Night Moves (Doc Ford)

20




I HIT THE SPACE BAR WHILE THE BRAZILIAN PULLED up a chair, both of us cleaning our glasses in prelude to commenting on the action. The footage was raw, without a sound track or voice-over. As we watched, I explained to Diemer that it was shot in Boca Grande Pass during the last hour of the last tournament of the season and three of the boats in the bumper car jumble were tied for first place.

“Grand prize was a quarter million dollars,” I told him, “so tournaments like this have the built-in drama a television series needs—if they land fish. That’s the key: catching lots of fish.”

“How do you know this?” he said.

“I was there finishing a project,” I replied, aware that a more obvious question would have been to ask if I’d shot the footage. Had the articulate professional slipped?

If he did, the man recovered seamlessly, saying, “Good. The framing is passable . . . but amateurish. This person’s equipment lacks a stabilizer . . . and his lens is filthy. I should have known it wasn’t you behind the camera.”

The Brazilian might struggle with the subtleties of Yankee humor, but his powers of observation were first-rate. Something else: he knew photography.

“Watch how the boats move,” I said. “You’re a fisherman, so speak up if you see something . . . well, unusual. If you want it played back or stopped, just say.”

“You have never seen this before?”

Shaking my head, I tapped the screen to focus the man’s attention. “Watch . . . the school of tarpon is moving. See? Notice that all seven boats take off full speed after them. Now watch what happens when they’re over the school again.”

Diemer was getting into it. “Bizarre,” he said. “An entirely different technique than Captain Hannah uses. Far more aggressive. Why don’t the fish run away?”

I told him the fish we were watching had run. Boca Grande is the deepest inlet on the coast, so the fish had fled by sounding. “Picture a limestone basin with crevices,” I added. “The tarpon have dropped down into one of those crevices.”

We watched the boats roar to a stop above the fish . . . watched anglers drop weighted hooks, a plastic worm on each, deep into the invisible crevice. When their lead weights hit bottom, a few anglers cranked reels furiously to retrieve the hooks at high speed. Others held their rods motionless.

“The fishing lures are like none I’ve seen,” Diemer commented. “Heavy sinkers attached directly to the hook. Humm.”

“Four ounces of lead or more,” I replied and hit the space bar, turning to him. “You just nailed an important point. Big weights on hooks that are tied to leaders—but light leaders, almost invisible . . . See?” I tapped the magnify key. “Look at the rig near the bottom of the screen”—then zoomed closer—“and not much thicker than the fishing line they’re using.”

“Yes,” Diemer said. “Unusual.”

I hit Play and explained that the technique we were watching worked only in Boca Grande Pass and a few other similar areas worldwide.

For several minutes, the Brazilian stayed close to the screen, studying every move, but then sat straighter and said, “I understand now. In the crevices, the tarpon are trapped. Then, like small bombs, the hooks are dropped into a group of fish. Often the hooks are rapidly retrieved, which makes it more effective. Yes . . . I see what these men are doing.”

“Not trapped,” I corrected him, “the fish are packed tight into a hole that has walls. Limestone walls, mostly, and chunks of archaic coral.”

“Trapped,” Diemer insisted, “unable to react when a fishing line brushes against their gills or the hinge of the mouth. I know this technique. The Indios use a similar method in streams in the Amazon . . . in Europe, too—Ireland most especially. I’ve seen it used to catch salmon with very light lines, but only in fast water when the salmon are spawning in groups. There is a term for it—you do not know this term?”

“Floss-fishing,” I replied. “Or snatch-fishing—but there the weight is usually molded onto a treble hook. It’s the same principle, though.”

Nodding, the Brazilian did a quick pantomime of flossing his teeth. “The line slips into a narrow hinge of the mouth or gills. Yes? Then the hook buries itself when the fish attempts to flee.” His eyes returned to the computer screen. “This is called professional fishing in Florida? Forgive me if you disagree, but it’s hardly fishing.”

I replied, “It’s for a television series, remember? They call it jig-fishing to make it sound legitimate, but it guarantees they’ll land tarpon even when fish aren’t feeding. Can you imagine investing a quarter million or more in a TV tournament but getting no action footage? That’s why an agency hired me to do a hook placement study.”

“Outrageous,” Diemer said.

The irony caused me to smile. A man who robbed and sometimes killed for a fee was offended by a breach of sporting ethics. It confirmed, though, that he had connected the disparate elements and had quickly figured out what, over decades, Florida’s legislators had failed to understand. A moment later, the Brazilian snapped his fingers to get my attention. “Two boats—they have hooked tarpon!”

I had been in Boca Grande on that summer afternoon and had no interest in watching what happened next. I knew that one fish had been hooked in the eye socket, the other beneath a boney plate outside the mouth. Just before it was landed, the eye-hooked tarpon was then hit so hard by a hammerhead shark it exploded in a cloud of blood and silver scales, scales that glittered like confetti as they spiraled into the depths.

I got up and walked to the file cabinet. “Keep watching. Then you might want to read the conclusion of the report I did.”

My back to the screen, I took my time locating copies of the study. Not until I heard Diemer exclaim, “My god! You must see what just happened!” did I return, a copy in hand. “A shark,” he said, “a shark just ate a tarpon . . . I think, but the camera work is so poor . . .” The man added something in Portuguese to vent his frustration, then asked, “Who is responsible for this camera work?”

