The Bubble Gum Thief (24 page)

Dagny paid the cabbie, and they ran through the rain to the shelter of a small overhang above the front door. She rang the bell and tried to peek through the thick, opaque windows that lined the doorway. A figure walked slowly through the entry hall toward the door. Dagny took a deep breath, prepared to confront the man with the answers, but the door opened to reveal a young, thin blonde woman instead.

“This is totally cool!” she screamed. “He said you were coming, but I didn’t believe him.” Her skin was tan and smooth, her teeth were straight and white, and her eyebrows were plucked
into Roman arches. The bottom of her sheer yellow dress showed off her underwear when she jumped, while the top of the dress hung round her neck and split between her breasts, plunging low enough to reveal the silver stud piercing her belly button. She was maybe twenty-two and looked like the cover of a magazine.

And she was exceptionally thin, Dagny thought. Perfectly thin.

“Follow me, kids!” she yelled, motioning for Victor and Dagny to follow, and then skipping down the entry hall.

“His daughter?” Victor whispered to Dagny.

The girl overheard. “No, silly!” She giggled.

Rowanhouse’s home was furnished in a modern, minimalist manner. Though a few abstract pieces hung from the walls, there was little ornamentation. The furniture was sleek and utilitarian. Simple monochromatic rugs covered the shiny bamboo floors. Everything was well lit and clean. Although the furnishings were simple, Dagny could see that they were not cheap.

The young woman spun around and extended her hand. “Silly me! I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Jana.”

Dagny shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, Jana.”

“You’re Special Agent Gray, right? Dagny Gray?”

“That’s right.” Dagny wondered how she knew, but didn’t ask. Maybe the airport had tipped them off. Maybe the driver.

“And you’re Special Agent Victor Walton? Junior, right? Victor Walton Jr.?”

Victor shook her hand. “That’s right, ma’am,” he said, inexplicably trotting out the fake Southern accent he’d used at Waller’s Food Mart. “Nice to meet you, Jana.”

“You’re a cute young thing to be working for the FBI,” Jana said, flipping her hair out of her eyes with one hand while gently brushing Victor’s arm with the other. Then she turned abruptly and continued down another hallway. “He’s back here.”

She led them to a large glass room that was suspended over the ocean by cantilever and cables. Twenty or thirty lounge chairs circled a long pool, where a man was swimming laps. “I’ll leave you with him!” Jana yelled, so as to be heard over the rain that thundered against the glass roof. Lightning flashed in the sky, and huge waves crashed against the beach below; the crests of some smashed against the bottom of the glass wall near Dagny’s feet. On a nice day, it was probably the most beautiful place in the world. In a storm, it was a little scary.

The man swam to the side of the pool. The storm seemed to calm as he climbed out of the water. He pulled off his goggles and swim cap, grabbed a towel from a nearby lounge chair, and dried his hands. “I’m Cecil Rowanhouse,” he said, firmly shaking Dagny’s hand, and then Victor’s. He spoke with deliberate and careful enunciation. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Rowanhouse had the body of a twenty-year-old swimmer, but the hair on his head was grey and thinning, and his face was wrinkled from too much time in the sun. He was sixty, at least—but the healthiest sixty-year-old Dagny had ever seen.

“Did Jana offer you two anything to drink?” he asked.

“No,” Dagny said.

Rowanhouse mumbled something, then wandered over to a poolside bar, grabbed some ice cubes from a bucket, and dropped them into a glass. “Scotch? Whiskey? Can I recommend a Gosling’s and Coke?”

“Nothing for me,” Dagny said.

“You have ginger ale?” Victor asked, abandoning his Southern accent.

“Of course.” Rowanhouse grabbed a bottle, twisted the cap, and poured Victor a glass. “Now, if you don’t mind, I must change. We’ll have dinner in a few minutes. I hope you’re hungry.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Rowanhouse, we didn’t come for dinner.”

“Then you shall delight in the surprise of getting more than you bargained for, Agent Gray. And seeing as you were not explicitly invited to my home, I’m sure you will appreciate the hospitality.” Rowanhouse scurried off before Dagny could reply.

Victor downed his drink, walked over to the bar, and poured himself another. “Do you think Jana’s his lover?” Victor asked.

“I don’t know,” Dagny said, nodding toward the entry to the room. “Why don’t you ask her?”

Jana had returned. She’d changed into a pink-and-blue sundress and carried a towel over her shoulder.

