Night Moves (18 page)

Bernie had agreed with me. “There’s not much on this man, Diemer. Never is in his particular line of work—the true craftsmen, I’m saying. As if I’m telling you! For one thing, he’s not Muslim. He’s Lutheran—still attends church when he’s not building toy planes or tying those whadda-ya-call-its . . . the feathers at the end of a fishing pole. If Arizona had an ocean, maybe I should know the word, but it’s slipped my mind.”

“He ties flies?” I’d asked. Yes, it turned out, Vargas Diemer was also a fly fisherman, which is why I had paid attention to the Brazilian’s reaction when I’d mentioned fishing.

“Fish that eat flies,” Bernie had grimaced. “So remind me next time not to order the fish. But, yes, this is what I am telling you. Professional thieves and assassins with money sometimes take vacations. You know, get away from the hustle-bustle of killing and stealing for profit when he’s not flying around in jet planes. Fishermen love Florida, that is the rumor, so maybe it’s a coincidence, but maybe not. Either way, stay out of this man’s way, Marion . . . or stay
very
close and watch him.

“Personally, what I think you should do is take a vacation yourself. Four bedrooms in this house of mine, so much room we wouldn’t have to see each other’s faces ’till cocktail time. Since Helen died, I wander around and get lost, the place is so big, don’t ask me why I keep it. Like I keep telling you, Scottsdale isn’t perfect, but it’s better than a bullet in the head.”

Now as I watched Diemer savor his wine and cigar, it seemed even more unlikely he had accepted a contract to kill me. He was a fishing
enthusiast
, that was evident even from his mild response. And why would an elite pro risk something so obvious as using my own marina as a base? If the man was being paid to watch me or even steal something from my files, it was possible. Otherwise, Diemer’s presence was at odds with the four basics of a successful hit:
anonymity
,
surprise
,
disposal
,
and
escape
.

Murder is easy. Eliminating a target, then disappearing unnoticed, is not. It would be doubly difficult if the killer owned a fifty-foot custom-built yacht that was moored a hundred yards from his victim’s home.

Sanibel Island is a favorite destination of the affluent who keep a low profile: the famous, the wealthy, international politicos. Could one of them be his target? But I couldn’t think of anybody staying there now who would fit. Or . . . had Diemer been assigned a person within striking distance of the islands? I thought of Tomlinson. I thought of Futch.

Either way, Bernie had been right. Diemer—Alberto Sabino—required watching.

Less troubling, after speaking to Yeager, was the Stiletto ocean racer. Dark rumors about the boat were already being exaggerated by locals, but they were baseless, apparently. As Donald Cheng had confirmed, the vessel was owned by a Miami company that sponsored boats in the Offshore Grand Prix, an annual May series, and the Key West International races in November. In Florida, there’s a megalist of tournaments and events that appeal to the big-business types who mix recreation with profit. Still, it was odd that the boat’s occupant had yet to appear, but should that oddity concern me? I recalled the maxim Bernie had shared:

The fact that unexplained elements are noted within a similar time frame while in the field does not guarantee those elements are linked, or are even significant.

It was an important point, yet didn’t alter the fact that someone
had
sabotaged our seaplane and almost killed us. But who?

My thoughts went again to the supposed filmmaker, Luke Smith. The only thing I knew about him was that his business card was as fake as his name. Even the Bernie Yeagers of the world can’t conjure up information on a faceless person named Smith who disappears after the briefest of encounters. I had tried Smith’s cell phone and the business number on the card—both no longer in service. I had searched for his film company on the Internet but found nothing. Frustrating. The man knew a lot about me, but all I knew for certain about him was that someone familiar with the marina or people living in Dinkin’s Bay had provided him with information about me and possibly still were. He had a working knowledge of cameras, which was suggestive, but didn’t prove he was a filmmaker. Smith’s interest in Flight 19, real or not, might also be a gambit designed to get me and/or Tomlinson and Dan Futch alone in the Everglades.

