Night Moves (Doc Ford)

19




TOMLINSON CAME TO THE HOUSE JUST BEFORE SUNSET and said through the screen door, “Something smells good! Mind if I use your computer?”

Kidney beans had been simmering all day in a Crock-Pot. Plus, I had six sweet potatoes in the oven. Two were for dinner along with the redfish filets and plantains now in stages of preparation. The other potatoes would be packed along with a half gallon of beans, salt, grapefruits, fresh chili peppers, coffee, and a slab of bacon for the trip. On the fifty-mile boat ride, I hoped to supplement the larder with more fish: tripletail, hopefully, but king mackerel steaks or cobia would be fine, too.

“What did she say?” I asked my pal. I’d sent him to Cressa’s house to gather information and was surprised he was back so soon. Two hours wasn’t a lot of time in the world of the married mistress.

Tomlinson sounded harried when he answered, “I’ll tell you about it in a sec. She’s supposed to e-mail me photos of the brother-in-law, so I want to check Yahoo first. But I think you’re right. I think he’s the guy who came here calling himself Luke-something. He actually is in the documentary business—or tried, at least—and there’s another connection, something neither of us knew.”

“She admits they had an affair?”

“Uhhh . . . can’t talk, gotta hit the head ASAP,” he replied, which explained his antsyness. “It’s something I ate, I think, or I would’ve used the bushes. Give me a couple of minutes, okay?”

I put Danny Morgan’s Captiva Moon in the CD player and spent the time getting dinner ready. The redfish had been filleted, washed, and stored on ice but kept dry. I dried the filets again, then poked holes in a Persian lime and drizzled the juice over the fish. In a plastic sack, I made a rub of salt, ground pepper, a pinch of cumin, and freshly powdered jalapeño, then turned my attention to the skillet. Peanut oil doesn’t burn at high temps, and is also acceptable to vegetarians like Tomlinson. I poured a quarter inch into a skillet, then turned the flames high. When the oil was spitting, I dumped the pan, then added only an eighth of an inch. While it heated, I applied the rub, and also tended to a skillet of plantains that was sputtering on the second burner of the little ship’s stone. I wanted to try fish gravy—a recipe I’d gotten in Panama—so I was adding spices to flour when Tomlinson reappeared. He carried two photos recently printed, his face and hands still wet from the bathroom sink.

“Is it him?” he asked.

I turned off both burners, saying, “Let me take a look,” and carried the photos to my reading chair.

“I hate lying to friends, and I couldn’t think of anything believable anyway, so I told Cressa it was better if we knew what her brother-in-law looked like—just in case he is snooping around. Which is sort of the truth.”

“Dean Arturo,” I said, turning on the lamp.

“Then it is him.”

No, but I didn’t say it. I was looking at photos of a rusty-haired man who had the height and moneyed bearing of Rob Arturo Jr. but none of the most commonly inherited features—earlobes, nose, chin, width between the eyes. Hair and height were similar, that’s all. But what I saw fit Cressa’s description of an adrenaline junkie who stayed fit by pushing the physical envelope.

In the first photo, the man had just completed what might have been a triathlon. He was at leaning rest, hands on knees, corded biceps and thighs extending into spandex shorts while he smiled at the camera: teeth of orthodontic quality and square chin, but a nose that had been broken, and oddly large eyes that were set close together. It gave the man a Bambi look. In the second photo, though, Bambi and an African tribesman were posed beside a recent kill: a small warthog hanging by its back legs from a limb. Both men wore a swath of cloth around their waists, and they’d used mud, or camo grease, to camouflage their skin. Only Bambi held a spear: a tri-edged steel point on a thin wooden shaft.

“Scary-looking dude, huh?” Tomlinson said. “Especially if he’s, well . . . if he is psychologically prone to being goddamn crazy.”

“It’s not the guy I met,” I told him.

Tomlinson stood straighter and wiped a hand across his forehead. “Really . . . you’re sure?”