“Hey, Jana. You’re from the States, right?” Victor asked.

“That’s true!” Jana gushed. “I’m from Atlanta, Georgia, though I’m working on losing the accent.”

“Why is that, Jana?” Dagny asked. “Do you want to be an actress?”

“I
am
an actress, Ms. Gray,” she responded, with some indignation. “I’ve been in several films.
Frightmaker Seven, Annie’s Girl, The Devil’s Daughter
. I also had a small part on
The Hills
for a while.”

“Is that how you met Mr. Rowanhouse? Through the movies?” Victor asked. “Was he a producer or something?”

Jana laughed. “Mr. Rowanhouse? Movies? He doesn’t know the first thing about movies. Hasn’t even seen any of mine, as far as I know.” She tossed her towel on a lounge chair, then grabbed the bottom of her sundress and lifted it over her head, revealing a very little white bikini and a lot of skin. She giggled and dove into the pool.

Victor watched Jana swim back and forth as though she were a hypnotist’s timepiece. “She’s like a perfect inversion of my fiancée,” he muttered.

“Fiancée?” Dagny asked.

Before Victor could explain, Cecil Rowanhouse walked back into the room. He wore a pristine white suit, with matching white
shoes, white belt, and white shirt. His laces, cufflinks, socks, belt buckle, and buttons were all black, as was the flower pinned to his lapel. “Dinner is ready. Please follow.”

“Hey, Jana! Dinner!” Victor yelled.

Jana bobbed her head up from the pool. “I don’t eat dinner,” she said, then ducked back beneath the water.

Rowanhouse led them back through the house to an oval dining room with rounded walls, like an egg with a flat bottom. Though the oblong granite table was big enough for twelve, it was set for three. “Please, have a seat.”

Dagny sat next to Victor and across from Rowanhouse. Two Latina women wearing aprons and hairnets carried salads to the table, laying them down carefully at each of the place settings.

“Mr. Rowanhouse, I would like to ask you some questions—”

“Of course, but I must insist that you eat, too. I can’t eat if my guests don’t, and I’m awfully hungry.”

Victor hadn’t waited for the invitation—he’d already shoveled most of his salad into his mouth. Dagny speared a piece of arugula with her fork and ate it, then set her fork down on the table. “Now, Mr. Rowanhouse, I’d like to know where you got the Williamsons’ painting.”

“Agent Gray, it’s my job to provide anonymity to those who request it. Surely you have other questions.”

“Why does your client require anonymity?”

Rowanhouse set his fork on his plate and placed his hands on the table, palms down. “I will speak only generally of my clients, Agent Gray. And forgive me if my tone becomes one of a lecturer. We live in a world that is sometimes fair, but often not. There are those who are dealt with less fairly than others. Occasionally, there is a way to even things out, and if this requires anonymity, I am more than happy to oblige. I’m sure you look at my house—my life—and suspect that I have made my way through illegitimate means. I am not a thief or a scoundrel. I provide services
to people who need them, and I provide them only to those who deserve them. The person who brought me the painting was someone who deserved my services.”

Dagny nibbled at her salad, concentrating on the greens and the carrots, while ignoring the goat cheese and walnuts. “Mr. Rowanhouse, you are aware that the painting in question might be linked to the crimes of a murderer.”

“So I have surmised.”

“Doesn’t that upend your notion of the justice of anonymity?”

“Agent Gray, based upon what I know and what you don’t know, my conscience is clear. I have made commitments and have pledged to keep them, knowing full well what would come. And I have done so, in part, because the government you represent is not the arbiter of right and wrong. Your agency has carried out much injustice, and while I don’t question your motives, I do question the seal on your credentials. Credentials which mean little here in Bermuda.”

“There are extradition treaties, Mr. Rowanhouse. If you were found to be conspiring with a felon—”

“I don’t think you’d find extradition as easy as you think. I have many friends in Bermuda.”

The servants replaced their salad plates with seared tuna and steamed vegetables. Victor grabbed his knife and began cutting into the tuna steak. Dagny started to speak, but Victor kicked her under the table. She decided to let Victor have his run at Rowanhouse. For all his flaws, the kid had a certain talent for getting people to talk.

“So do you think Regina Berry really felt like a woman trapped in a man’s body, or do you think she just really wanted out of that men’s prison?” Victor asked their host.

