Night Moves (Doc Ford)

18




I WAS STILL WONDERING, WHAT DID HANNAH SAY TO get the Brazilian off his yacht so fast? as the Brazilian said to me, “Call me Alberto . . . but not Al. The name makes me think of canned beer and condom dispensers. Doesn’t really fit with Sabino, either—lyrically, I’m saying. Not that I’m a snob, but one has the right to choose one’s own alias. Don’t you agree, doctor?”

The polished syntax again, which suggested a boarding school, or Jesuit, education and old Brazilian money. According to Bernie, though, Diemer was the son of a locksmith, born in a rural village. So it was another act. But maybe a man who’d finessed his way up the social ladder while amassing a fortune had earned the right to play a ruling-class Castilian. The role suited him: a member of the arrogant glitterati who was willing to bond with an inferior—me, in this case—if the inferior was deemed worthy.

Diemer and I had changed places, me sitting at my office desk, him in a metal chair, but the folder was still in his lap and the book They Flew Into Oblivion within reach. I hadn’t showered, but I had changed into sweatpants and a pullover before returning with a Corona for each of us and an extra Gatorade for me. “Most people call me Ford,” I said in reply to “Alberto.” “Or Doc.”

Beer in hand, the Brazilian nodded Salute, then placed the bottle near the pistol, which lay unloaded, still separated from its magazine. It was a quarter ’till eleven, the moon dazzling outside, where the retriever dozed after returning from the bushes.

The Brazilian wasn’t chatty, but he was comfortable saying whatever he pleased, which struck me as unusual for a criminal operative. Acting or not, he had an elevated sense of entitlement, the imperious Castilian who doesn’t socialize with the uncultured. The reason, I guessed, was that Diemer perceived us both to be isolates in the same lonely profession, which was accurate in some ways—not that I was going to admit it—and it explained why he was so forthcoming.

I reminded myself, He also wants something. The man hadn’t mentioned seeing me with Cressa Arturo earlier that morning, which was puzzling. The feral expression on his face had been intense, unmistakable. He couldn’t have forgotten the blonde in the lemon chemise.

So I played it loose by playing along, but paid attention. I hadn’t confirmed his suspicions by using Diemer’s real name, nor had we returned to the subject of me checking his background through intelligence sources. But the man knew it was true. In his mind, at least, it allowed us to explore safer topics, such as Flight 19, as well as other missing ships and planes that interested him—a B-25, flown by Captain Gene Nattress; a German sub loaded with gold bullion that had disappeared en route to South America. I was now convinced that World War II and its missing relics actually was one of Diemer’s passions. He had already told me about a DC-3 he’d helped salvage in the Bahamas and had mentioned details from a “drawer full of files” he’d collected on the gold-laden submarine.

“Is all of this information accurate?” he asked, taking several papers from the folder. “For instance, says here that parents of the missing men were convinced some of their sons survived and—most surprising—that they lived ‘like animals’ in the Everglades, according to this. In this newspaper . . . no, this one—have you read it? The story made headlines in many of your papers.”

I replied, “I skimmed through them,” and let him talk.

“Then you’ve missed important details,” Diemer scolded. He held up a clipping from the St. Louis Post-Dispatch that ran January 1946, then adjusted his glasses so he could quote directly: “‘Hunters from the Seminole Indian Tribe of Florida have reported finding an isolated camp and bootprints deep in the swamp. Along with the remains of a campfire, and many bones from animals that have been eaten, this tells us our boys might still be alive.’” His eyes continued to scan as he said, “I wonder if this is possible.”

I said, “A grieving mother would believe anything if it meant her son was still alive.”

“You’re convinced there were no survivors. Es fascinating. Newspaper reporters from that time obviously disagree.”

“It could have happened, but there’s not enough information to go on,” I answered, aware that his attention had shifted to a photo of the parachute harness.

The Brazilian leafed through more papers, then said, “The telegram to the missing aviator’s brother is a new one on me. Bizarre, huh? The newspapers published three, four articles about it, but not until”—the man squinted at the small type—“it was several weeks later that these stories appeared. To them, at least, the telegram appeared to be genuine.”