I was reexamining the first photo. “Not even close. I’m not convinced it’s Rob Arturo’s brother, either. When you asked for a photo, did Cressa give you a hard time?”

“No, man. She was very tranquilo . . . which, you know, happens after smoking a doobie. Just a couple of tokes. Cressa’s wifely duties more or less orphaned her from the Toker’s Union, so I’m easing her back into the dealie.”

It crossed my mind that Vargas Diemer might benefit from Tomlinson’s efforts later in the evening. I asked, “She didn’t hesitate? She must’ve—why else use e-mail.”

Tomlinson exonerated the woman with a gesture and took the photos. “If you say it’s not the film guy, I don’t doubt it. But why do you think it’s not her brother-in-law?”

“Picture Rob and compare the faces. Do you see any family similarities?”

Tomlinson carried the photos to the window, saying, “This guy’s obviously not the investment type, which means he’s not a totally tight-assed dweeb. Couldn’t get sunlight up Robby’s khakis with a harpoon—that alone might throw you. Both of ’em, though, they’re tall . . . got that country club swagger . . . I don’t know, man, they look like they could be brothers to me.” Then, turning to me wide-eyed, added, “Jesus Christ, he kills animals with a spear?”

“It’s the latest thing with the survivalist types,” I replied. “I looked it up. They hold tournaments. The world finals are in South Africa. In the U.S., a leading manufacturer is Primal Steel. They sell six different types of spears, and they give the spear tips tribal names. Of course, purists prefer to make their own out of flint or bone—bone is a favorite.”

“You’re scaring me,” Tomlinson said. “Why do I get the feeling you enjoyed reading about this shit?”

“Good clean fun,” I replied. “Most productive strategy is spend hours in a tree over a game path. Or in a watering hole, breathing through a tube. Most productive technique isn’t throwing the spear—that’s not up close and personal enough. Either thrust up from the watering hole or lock your hands and legs around the spear and fall on your quarry from above. You know, become part of the weapon. Lots of blood and squealing—but none of the articles explained what to do if your quarry has long sharp horns.”

“Savages,” Tomlinson said. “The best argument against evolution looks back at those bastards from the bathroom mirror every morning.”

The man was sweating, I noticed, face paler than when he’d arrived, and his hands were shaking. I asked, “Are you okay?”

He rolled his eyes in a way that told me he was struggling with something.

“I thought you had a meditation class tonight?”

“It went great, and we were done before cocktail hour. Seven eager spirits psyched about receiving their mantras, man.” Then said, “I brought this, too,” and reached into a purselike bag he’s taken to carrying over his shoulder. It was a DVD. Unlike the disc Cressa had destroyed, this one was colored Macintosh white and was professionally labeled:

“GUY’S TRIBE” PILOT (1-of-3)

1. TARPON SLAYERS (RAW FT)

PRODUCER: C.K. BONO

“Guy’s Tribe,” I said. “Cressa told me Deano wanted to make documentaries but this sounds like he was shooting for his own series. Or a network. ‘Tarpon Slayers’—yeah, a series. She gave you this?”

“I need some water,” my pal said, then explained as he went to the fridge, “I found it next to the TV. Know what I did? I leveled with her—in a way. Told her I was hurt emotionally because she’d never confided in me. That she’d lied, in fact, about her family situation, but didn’t have a problem opening up to you. That really got to her, the honesty of it.”

“I wouldn’t say she opened up,” I replied. “It was more like she was trying a different lure.”

“I’m just not that cynical about people. Point is, Crescent got very soft and misty. Plus, after just a couple of hits, she was like stoned, as mentioned. Some of the stuff I found out about Rob’s dad and the brother—very interesting. Just when she was getting into it, though, she got a phone call and went outside to speak privately—a man she didn’t know well from what I overheard. So I decided it was okay to borrow the DVD after she had more or less handed me the keys to the family secrets.”

