Night Moves (Doc Ford)

14




AND I HAD SOMETHING ELSE TO DO AS WELL. MACK had given me some interesting info this morning. Bernie had given me even more.

At sunset, my shorts dripping seawater and sweat, I finished a long swim and gimpy run at A-Dock, my Clydesdale weight causing the planks to vibrate, which announced my presence to all deepwater vessels and passengers aboard.

Exactly what I wanted to do.

Sitting aft on the recently arrived Lamberti yacht, reading a magazine, was a lean, aloof man who could have played Zorro in the movies. Errol Flynn mustache, white cardigan sweater on this cool evening, a long Macanudo freshly lit—the vessel’s Brazilian owner, presumably, who jogged every morning when he wasn’t smoking cigars. His name was Alberto Sabino, according to Mack, and had paid cash in advance. Euros.

At my approach, the Brazilian looked up, then pointedly ignored me by finishing the last of his white wine and checking his watch. After a glance at the pumpkin moon blossoming from the mangroves, he stood, then disappeared into the cabin with a dancer’s easy grace that I’ve always envied but will never possess.

What does come naturally is imitating the cliché American boob. Big smile, loose-limbed, I clomped up to the boarding gate and rapped on the yacht’s hull. Twice I had to knock before the Brazilian finally poked his head out.

“You wish something?”

“You’re new to Dinkin’s Bay,” I smiled. “I always like to stop and say hello to the new ones.”

“Es fascinating,” the man replied with sarcasm, “I am, though, busy at this particular time.” His English was flavored with Portuguese and a whiff of German; articulate, but in a way that caused me to picture him as a boy practicing the tough words: fass-cin-A-ting, par-r-r-tic-U-lar. Working at it hard to impress important people down the road.

I said, “My name’s Ford, but everyone calls me Doc.”

The man stared at me as if he’d discovered a new type of bug. So I bumbled along, saying, “I’m not a real doctor, but you know how folks are. I’m a biologist. I hear you’re a runner—I’m always looking for running partners.”

Silence, the man staring at me through wire-rimmed glasses, not blinking. So I pointed down the shoreline to my stilthouse. “I’ve got a lab there. You’re welcome to stop by anytime—your wife, too. You have a wife? There’re some really nice places to shop on the island.”

The man was entertained, possibly also reassured by my vapidity, which accounted for his expression of contempt. “This area is private, no?” he said, then looked toward the dock juncture where a sign read Owners Only!

“That’s to keep outsiders away,” I explained, then hurried to add, “Great fishing here. Tarpon are already showing up. Maybe you’ve met some of our fishing guides—they’re the experts.”

For an instant, just an instant, I saw a glimmer of interest, but it didn’t last. “Already I have arranged this matter,” the Brazilian said, “now please you go,” then he closed the door with a sound that only oiled teak and brass can make.

For several seconds I stood there, then clomped down the dock to the sleek Kevlar Stiletto and banged on that hull. Lights showed through porthole curtains, but no telltale shift in trim to suggest the boat was inhabited. And still no response after I’d knocked again, so I backtracked to Tiger Lilly, where I would have stopped but just in time heard the fragments of an argument that froze my fingers inches from the visitor’s bell.

JoAnn accusing, “. . . might as well just admit you’re seeing someone!”

Rhonda firing back, “As if you’d notice . . . and so damn self-righteous—”

“I’ve never done that to you! Who is it? Tell me!”

“So now you own me, too, is that it—”

“An appointment with a doctor, that’s all I’m asking! Honey, your hormones are all screwed up!”

Turning a blind eye to the small, inevitable indignities that befall us all is one of the duties of friendship, so I hurried away doing my version of a tiptoe jog. By sparing the ladies aboard Tiger Lilly, I was of course also sparing myself the role of mediator, but I chose to believe I was being courteous, not cowardly.

Mack and Jeth were still in the office, so I waved good-bye, but Jeth had already unlocked the door. “Tom . . . tah-tah-Tomlinson was looking for you,” he stammered, “’bout fifteen minutes ago. Said you two were doing somethin’ tonight—I forget the word he used. But he was gonna be late, so I should tell you.”