I said, “The information put together by my pilot friend, yes, it’s accurate. The book by Quasar is the best on the subject. The other stuff, though—the newspaper stories especially—I don’t think it’s credible.” I looked at my watch to communicate impatience, then offered the man another chance. “How’d fly fishing go today? I saw the rod cases when you left this morning.”

Diemer had yet to ask about the photos of Avenger wreckage stacked on the desk, so he ducked my question by saying, “Quite good—but back to these planes. Almost seventy years later, they still haven’t been found.” He made a tsk-tsk sound. “Mysteries, the few left that are real and important, they deserve to be solved—incredible they haven’t. I become obsessive about such things.” Finally, he reached for the stack of Avenger photos, adding, “It’s something else we have in common, Dr. Ford,” and held up a photo of the buried tail section.

I finished my Gatorade and replied, “Two peas in a pod . . . Alberto.”

The slang amused him but didn’t budge him. “You probably know that, by profession, I’m a jet jockey—an airline pilot. I’ve visited Germany too many times to count—finest military libraries in the world, trust me. But even the Germans can’t locate several submarines that went missing during the war. And your government with all its money! How can they not account for five torpedo bombers? Or a ship the size of a B-25? I dislike sloppiness”—Diemer’s eyes moved around the lab, which I keep tidy but was now robotic in appearance thanks to Cressa—“particularly sloppy work. Once again, we are similar. So, to me, it’s no surprise that someone like you has found the missing planes.” He slipped the photo into the stack and held up another, the parachute harness, and mused, “No survivors—how strange that you are so certain.”

I told him, “I’m working with two friends and we have an agreement. A few pieces of wreckage, that’s all we’ve found so far. Unlikely it’s from Flight 19, but we’re not sure. That’s about all I can tell you.”

The man nodded in a way that said he understood, but I knew he wasn’t done, so I pressed, “It’s getting late. You can take the book, but I need to keep the folder.” I slid They Flew Into Oblivion toward him and began to collect papers and photos. Then tried again to switch subjects, asking, “You caught fish today?”

“I had a very good guide,” the Brazilian said, getting to his feet, then gathering his pistol. “You know her?”

No searching look, no trickiness in his tone, so I answered, “Hannah Smith. A nice girl. Did she put you on redfish? Not twenty yards from here, I saw a big school this morning. Only in a couple feet of water.”

“I read about Captain Smith in Florida Sportsman,” Diemer explained. “From her photograph, I didn’t expect her to be so attractive.” He smiled. “I think you agree.”

I said, “She’s a fishing guide. It’s her business and . . . I don’t mix business and pleasure.”

Diemer nodded. “Few would understand your meaning, but I do. Maintain personal discipline when traveling—tourists and amateurs have no concept of the importance. For example, I seldom socialize unless work requires it, and never drink more than two glasses of wine in an evening. Women, though”—shaking his head, Diemer leaned to confide—“they are mi defeito, my weakness. Even when I was married, I couldn’t help myself. It’s perhaps unwise to admit weakness, but there you have it.”

My chance to use a scolding tone. “All it takes is one slipup,” I warned. Then opened the door and followed the man onto the porch. “You’ll be leaving Dinkin’s Bay soon anyway, so why risk it? Probably never see her again.”

Somehow the Brazilian had lost the thread. “Who?”

“Your fishing guide,” I said.

In the porch light, the Brazilian’s expression asked Are you kidding? “I didn’t say that! I’ve hired her boat for the next three days. Perhaps more, it depends on how things go.”

“How the fishing goes?” I offered.

The man shrugged, and blinked at the brightness of the moon. “She took me to a group of tarpon. Which I didn’t believe because it’s the wrong time of year—for tarpon. Yet she saw a fish jump—more than a mile away, she saw it. Then off we were.”

I was jolted. Was that the reason Hannah called the man’s cell? If so, it meant she didn’t know I’d broken into her client’s yacht. Definitely good news . . . So why did I feel disappointed?

Diemer was now locked into the subject of fishing. “I’ve read about tarpon in the journals, but, my god, so powerful, I never imagined! All morning we followed those fish, no other boats to bother us. Incredible sport. And she’s quite a good fly caster herself. Not as technically skilled as me, of course, but a trained eye for tarpon.”

It was beneath me to attempt a juvenile blocking finesse, but that’s what I did as I trailed him toward the mangroves. “You’re a man with money,” I said, “you must be a target for the blue-collar working types—the treasure hunters.”