The Brazilian calling? I wondered about that as Tomlinson poured beer, not water, over ice and continued, “The father-in-law, Robert, he’s the king a*shole in the family. Deano, the youngest son, has been a professional screwup most his life, so Daddy gave him one more chance by financing a production company. The kid borrowed against his inheritance for years, so his chunk of the fortune was gone long ago. Rob, the boy dweeb, has also lost patience. He wants to have Deano put away permanently. Cressa said she’s starting to agree.”

I asked, “Was Deano disinherited before Cressa married the older brother or after?”

Tomlinson gulped half his beer, then paused to consider what I was implying. “That’s a stretch,” he said finally.

“Depends on when the father cut him out. Did she say? If it happened before the marriage, it’s unlikely Cressa would mention it—too embarrassing and incriminating. Hate to tell you, old buddy, but I think your extrasensory powers were blurred by testosterone when you met that woman.”

Tomlinson said, “Whew,” as if enduring a cramp, then wiped his face with a towel while he tried to process it. “Okay, okay . . . so let me try and picture what you’re saying: the beautiful older woman loves the wild brother, Deano, but marries the straight brother, Rob, because he’s going to inherit the family fortune. Which means”—my pal didn’t want to believe it from the way he was struggling—“which means you think Deano knew from the beginning why Cressa married Robby. Went along with it to keep Cressa in the family. Like a secret pact, you mean.”

Placing the DVD on the counter, I replied, “I put scenarios together based on what we know, then project how people behave. What elements catalyze what actions. That’s where it usually blurs. It’s all subjective, of course, but if there’s enough motivation to sabotage a plane and kill three people, I file it away. If it doesn’t, I trash it. So far, this is one of three scenarios that works.”

I picked up the DVD again. “You said Deano was in the film business. Does that mean his production company went bust? If he was trying to sell a series on tarpon tournaments in Boca Grande Pass, that’s big. My hook placement study could help put an end to the snag-fishing tournaments. Dan’s a high-profile opponent. If the Fish and Wildlife Commission does its job, the TV tournaments should be out of business in a season or two—in Boca Grande, anyway. No snag-fishing means less action. That translates into fewer viewers and sponsors. Plus, you were sleeping with the Arturo brothers’ secret treasure, so there’s plenty of motivation to kill all three of us.”

Instead of listening, Tomlinson was squinting at the palm of his hand for some reason, moving it incrementally closer, then farther away, as if testing his eyesight.

“What did you have to eat at Cressa’s place?” I asked. Maybe she or Deano poisoned the guy is what I was thinking.

“Not a thing,” he answered after I’d asked the question twice. “It’s what we were smoking, I just realized. Kondo gave me some samples of what is turning out to be amazing shit. Diarrhea should have tipped me off—small price to pay for a chance to actually see the bones in my hand.”

I pushed the DVD toward Tomlinson and told him, “If you can manage, put this on the computer so I can see the footage—no, wait. Call Cressa first. If you’re having a tough time, think about what she must be going through. Who else did Kondo target?” The question keyed a link I hadn’t made before, which is why I demanded, “Was Cressa one of his customers before you two met? Tell me the truth, damn it. Her brother-in-law’s addicted to something—painkillers, crack, for all I know. Deano would need a steady supplier.”

Because my pal didn’t respond immediately, I reached for my cell, adding, “I want to have a talk with your Haitian buddy. That’s another scenario that works, by the way—one drug dealer wiping out another. You have Kondo’s number, right . . . right?”

Tomlinson peered into the depths of his beer glass and replied, “Marion . . . I am so damn glad we didn’t die in that plane crash, I could cry, man. I really could.”

—

A LITTLE AFTER NINE, Vargas Diemer came into the lab, put his plate on the sink station, and popped a bottle of Perrier water before telling me, “I’ve never heard of fish gravy. Such a strange idea but excellent—nicely spiced, pepper and limes, yet . . . subtle. I also have an interest in native recipes of the Caribbean. Willing to share once again . . . Doc?”