Surveillance? If that was the word, it was true. We planned to visit the Arturo property before joining Cressa for dinner, although no telling why Tomlinson would share the information. Jeth seldom stutters these days, but still avoids problematic syllables so I didn’t press the issue.

“He’ll be late,” I said. “What a shock.” Jeth was still smiling as I stepped inside and spoke to Mack. “Did you find anything else on that Stiletto and the Lamberti?”

“Already have it out for you,” he replied, then looked at Jeth. “This is just between us. Understood?”

I spent a few minutes going through documents while Jeth and Mack went back and forth, having fun rehashing details of our encounter with the bobcat, then the limb breaking.

“Bloody drongos!” Mack roared. “Had to be like trying to catch a damn refrigerator—surprised either one of you can still walk.”

Jeth agreed by rolling his sore shoulder, and they were both still laughing when I left to jog home, where instead of showering I filled the dog’s water bucket, then lugged the heavy Soviet binoculars outside to the porch.

To the east, the moon was huge, a blaze of smoky orange, and sunset clouds were still streaked with tangerine. A wooden courtesy screen shields my outdoor shower from the marina, so I moved the screen to the railing to create a hidden viewing station. When I had the tripod positioned the way I wanted it, I swung the binoculars toward A-Dock and took a look.

The Lamberti Custom, sixty yards away, was partially blocked by other boats, but I could see enough. It was a beautiful yacht, white-hulled, with a white upper deck that was trimmed with mahogany, teak, and stainless steel, Palm Beach registration below the name SEDUCI in luminous gold script. Translation: “seduction,” or the masculine spelling for “seductress”—several possible meanings, in Portuguese, I guessed. The Brazilian had taken his bottle of white wine and cigar to the flybridge, where, I realized, he had a clear view of my stilthouse. But his attention wasn’t on me. He was sipping wine and talking on a cell phone, his expression blank, movements relaxed and fluid.

According to Mack and the paperwork I’d seen, now and earlier, Alberto Sabino was CEO of an import-export company that had offices in Rio, Luxembourg, and Dubai. His real name, though, was Vargas Diemer, originally from São Pedro, Brazil—information provided by my aging pal Bernie Yeager.

Bernie had some other interesting tidbits. The area around São Pedro was settled by Germans in the 1940s and known for the freakish number of twins born there—the result of experiments done by Dr. Josef Mengele, some geneticists believe. The Nazi physician had posed as a veterinarian during the years he’d lived in São Pedro. It wasn’t until long after 1979, when Mengele was drowned by a SEAL-trained Mossad agent, that researchers made the connection between the reclusive veterinarian and a small village where for three generations more than half of the infants born are fraternal or identical twins.

“They are very, very German,” Bernie had told me, then informed me of something unexpected and disturbing. Vargas Diemer was the son of a locksmith and now a pilot for Swissair. It was ideal cover for an elite thief and sometime assassin—which he was, according to Yeager, although his avocation was known only to a few in the international community. Diemer was an articulate man, picky about assignments, who specialized in recovering compromising letters, photographs, and videos for blackmail victims. Contract assassination was the natural and more lucrative next step. Vargas Diemer, according to Bernie, had amassed a fortune working for a jet-set clientele—the politically powerful and ultrawealthy whom the Brazilian had met on the social circuit.

I’d been looking for someone who might want to kill me. Well, here was somebody in my own backyard. Automatically, I connected Diemer’s Sanibel visit with the Muslim cleric who had vanished after burying his teeth in my forearm. This wouldn’t be the first time a fatwa had been issued declaring that, as adjudged by Islamic Law, I deserved to be executed. But then, as I thought about it, I wasn’t so sure. Hire a Germanic Brazilian pro to mete out Muslim revenge? Money wouldn’t have been a problem, but that was not the way the religious crazies usually work.

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.

—

ONE 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.