Sailing to Capri (28 page)

It was raining in northern France, slicing down sideways, turning the narrow country road into a slick roller-coaster ride. Montana handled the rented Peugeot 460 as smoothly as a racing car, speeding back to the local airport at Tours.

The small town near Le Mans he had just left was a desolate place, made even more desolate by the heavy gray skies and the cold rain. The shuttered dark brick houses offered none of the delights foreigners expect from France, and he had no doubt the inhabitants of the town felt the same way. They probably longed to escape the treeless roads and the flat fields where only turnips and root vegetables grew, and the soulless arcades of the cement mall dominated by the ugly hypermarket that would be called a blot on the landscape if the landscape were not already so terrible.

The name de Valentinois was the clue that had led Montana first to the château area of the Loire and then to a small town
near Le Mans. And now he knew all there was to know about Diane.

Driving through the rain, he finally had time to think about Daisy. He’d received a phone call from his second in command at four that morning. There had been no time to lose if he was to take care of events in the Loire, fly on to New York to investigate that scene, and still get back to the ship before it reached Capri. Before it was even light, he’d flown by helicopter to Nice where Bob’s Gulfstream was waiting, then to Tours, and now he was to continue on to New York. He hadn’t forgotten about Daisy, but there had simply been no time to make contact with her, no time to change from investigator to the lover, no time to think about the right thing to say. All he could do now was call and hope she would understand.

Daisy delighted him, she charmed him, she made him laugh. She was a mischievous minx in a prude’s clothing, a seductress, and a hurt and troubled woman who hid her wounds successfully. That is, she had until she met Bob Hardwick. Bob had soon seen through her façade, and now so had Montana.

Arriving at the small airport he gave the rental car to a valet in the private sector and quickly headed toward the plane, stopping on the tarmac to make his call. The plane’s engines were revving and the rain was still slicing down. It was difficult to hear but Daisy was not answering her cell phone anyhow.

Checking his watch, Montana guessed the
Blue Boat
had sailed. Daisy was probably at dinner, entertaining the suspects and cursing him for leaving her alone with them.

Even though he’d left her on the yacht with a probable murderer, he knew Daisy was safe for the moment. But if Bob had
left her all his money, she would become a target. Meanwhile, the two agents onboard kept constant watch over her; nobody could threaten Daisy without the agents being all over them in a second.

He left a message saying, “I’m here in rainy, lonely northern France without you. You can guess where I’d rather be. I apologize but there was no time to tell you anything, and besides you were sleeping so peacefully it wouldn’t have been right to wake you. I’m on my way to New York. I’ll call from there. Meanwhile, baby, keep up the good work.”

He did not mention the word
love,
or even say a casual “love you.” He wasn’t sure she would have wanted him to. And anyhow, he never said he loved anybody.

The scorched mass of twisted black metal that was all that was left of Bob Hardwick’s canary yellow Lamborghini had been uncrated and was up on blocks in the New Jersey garage where Montana had had it transported after the accident. A team of forensics experts hovered over it, examining the pattern of the fractures, poking into the melted morass that had been the engine. Strangely, two things had survived. The frame of the driver’s seat was intact, along with its seat belt; and the roll bar was not even dented.

“Odd how these things happen. Sorry it took so long,” Len Glazer said. He was the expert who analyzed wrecks of planes and vehicles, applying his science to find out how the accidents happened. “But it was more complicated than it looks. You might almost have thought he could have walked away from this.”

Hands thrust in his pockets, Montana stared at the wreck
age, thinking, If only he had. But Bob had died and now Len was here to tell him exactly how it had happened.

“We took samples from what remains of the engine and sent them on to the lab. They came back positive for an explosive. There’s no doubt that this wreck was caused by a bomb planted directly under the engine. It was ignited by a remote control device—most probably a planted cell phone set on tremble. All the bomber had to do was dial the number. And bingo. Bob should have been blown to bits. But here’s what I believe happened. Bob had stopped the car and gotten out to take a leak or stretch his legs. As he walked along the road, someone dialed the planted cell phone’s number, the bomb detonated and the car exploded. Bob was caught in the blast and thrown over the edge of the cliff. He wasn’t killed directly by the bomb. That’s why he wasn’t a burned-out piece of wreckage like his car.”

“You mean if he’d walked a few yards farther he might still be alive?”

Len nodded. “The cell phone was probably hidden under his seat.”

Montana shook his old pal’s hand. They’d worked together before and knew each other well. “Thanks, Len. Sorry I can’t stop and have a drink with you but I have to get to work.” He slapped Len’s shoulder, already on his way out the door to where his chief assistant waited at the wheel of a black Ford F-250 twin-cab pickup.

“It’s as we thought,” Montana said tersely, and he told him what had happened. “What we need to do now,” he said, “is check all calls made from the suspects’ cell phones on that day.”

The assistant threw him a skeptical glance. “That’s all, huh?”

Montana grinned. “Hey, you’ve done it before, man. Let’s do it again, even if we have to raid the phone company’s offices. But why not start with our suspects’ home turf? They’re all onboard the
Blue Boat,
so we have a free run. Farrell’s offices are right here in New York and his apartment is close by. Dopplemann was here too, staying at a Motel 6 out by the airport. And Charlie Clement was at the Waldorf Towers. Any one of them could have done it.”

“So could one of the women. You can dial from abroad y’-know.”

Montana nodded. Of course he knew. What he didn’t know was which of the women would have been able to find someone to plant the bomb for her. Still, the old saying “Where there’s a will there’s a way” applied to murder too. Anything could have happened.

Bob’s Lamborghini had been in the shop for a week before the accident and then driven to a parking garage at his office building. There was not enough room to park all three of Bob’s cars at his apartment and he often left one or another in the office garage. Whoever had it done it had observed the luggage placed in the car and had known Bob would use the sports car. It would have been easy for someone to enter the garage. It would take less than a minute to plant the explosive and the phone. Death by the second.

Montana heaved a sigh, grieving for what might have been. “You get onto it here,” he said. “I’ll take care of the European end. And now, old pal, I have a plane to catch.”

Bob’s Gulfstream was waiting on the tarmac at Teterboro. Montana called and told the pilot to ready it for take off, he would be there in ten. He had solved the first part of the puzzle. It was no longer merely probable … it was definitely murder.

It was the next morning and I was out on the afterdeck taking deep breaths of the pure briny air. We would spend the day at sea en route to Sorrento. The yacht slid so smoothly through the waves I might have been in a hotel on land; the sky was a cloudless blue, the sun was shining and Montana was still not here. I’d checked my phone but there was no message, just some garbled buzzing.

Dinner had been a nightmare last night. Filomena and Diane were not speaking, Charlie Clement never left the bar and Dopplemann disappeared again, only this time he went to his room. Rosalia seemed worried and Hector demanded to know where Montana was, he needed to speak to him. Davis beat Brandon at his own game of backgammon, taking him for a few hundred dollars I knew Brandon couldn’t afford and Texas limped around on crutches, downing painkillers and looking miserable. And still Montana hadn’t shown up.

“Screw it,” Bordelaise had said gloomily, calling for another drink in the bar after dinner. “I’ll be glad when this cruise is over.” And so, I thought angrily, would I.

Now, though, Bordelaise showed up in a brief pink bikini. I thought she looked really good in it too. She said hi, and I said hi back, still glowering over the suspects and Montana. She took out a book and began to read. I flung myself into the chair next to her and put my hands behind my head, staring up at the sky. It made a change from the sea, though both were the same damn blue.