We were on a first name basis now that the man had eaten the dinner I’d made. My “friend” Cressa Arturo, who’d had a far stronger reaction to the drug, was in my bedroom recovering. I was sitting at the desk computer, ten minutes into the raw footage Dean Arturo had shot of a Boca Grande tarpon tournament a few months earlier. I touched the space bar to freeze-frame, then reached for a pencil, asking, “How’s she doing?”

“Calmer, but not asleep,” he replied, clearly unconcerned. “Tell me, do you use juice from the fresh lime?” The man swiped a finger across his plate and tasted it. “How does one keep it from curdling when you create the roux?”

One adds the lime afterward, but I’d let the jet-set assassin figure that out for himself. “Maybe you should ask Cressa if she wants something to eat. She has to be drained after the night she’s had.”

No doubt. The woman had been in a drug-fueled hysteria when I’d telephoned her cell. Diemer was at the beach house with her and moments away from dialing 911—or so he claimed. More likely, though, he’d been weighing the risk of exposure against his opportunity to be alone with a vulnerable woman he had yet to bed. When the Brazilian realized it was me on the phone, he’d had no choice but to join Cressa’s rescuer by pretending to lead the way. Now he was the reluctant nursemaid, but only after Tomlinson had agreed she was stable enough to be left alone with the man.

“I heard Tomlinson go out the door,” I said to him as I wrote ½ cup sifted flour, a pinch of sea salt on a legal pad. “Where’d he go?” I craned to have a look through a south window. “Or is he still on the porch?”

“It was because of your dog,” Diemer replied. “Whenever I moved, he showed his teeth, so your hippie friend led him ashore. Why people tolerate untrained animals, it is something I will never understand.”

“An impressive dog,” I agreed. “Unless you’re talking about Tomlinson.”

The Brazilian hesitated, then decided it was a joke. “Yes . . . very funny. Actually, the hippie appears to be fine. Not totally coherent, but no serious side effects from the drug. Mysterious, no?”

I shook my head—No—while I worked on the recipe. “I think the drug dealer underestimated my friend’s experience with hallucinogenics. Cressa only had a couple of puffs and look what happened to her.”

“Why would a person do this intentionally?” Diemer said, maybe interested, maybe not. It was the second time I’d baited him on the subject but still wasn’t convinced he had no knowledge of the Haitian drug-dealing witch doctor. The matter became no clearer when he added, “Smoking marijuana puts women in a more receptive mood, this I understand. A useful tool. But, personally, I think it’s silly—pay money to behave stupidly and laugh at nothing funny?” The man shrugged as he crouched to look over my shoulder and then switched the subject to what he saw on the computer screen. “Ah! Tarpon fishing! Why such ugly little boats?”

In a frozen frame of the video Deano had shot, a dozen high-speed outboards were clustered like bumper cars over a pod of tarpon that had just sounded, the tails of two fish throwing a beaded veil of spray. The hulls of the boats were vacuum-wrapped in neon plastic—yellow, tangerine, pink—then tattooed with advertising logos—Yamaha, Spiderwire, Shimano, Miller Lite—which fit the NASCAR attire of the anglers.

“A tournament,” I told him. “You ever hear of the Silver King Professional Circuit?” I was four ingredients into the fish gravy recipe but looked up to gauge the man’s reaction when I added, “A Florida investment group owns the television rights. Tomlinson found that out this afternoon. This footage was shot by someone who wanted to copy the format, but he also wanted to start a whole new series of tournaments. There’s a lot of money involved. People will do all sorts of crazy things for money—or to eliminate someone who gets in their way.”

Diemer nodded. We were on his home ground now. In fact, it gave me an idea. “Would you mind giving me your opinion on this footage?”

He was an observant man. I was interested in what he had to say about the tarpon footage, but I was more interested in what he knew about the dysfunctional Arturo family who vacationed in Europe and had plenty of money.