“Blue-collar?” he asked over his shoulder, then figured it out. “My god, so right! American women, the nine-to-five class—even more devious than the lower classes of Eastern Europe.” Then used barrio talk to caricaturize his point. “Bro, you been to Prague? The chicas, they wanna see money before Mr. Penga. But their big fondos, man, those sweet-ah bucetas are worth it!” His accent wasn’t bad for English, and his enthusiasm added I love that city.

I replied, “Not Prague, but I’ve heard. Nordic genetics—similar to the blonde you saw this morning. On my deck. You seemed to notice.”

The Brazilian stopped and turned in the moonlight, taller than me but not as broad. When he replied, “The blonde? Yes, I did. I assumed you were sleeping with her.”

“No,” I replied, “she was a houseguest.”

The man laughed, but in the probing way that expresses doubt to confirm the truth.

“She needed a place to sleep,” I explained, “that’s all. Going through a bad divorce, the first and last time she stays here as far as I’m concerned.”

“Because she has money and you don’t,” he translated. “That’s the way it works. One night of sport, but don’t expect anything more. Ah—women!” he said, then commiserated with a shrug and tried to work his own deal. “I don’t suppose she happened to notice Seduci?”

“She asked about it,” I said. “Cressa asked about you, too.”

We were near the docks where his yacht was moored. One of the last pay phones on the island is bolted to a wall outside the marina office. Seldom used, but its neon flicker provided the opening the Brazilian had been waiting for. “I just realized—it’s only a little after eleven. Was your blond friend expecting you to call?”

“Her name’s Crescent,” I replied. “No, but I have her number if you want it.”

“Well . . . if the poor woman’s restless, upset about her divorce. And we’re both alone on this damn little island . . .” He allowed himself all of two seconds to decide before asking, “You don’t mind sharing?”

“Just her phone number,” I reminded him.

“Of course! I’d be willing to call myself.”

I didn’t mind, and he did.

—

AT SUNRISE, fly rod in hand, I was sliding through turtle grass, looking for redfish on a feed, but also keeping an eye on Hannah Smith as she idled down the channel. How would she react when she saw me?

Civilized. It was the kindest way to describe the glance she allowed me, and the acknowledging wave. Then done with it, her eyes focused on Diemer’s yacht until she was abeam the swim platform, where she tied off and waited.

Hopefully, the self-important bastard had overslept after a night of “sport” with the married mistress.

Maybe it had happened, but I doubted it. Around one a.m., still unable to sleep, I had carried a bottle of beer outside and saw that Seduci’s flybridge lights were off. A timer switch possibly, but it was more likely that Cressa had sent the man packing early. I didn’t believe that Tomlinson was her only extramarital conquest, but there was something calculating about the married mistress that told me she wasn’t an indiscriminate screw-around. True, Diemer resembled a Germanic Zorro. True, he was rich, connected, and met the requirements of a genuinely dangerous man. So . . . so what the hell was I thinking? Of course Cressa Arturo found him attractive! Hannah probably did, too.

Wrong again, Ford.

I flexed my jaw and continued wading the shallows, pretending not to notice that instead of oversleeping the Brazilian was already getting into my former skiff aided by the attentions of my former jogging partner, who was laughing about something. Some ingratiating remark, no doubt, about the Western-looking shirt Hannah wore or the length of her buckskin brown legs. And why should I care?

Stick to business, I reminded myself. Where the hell did those fish go?

Thirty yards away near the ruins of a long-gone fish house, that’s where. Concentrating on a bloom of nervous water, I moved to within striking distance after I’d checked my leader and lure—a Chico’s Deceiver: mylar and synthetic hair wrapped on a one-ought hook. I pretended to be unaware that Hannah and Diemer were to my left, idling away from the marina in pursuit of more sport. One or both would be watching me because fly fishermen are shameless voyeurs when it comes to evaluating the competition. So now would be a good time to show off my casting skills—if I were an ego-driven adolescent.