Rowanhouse leaned forward and studied Victor carefully. “Regina Berry, you ask?”

“Yes,” Victor replied, with his mouth full of tuna. “Are you surprised we know of her?”

“Agent Walton, if I didn’t want you to know about Regina Berry, then I would have made sure you didn’t know.”

“So what do you think? About Regina Berry?”

“Have you ever talked to anyone who has spent any significant time in a federal prison, Agent Walton? How about you, Agent Gray?” he asked. “Do you know what it’s like to be locked up by a nation of
laws
and placed in an environment without them?” Rowanhouse raised his voice. “Prisons are black holes—no light can escape them. Beatings. Rapes. And nobody cares. ‘They deserve it’—that’s the popular sentiment, right? Even if that were true, what about the innocent men sent there? We don’t care—because once they’re in the great big empty of a silent black, we don’t see it. So I guess I’m inclined to think that Regina Berry just wanted out, no matter what it required. And I don’t blame her one bit.”

“But Regina Berry was guilty,” Victor said.

“In the eyes of man, yes. In the eyes of a jury, yes. But in the eyes of God? You can’t judge with God’s eyes, Agent Walton. I’m not against prison. The dangerous should be segregated from society. But as for retribution? Only God should have the power to send people to hell.”

“But what is your client doing, if it isn’t retribution?” Victor leaned forward and stared at Mr. Rowanhouse, waiting for his answer.

“Perhaps, Agent Walton, he’s making a statement.”

“By committing horrible crimes?”

“If you want the FBI’s attention, you commit crimes, Agent Walton.”

“And what is his statement?”

“That is for you to discover,” Rowanhouse replied, pushing his plate away. “Maria,” he called. “We are finished with our dinner.” He looked over to Dagny’s plate. She had taken only a few bites.

“I’m just not very hungry,” Dagny said. Rowanhouse had just admitted that his client, the man who sold the painting to the Williamsons, was in fact the man committing the crimes. Why would he admit this?

Rowanhouse stood. “I have arranged for you to leave tomorrow morning. A car—”

“We’ll leave tonight, Mr. Rowanhouse.”

“You’ve missed the last flight for the day, Agent Gray. Even if there were another flight, I doubt you’d want to take it in this weather. I have guest quarters that should prove quite satisfactory. Maria will show you to your rooms. A car will pick you up tomorrow at ten. Use the kitchen as if it were your own. I have a small theater where you can watch movies if it interests you. Jana usually watches something in there, but I’m sure she’d be glad for the company.”

“Cool,” Jana said, bopping into the room.

“We could watch one of your movies,” Victor suggested.

“Sure. Or we could watch something good,” Jana replied.

The last thing Dagny wanted to do was spend the night in the home of a man who had befriended Mike’s killer, but she felt more tired than angry and didn’t have the energy to leave. Maria led Dagny and Victor to their rooms. Dagny’s opened onto a balcony that overlooked the ocean. It was dark outside, but the skies had cleared and a full moon illuminated the night. She opened the sliding glass door and stepped outside. The ocean smelled fresh and clean and pure.

Nothing else did.

Her head ached, and she felt dizzy. When she rolled off the side of the bed, it was only dumb luck that landed her on her feet. Too much travel, she thought, grabbing her running shorts from her bag.

The house was still and quiet as Dagny tiptoed through the hallway to the back door. It wasn’t yet six in the morning, but
outside, it was already warm. The sky was still dark but for a brilliant red-orange hue along the horizon. She climbed down the steps to the beach, then jogged along the ocean. It was hard to run in the loose sand, so she moved closer to the water, where the waves had beaten a hard surface and the foam tickled her feet. She turned on her iPod and followed the jagged shore. A mile later, she passed a young couple on the beach. The girl was leaning against her man, watching the sun rise. He had his arms wrapped tightly around her; every few seconds, they kissed. Dagny turned away from the couple and looked out at the bright-blue glow of the ocean. As blue as Mike’s eyes. She began to run faster.

After completing one loop around the island, she was too weak to try a second. She collapsed to the beach behind the Rowanhouse estate, and sat there, staring out at the endless ocean, trying to make sense of the little they knew. Adams’s fingerprints, the baseball, the stolen Matisse, Reginald Berry, the gum in Bethel, the dog in Chula Vista, the murders of Mike and Candice, and Rowanhouse. Pieces that seemed to belong to different puzzles. It was enough to make her head hurt.