While I stood at the binoculars, the dog appeared and made a grunting noise. Thus far, the sound was as close as he’d come to whining—his signal he needed to visit the mangroves. Because I’d yet to hear him bark, either, it crossed my mind that maybe the snake had damaged his vocal cord. I pointed toward shore and said, “Okay,” thinking,
Is this the perfect dog?
But abandoned the notion when, instead of trotting toward the walkway, the retriever took a shortcut by vaulting over the railing. He hit the water with a cannonball crash that displaced a shower of golden spray, compliments of the last rays of a winter sunset.

It was six-thirty. Tomlinson would arrive in less than an hour, so I showered and tried to finish some work in the lab. My mind kept wandering, though. I wasn’t obsessing about the supposed filmmaker or the articulate perfectionist who might have been sent to kill me. No . . . my fixation was more mundane. Dinner with the married mistress was at eight, and I dreaded the inevitable awkwardness. Just the three of us, alone, making small talk?

Dinner was Tomlinson’s idea, of course.

—

O
NE
BY
ONE,
I retraced my steps from the night before and led my hipster pal to three video cameras hidden in foliage outside Cressa Arturo’s beach house, each time touching a finger to my lips to remind him to keep his eyes open but his mouth shut.

Using night vision, the units were easily found. Infrared lights were mounted atop two of the cameras, and the camera positioned at the gate fired a laser across the driveway—a trip wire that recorded all comings and goings associated with the married mistress. Which is why we’d parked my truck at the Island Inn, just down the beach, and had cut in through the side yard.

Last night, after discovering the cameras, I’d been tempted to steal one of the data cards in hopes that the shooter would accidentally appear at the start or end of a video. But a missing memory card was too damn obvious. So tonight I’d brought an exact replacement, a thirty-two-gig SanDisk with contact ports intentionally fouled—a way of explaining why the card was empty. Believable, but not if more than one camera had failed. So I told Tomlinson, “Wait here,” then worked my way toward the swimming pool and made the switch after confirming the camera there wasn’t already filming.

Risky, and I knew it. The cameras were all keyed by auto triggers of some type—a heat sensor, in the case of the camera near the front door—but it was possible the shooter was also stationed nearby. Dozing in his car maybe. Or had a room at the Island Inn where he was watching the house live on a computer screen. Jostle a camera, a motion sensor might flash an alert. But what was the worst that could happen? If the shooter surprised us, we would take off running like a couple of kids after TP’ing a house. This wasn’t the jungle after all, this was affluent Sanibel. No one would appear with guns blazing.

Changing the memory card didn’t set off lights and alarms. No
obvious
problems, anyway. Soon we were walking West Gulf Drive toward my truck, casting giant moonlit shadows while we talked.

“She signed a prenuptial,” I explained. “So the question is, does it contain an infidelity clause? If so, maybe that’s what the cameras are about. Maybe even the sabotage of our plane, too, to get to you. Depends on how crazy the husband and the in-laws are. Or how crazy
she
is.”

“Prenuptial agreements,” Tomlinson mused. “Never even crossed my mind before I married the Dragon Lady. There’s your answer to the one thing that me, the Beatles, John Lennon, and the battleship
Arizona
all have in common. A genuine ball breaker sent from the East. Female variety of the Asian flu.”

He was referring to a tiny little Ph.D. he had once lovingly called Moontree, although her name was Musashi. Their daughter—whom Tomlinson has had to retain a lawyer to even visit—is Nicky. The wife’s Anglomaniac choice, not his. He had lobbied for the names Coquina or Junonia, but had been overruled. At the time, Tomlinson had been heavily into animism and also inhaling some kind of surgical gas, halothane I think, which he had balanced (I’m guessing) with amphetamines. “My synthetic period,” as he calls it.

I said to him, “Don’t get fixated on your ex-wife. You need to pay attention, buster. I just told you something important and it went right over your head.”

“If some little yellow succubus had stuck your Zamboni in a light socket, you’d understand,” he replied.

“Let’s stick with your new girlfriend. If the prenup has a fidelity clause, Cressa loses money and you might end up in court when she fights it. If it doesn’t, then she
wants
her husband to know she’s screwing around. Cressa is throwing it right in his face to force a divorce and you’re her costar. So if the husband or one of her in-laws is nuts, guess what? You’re the one they’re trying to kill, not me or Dan, so think about your buddies if nothing else.”

