving him over the gallery railing.

With a wild, terrified cry, he flipped head over heels and landed on the top of a new Mustang convertible, crushing it down into the seats. In the meantime, Virgil and the first thug were pounding away at each other.

I kicked the thug in the back of his knee. His leg collapsed, and as he fell, Virgil caught him in the side of his head with a fist the size of a washtub.

We rolled him under the railing and off the gallery, but as he legs slipped off, he had enough presence of mind to clutch the edge of the gallery sidewalk.

He dangled in mid-air.

I proceeded to stomp on his fingers, and he crashed to the ground.

He stumbled to his feet as his partner struggled out of the crushed ragtop and staggered into the drive. Caught up in the exhilarating fervor of our victory, I looked around for something to throw. I grabbed the plastic bottle containing what was left of the paint.

At that moment, headlights appeared at the end of the drive. A Lincoln Town car slid to a halt, and the two thugs yanked open the doors. I heaved the bottle of paint at them.

If I had deliberately tried a thousand times to put the bottle inside the Lincoln, I could never have done it, but this time, it sailed through the open front door, slammed into the floorboard. The impact uncorked the tissue paper in the neck and geysers of yellow paint sprayed out in every direction.