Night Moves (21 page)

“I think that woman’s big trouble,” I told him.

“You’re being too hard on her. Crescent is
confused—
and she’s at one of life’s shitty little crossroads. Plus, she also has a bad case of Marion Ford—that’s the most recent affliction. It’s one of those alpha male phenomenon things. People think the beautiful ones have it easy, but nothing’s easy if you’re a woman.”

Eyes fixed on the water, I said, “A couple of those fish are right in the slot, eighteen to twenty-six or -seven inches.” Then added, “You usually have better judgment when it comes to sniffing out the bad ones.”

“When people are down, at their personal worst, those are exactly the ones who need me most. True, the fact that she’s a five on the Budweiser scale helped move her to the head of the line. But I would have found her anyway.”

Budweiser scale
—I knew the crude punch line so didn’t ask. “You’re a regular bridge over troubled water,” I replied. “Which makes it easier for me to ask a favor. It’ll take half an hour at most. Today; hopefully this morning.”

Stand lookout while I snuck aboard Vargas Diemer’s yacht is what I wanted him to do. Mack didn’t mind helping out marina neighbors, but he would draw the line at breaking and entering if it put a fat weekly rental fee at risk. I couldn’t let him or anyone else at Dinkin’s Bay see me break into that boat.

Tomlinson didn’t process it, though, because he was still talking about Cressa. “Women with a body like hers, and that face, she meets very few men who won’t jump through hoops, then roll over and show their bellies. That’s gotta get old after a while—which is why she’s got smoke eyes for you. Crescent’s never had an alpha male in her life.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” I told him.

Tomlinson was two more sentences into his theory before he stopped and refocused on me. “You can’t be talking about her husband. Rob almost had a hissy fit when he saw what the dog did to his couch.”

I checked the porch—Cressa was still inside—then looked to make sure the retriever was within whistling distance before I said, “Here’s what I think. Rob’s brother, Dean, is as alpha as they come—according to what Cressa says, anyway. I think she was sleeping with Deano up until he started having mental problems a couple years ago—head trauma after an accident. Afterward, maybe they kept the affair going, but then the guy started getting too weird. Even scary, but who could she go to? Tell her husband, ‘I’ve been screwing your brother, now please make him go away’? I don’t think so. Meeting you was the safety net she needed to cut herself free from the whole family.”

Tomlinson said softly, “Hmmm . . . the crazy brother who tried to kill us,” as if presenting the idea to his brain for consideration.

“He was learning to fly planes until he hit a hangar,” I continued. “He’s been seeing shrinks, in and out of twenty-four-hour-care facilities, ever since. Plus, abusing pharmaceuticals, maybe some other drugs, too. When the crash happened, Deano was trying to get into the film business. Documentaries.”

A light went on behind Tomlinson’s eyes. I’d told him about my visit from Luke Smith and he now made the connection. “Jesus Frog. Did she show you a photo or something? The crazy brother’s got some balls if he showed up at your doorstep.”

“See if you can talk her into showing you a picture of Deano. You’ll have to borrow it or set it up so I can get a quick look.”

Tomlinson’s face took on a wilted expression as if he’d been slighted. “Cressa never told me any of this. And I didn’t pick up on it, man! Makes me wonder if my precognitive powers are on the fritz.”

“You figure out how to work it. But don’t tell her too much. Last night, she tried to cover for the brother-in-law. I think she’s been feeding Deano details about Flight 19. I think the guy stays in touch—possibly even stays with her some nights.”

Tomlinson was having a tough time coming to terms with what I was suggesting. “I can’t picture her doing harm to anyone—not intentionally—but you sound like you’ve made up your mind.”

“Nope, not even close. Like I said, it’s a possible explanation. This one, at least, we can take to the cops. The brother-in-law tried to kill us, but we don’t have to involve Dan and his plane. I can call Moonley or Lieutenant Brett and mention we know a lady who’s being stalked. Blindside the brother with a lesser charge but still get him out of our hair.”

“I don’t know, man, I think you’re headed down the wrong road. Crescent is covering for a guy who tried to kill us? That’s a pretty heavy accusation.”

Tomlinson didn’t want to believe it, so I humored him by saying, “There
is
another possibility. Which brings us to a second favor I need—if you’re willing.”