Unruffled, Tomlinson replied, “From what I remember, you were here last night, too, Doc. You could end up on the big screen. You know, best supporting actor? I think it’s safe to say we are officially Eskimo brothers.”

“Eskimo?”
I asked, then waved it away. “Forget it, I don’t even want to know. Tonight, just pay attention, okay? We could level with Cressa about why the seaplane almost crashed—put it out there and see how she reacts—but, personally, I don’t trust her. Or try to finesse the truth out of her about the prenup. I’ll follow your lead, you’re the gabby one—unless you drop the ball.”

“Baseball metaphors,” Tomlinson smiled, getting into my truck. “You really don’t know what it means?”

Eskimo brothers again.

“Get your seat belt on,” I told him, then drove to the beach house and parked in the drive, indifferent to the invisible laser that recorded our arrival.

15

CRESSA ARTURO LOOKED FROM ME TO TOMLINSON,
then back to me and smiled, “Why is it I feel like a kid in an ice-cream store?” which was her way of proving she could relax and have fun with the subject, a soon-to-be divorcée whose new life was already on a roll.

Tonight, her outfit matched the meticulously casual décor: a white linen dress that caught the patio breeze, with straps more like two scarves that lifted her breasts in suspension and framed cleavage. Beige sandals, silver bracelet, and a white ceramic watch, but it was the beach dress that added a bounce to her step as she exited the kitchen carrying drinks.

I could sense Tomlinson about to reference ice cream—
Eskimo Bars
, possibly—and was silencing him with a look when Cressa stiffened. “Was that a car? I think someone just pulled into the drive.” She put the tray down and tilted her head to listen.

“Cress, sweetie, your whole breathing rhythm changes when you’re nervous. Realize that?” Tomlinson, eager to help, was already relighting the joint he and the woman had started. I scooted my chair back to avoid the smoke.

The married mistress was still attuned to sounds outside: tree frogs, the wash of waves . . . then the
BANG!
of a heavy car door.

I thought,
Uh-oh,
wondered if I’d been unwise to trip the laser-beam camera sensor.

“Can’t imagine who it could be,” the woman muttered, then hurried inside the house to have a look, her sandals clicking on tile. After a few seconds, she called to us from across the house, “My god, it’s him! It’s Rob! What the hell is
he
doing here?”

Tomlinson was looking at me, smiling through a cannabis haze as if he’d been surprised by jealous husbands a thousand times, and was now pleased to share the experience with me, his ol’ buddy. “This should be interesting,” he confided, leaning back in his chair. “Just stay cool, man. If we tried to escape over the railing, he’d know for sure we’re lovers. This way, we’re just two neighbors who stopped by for a drink. A welcome-to-our-island sort of visit.”

I turned to face him.
“Cameras,”
I said. “Or did you forget?”

Yes, judging from the man’s reaction. “Oh, yeah . . . that,” he nodded and sat up straighter. “Well, I’ve jumped off higher balconies, but I wouldn’t panic just yet. Always let the woman handle these situations. No matter what they say, they’ve rehearsed their story over and over in their heads. A guy gets involved, though, the husband dude really will get pissed off.”

I replied, “Some vet should have neutered you years ago,” then got to my feet and had a last sip of beer. I wanted to be ready just in case the husband dude came crashing into the room with a bat in his hand or even a gun. It was possible. Who could blame him?

When Robert Arturo Jr. appeared in the foyer, he was fuming but not enraged and polite enough to wipe his feet before sliding past his wife. Instead of the couch potato she’d described, I was looking at a man, late twenties, who might have played college basketball or was a competitive swimmer and still competed weekends. Tall, good-looking, slacks pleated, shirt fresh from the laundry, his hair combed just so. Tortoise-rimmed glasses added a professorial touch and gave his nervous hands something to do when he turned to Cressa and accused, “Screwing my brother wasn’t enough? What do you think Dad will say when he sees
this
?”

I was thinking,
She’s sleeping with the crazy brother-in-law, too?
while Arturo drew his arm back and hurled something across the room that bounced off the soiled couch, then spun to a stop on the floor.

A DVD, I realized. Video of the married mistress with another man fresh from the surveillance cameras?