I’m not, yet I did it anyway. Couldn’t stop myself from unfurling forty feet of line with a roll cast . . . stripped off another fifty feet to float near my knees . . . lifted the rod to reduce drag while I single-hauled and popped the line free . . . edged a step closer to tighten my back-cast loop and waited, waited as the line deployed behind, loading the rod . . . then hauled again on the forward cast, which vaulted the line like a slingshot toward the fish, a hundred feet away, where the Chico’s Deceiver slapped flat on the surface, then sank, undulating like wounded bait.

Not a flawless cast, but so craftsmanlike I was tempted to steal a glance at two admiring gazes—how could my observers help it? I didn’t, though, even when Diemer’s laughter carried across the water and he commented to Hannah, “Tailing loop—typical of novices,” which was total bullshit. Well . . . my line hadn’t tailed as badly as usual, so his criticism was rooted in envy—had to be.

A Holocaust butcher, Bernie had said, was responsible for the genetics in the village where Diemer had been born—no surprise there. I was thinking that when I heard Hannah tell him, “Hold tight,” then throttled away at speed—she wasn’t interested, apparently, in whether I was on fish or just blind-casting.

I thought, Nazi prick! but then had to smile at my own childishness. Truth was, I found Vargas Diemer interesting. Intimidating, too—not physically, but because he assumed his various roles so naturally, each tailored to camouflage the dispassionate, manipulative brain that directed his moves from within.

The man was the superior actor, no denying that. A private contractor in an unusual craft who had gotten rich—no, richer—and who had the balls to brag about it to me. Whether he was in Dinkin’s Bay on vacation or on an assignment, I still didn’t know. The high profile he maintained suggested recreation . . . but the Sig Sauer with a sound suppressor was indicative of a hit man on a mission. The same was true, perhaps, of the way he had used me as a conduit to access Cressa Arturo. For all I knew, Cressa’s wealthy husband, or her father-in-law, or even Tomlinson or someone else I knew, might be the man’s actual target—if there was a target. Hannah Smith, though . . . that connection grated at me. I didn’t like the fact that she would spend the next three days alone in a small space with a professional manipulator whose hobby while on the road was seducing the local women.

I stripped my line home and told myself, Forget it—she’s an adult—then waded closer to the schooling fish, sliding my feet to spook stingrays, and made another cast. On the second strip, the hook jolted as if it had snagged a limb, so I locked my index finger over the line and lifted. At the same instant, the angle formed by rod and fly line transected a gelatinous swirl forty feet away—a redfish had eaten my lure.

I smiled—a man whose world had been simplified—as the fish turned with intent, generating enough torque with its tail that my seven-weight fly rod bowed as if to snap. I held tight and watched a dozen other reds spook away in comet streaks of silver. The fish I’d hooked boiled again and attempted to join them by peeling off line at a speed more suitable to a motorcycle. The run would have blistered my index finger, so the finger became an attentive guide. It would have bloodied my knuckles, so I cleared the reel by yanking my left hand high not unlike a bronc rider who has been overpowered and seeks balance.

On its first run, a redfish often mimics an arrow’s trajectory, straight for the mangroves. Some atavistic memory, perhaps, associates shadows and tree roots with safety, unaware that barnacles colonize there, sharp enough to cut the stoutest fishing line. Oysters, too. This fish bulled its way under the roots where, by all rights, it should have broken free, but I speared my rod tip into the water, almost to the bottom, and kept the line horizontal. For several seconds, I was linked to a whirlpool of detritus by a thread that vibrated like a violin string, but the thread held. Then, walking backward, I tractored the fish away from the bushes, a blue-hued fin showing on the surface when it was finally in open water again.

A minute later, I held a six-pound redfish by the lip, a sculpture of mahogany and bronze so perfectly utilitarian that its belly-toothed croaking struck me as anomalous. Because the school had regrouped, I was tempted to land another just for fun but decided against it. I had a lot to do today, it was true. There was work in the lab. Plus, I’d received two e-mail replies to my lost-and-found ads about the retriever. Both parties had to be answered in a way that tested without offending.

More time-consuming would be getting ready for our trip the next morning. Tomlinson and I were returning to the Bone Field and the wreckage of the Avenger. It was possible we’d camp a night or two, depending on how our search went and if Dan Futch would be able to join us on Saturday as he hoped. Before leaving, though, there was an important detail to clear up. I wanted to find out if Luke Smith was actually the troubled brother-in-law, Dean Arturo.

Confirm it too late, we might have unwanted company.