My pal’s expression replied
Aren’t I always?

It was safer to wait until dark to search the Brazilian’s boat, but Diemer and Hannah would be back before sunset if it was a standard fishing charter. Plus, I was too antsy to wait. In my mind, a question kept repeating itself:
Why did an elite assassin hire Hannah?

“See that big Lamberti on A-Dock? The owner just left on a charter, and I want to go aboard alone and have a look around.”

“Why?”

“It’s better if I don’t share the details. I don’t want to be seen, so I need someone to keep Mack busy and stand watch.
You—
that’s the favor I’m asking.”

“The guy Hannah just left with,” Tomlinson said, looking at me. “Good-looking foreign dude, he owns that monster.”

“Twenty minutes tops,” I said, then repeated, “It’s a business matter, so, I’m serious, the less you know, the better.”

A slow smile signaled that Tomlinson had sorted through the data but had misread my motives. He said, “Torpedo the rich bastard—how else you gonna compete with a dude like that? Sure, I’ll do it. Just tell me one little thing: are you going to steal his shit or plant some dope? Either way, I know the drill, so float on, man.”

17

I WAS IN THE AFT SECTION OF THE BRAZILIAN’S YACHT
using a flashlight to search his stateroom when my cell buzzed: Hannah was finally returning my call. I told myself it was idiotic to attempt a conversation while trespassing on a million-dollar yacht, but I answered anyway. Lucky me for trusting bad judgment.

Sounding formal, I heard Hannah’s voice say, “My client forgot something, so I’ve got about five minutes to talk if it’s that important.”

I stiffened and asked, “You’re at the marina . . .
now
?” As I said it, I heard Tomlinson’s warning whistle—my pal’s criminal skills obviously rusty. I rushed to a starboard porthole and brightened the room by pushing the curtains aside.

On the phone, Hannah replied, “I don’t know why I’m not surprised you didn’t notice my skiff come back—you’re such a busy man.”

I was too rattled by what I saw through the window to respond to the barb. Vargas Diemer was already on the yacht’s boarding ramp, his knees visible only for a second before I heard the sound of his shoes on the upper deck. Two . . . three . . . four graceful paces, and I knew the Germanic Brazilian had stopped to deactivate his security system—no need to bother, but, hopefully, the man wouldn’t realize it.

Tomlinson whistled again. Three sharp blasts, fingers to his lips.

Whispering into the phone, I demanded, “What’s he looking for?” The door to the master stateroom was open, I realized. It had been closed when I arrived, so I had to make a decision fast.

“Who?” Hannah said. “You mean Tomlinson? I guess he’s whistling for your dog.” Then asked, “Where
are
you? Don’t tell me you’re whispering because of that woman.”

I replied, “No, what’s your
client
looking for?” while my brain wrestled with two options: I could either run for it or sneak the door closed and hope the Brazilian had returned for something he’d forgotten in the main cabin.

Hannah asked, “Are you drunk or just nosy?”

I came very close to replying,
Neither, I’m on your client’s boat,
which would have required the woman to take action—possibly attempt to help me even though the right thing to do was call 911 on behalf of her paying customer. I couldn’t put her in that position, so said, “Call you back,” and jammed the phone in my pocket, the Brazilian’s footsteps above me now, crossing the cabin toward the stairs.

Click-click.
The bedroom door made a pistol hammer sound when I closed it, the brass latch sliding home, then I turned and used the flashlight, looking for a place to hide. The room consumed most of the stern area and seemed roomier for the mirrors above a bed that was framed in mahogany and joined to the wall. A dresser, two vanity mirrors, the closets and the entrance to the master bath were done in teak and brass, the curtains gold, the bedspread blue on green—the colors of Brazil’s national soccer team, I remembered. Lots of closet space, but none big enough to hold a man my size. On the bed, I also noted, was a tiny hip pack,
SAGE RODS
embroidered on khaki canvas. It was a fly case—probably the reason Diemer had come back.

Damn it.

No doubt about it, he’d come back for his newly tied flies. I heard the gangway door open, then Diemer’s feet on the stairs, so I crossed the room into the master bath. It smelled of aftershave and diesel. There was sink space, an antique tub bolted to the deck, a cylindrical shower beside it, the floor still wet. The shower was ringed with a privacy curtain, but it wasn’t drawn. I thought,
Like I’ve got another option,
and stepped into the shower, then swiped the curtain closed. Blue with green stripes again—the assassin loved his soccer.

I switched off the flashlight and waited.

Diemer wasn’t a man to whistle and hum. He came down the steps on rubber-soled shoes at a gallop that is typical of sailors. I heard the door of the master stateroom open, and didn’t hear anything else until the shower curtain rustled against my nose. The Brazilian had pushed a volume of air as he came into the room toward me but then stopped abruptly at the bathroom door.

He’s an articulate, precise man,
Bernie Yeager had warned. If true, Diemer might have stopped because he noticed something different about the shower curtain. I shifted the flashlight from my left hand to my right and held it like a dagger.

“Humph.”
Diemer said it with the descending inflection of a person who is puzzled. It suggested, yes, he had noticed the curtain. Now he was probably backtracking his steps that morning, visualizing his movements after exiting the shower. I would have done the same.

Slowly, so as not to disturb the curtain, I raised the flashlight to waist level, palm up—it would add the torque and lift needed if I used it to drive the Brazilian’s nose into his skull. And I
would
if he found me. What happened afterward, I didn’t want to explore, but couldn’t block the obvious: I might have to kill a man to cover the minor crime of trespassing. Sobering . . . No, I was sickened by the thought, never mind that Diemer might also kill me. One was as bad as the other, I realized in that instant. Either way, life in Dinkin’s Bay as I knew it would be over. Grab the false passports, pack a few things, then flee to Central America, where at least I’d be closer to my son. Or Cuba—a government in chaos that might welcome someone like me.

Dumbass!

The prospect of ending my years on Sanibel this way, because of my own stupid misjudgment, was as distressing as falling from the sky in an airplane. There was nothing I could do now, though, but let it play out.

Focus,
I told myself.
He’s coming.

Like a psycho in some movie, I waited behind the curtain, flashlight gripped, as Diemer voiced puzzlement again
—“Humph”—
then muttered a Latin profanity that had the ring of surprise. When his feet moved on the varnished wood, I got ready, certain he knew my location, when I heard the man say,
“Hello?”
Said it in a testing way as if he expected an answer.

I didn’t respond, of course—why make it easy for him? Still crouched, I coiled my body to the right so hips and thighs could generate power when the curtain was thrown open.

Then I heard, “Where are you?”

Why the hell was an elite killer asking me an absurd question instead of taking action? It made no sense until I heard Diemer say, “I didn’t expect you to call,” which is when I realized the profanity he’d muttered was in response to a cell phone vibrating in his pocket.

I released a slow, hushed breath and listened to a one-sided conversation. It was in English, which suggested the call was from somewhere in the U.S. No . . . the call was local because I heard Diemer say, “I see . . . Yes, I see . . . But why so important? Okay . . . yes,
yes—
I will be there in one minute!”

More Portuguese profanity, but not heated. The Germanic Brazilian wasn’t a man who lost control of his temper. Two staccato zipping sounds also proved his attention to detail—Diemer was confirming the fishing lures were in their case before he closed the door to the stateroom, then galloped up the stairs.

Seconds later, I could hear his footsteps above me, but I wasn’t in the clear yet. Was the jet-set assassin so compulsive that he would actually test the security system before reactivating it? If he did, the mysterious shower curtain would explain why the alarm had been silenced. I had used a portable jamming unit no bigger than a book, set on a frequency that didn’t interrupt cell service—a lucky coincidence that I didn’t fully appreciate until more seconds had passed and I watched the Brazilian exit the boarding ramp, then stride gracefully away from A-Dock.

I needed air, felt a dizzying oxygen debt that couldn’t be replenished until I was off the Brazilian’s damn boat and back in the lab. The logician that steers my behavior argued against abandoning a search I hadn’t yet started. Called me a
fool
, and explained quite logically that Diemer had probably left to deal with some irritating detail. Afterward, he would hurry straight to Hannah’s boat, eager to enjoy a fishing trip that was already behind schedule. Statistically speaking, the logician told me, now was actually a broader, safer window in which to paw through the man’s personal possessions.