When I did a quick replay, I saw that the Germanic Brazilian was being too harsh on the shooter—presumably, Dean Arturo. Arturo’s camera had been blocked from the shark attack by the tournament’s own camera boat, which was no surprise. As I watched, though, I was startled when the lens panned the flotilla and then suddenly stopped when it found me and two assistants aboard my new boat: a twenty-six-foot Zodiac with a T-top, radar, a weather console, twin Mercs, and Sanibel Biological Supply stenciled on the side. The shot was out of focus, at first, but then zoomed until the frame was tight, just me holding a clipboard. For the first time, I heard the cameraman speak. But he spoke to himself, not for an audience, or possibly to a friend, because he muttered, “That’s him . . . the a*shole biologist, it’s gotta be.” The shot zoomed out of focus, then sharpened again. “Yeah . . . the one who wants to screw our chances before I even get started.”

The shot tightened on my face, which made what came next more personal. “Marion Ford . . . you f*ck. Stick a spear through your neck and wait for the sharks. Put that in your research paper.”

No fake Boston accent, but I recognized the voice. I’d heard it the morning I’d witnessed the stingray giving birth—Dean Arturo had posed as Luke Smith. I didn’t know why Cressa’s photo hadn’t matched, but I didn’t care. I had proof. Proof enough even if I never again met the man face-to-face.

—

THE SHARK FOOTAGE ENDED, and the next shot was of the winning boat dragging a tarpon toward the weigh station. The sling that awaited the fish resembled a body bag, which added implicitly to the tarpon’s humiliation.

Diemer was confused by what he’d just heard Dean Arturo say but interested. “This person, the cameraman, is he not your associate?” Then added a smile to his voice and confided, “Sounds rather dangerous to me. Why . . . that man just threatened your life!”

Seldom does the solution to a problem flash into my head without the plodding logic most solutions require. It did now. The catalyst was the way the Brazilian had said “rather dangerous.” It was a warning, but he was also having fun with it. Diemer relished the potential those words offered—a hunter who got an adrenaline kick from projecting how he would deal with such a matter.

Two peas in a pod, I had joked.

Maybe Diemer would have his chance. Which is why I decided to tell him the truth and explained, “A few days ago, he did try to kill me. So it’s not surprising.”

“How?”

I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“But you do know him?”

“If it’s the same voice—and I think it is—I only met the guy once. Three days ago, Sunday morning. He offered me ten thousand dollars to come along on our search for Flight 19 and film it. Obviously, he has some personal issues, but that’s not why I said no. And the tarpon footage was shot months before he made his offer.”

The man’s posture changed subtly, no longer interested in sportfishing or anything else. “Then you have found the planes.”

I touched the space bar to stop the video . . . thought about it for a few seconds . . . then decided to take a bigger risk. “You mind telling me something . . . Vargas? Are you really here on vacation? If it’s business, I know better than to ask details.”

The man remained unruffled, but neither was he amused. “Why did you deny checking my identity?”

I said, “Just being careful.”

“Humble,” he replied, staring at me. “And you have the resources to check on a stranger from Brazil.” He smiled. “A Swissair pilot. Why would you care?”

“I have an idea,” I said, “if you’re willing to listen—but let me make sure what we say stays private.”

I went out the door, across the breezeway to my living quarters. A singsong garble of voices told me that Tomlinson and Cressa Arturo were in the bedroom talking. The dog, sleeping in the middle of the floor, told me the chaos was over—for now. I returned to the lab with two cold beers, turned a chair backward, and said to Diemer, “Your business is your business, but I think maybe we can help each other. We have things in common, like you said. For instance, I have a lot of contacts in Central and South America—Cuba as well. I suspect you know that’s true.”

Yes, Diemer knew. He gestured in a way that said I’m listening while he removed his wire glasses and cleaned them.

“I’m a biologist, you fly for Swissair. Fine. Doesn’t really matter what we do for a living, but traveling is easier—and a hell of a lot safer—if a person has trusted assets scattered around. That’s what I have to trade—information when and if I can help you out. A month from now, five years from now, all you have to do is call.”

Diemer misinterpreted the offer—intentionally, I guessed. “Intelligence,” he said carefully. “Information provided by contacts from the National Security Agency? I’m confused about what you are asking in return.”

“No,” I said. “Just me. If you’re in a jam, I’ll give you a name or a contact number that might be helpful. I have nothing whatsoever to do with government agencies. Let’s make that clear.”

“Of course,” the Brazilian replied, said it the way it is always said by people in the black ops business. “And what do you want from me?”

I told him, “The man we’re talking about—the guy who offered me ten thousand dollars, then just threatened to kill me?—he’s Cressa’s brother-in-law. I don’t doubt he’s actually interested in Flight 19. Even a novice producer like him, a piece on those missing planes might sell to a cable network. Maybe even get him a deal for a guy’s adventure series. He owes his father a lot of money, apparently, but he’s also mentally unstable—a head injury puts him in and out of institutions. Two days before he made his offer is when my two friends and I were almost killed.”

Say something like that to most people, they will ooh and ahhh, then press for the gruesome details. Not Diemer. He tilted his head as if to declare neutrality, then responded, “An experienced man would handle the matter himself.”

“Do what, invite him outside to fight?” I said. “Don’t piss in your own pond—it’s a saying we have. If I did something about this, I’d have to leave the country. That’s why I need an outsider with the right skills to help.”

The Brazilian gave me an indignant look. “If you’re asking me to . . . eliminate your threat, the idea is stupid.” He spread his hands to indicate my lab, the stilthouse, everything I owned, and explained, “You couldn’t afford the minimum price that”—he caught himself—“that people say such work requires. From an expert technician, not some ‘Yo, dude’ viciado, a drug addict from a ghetto.”

The man, getting impatient, sat back in his chair. “This is a dangerous subject. Even to discuss such a thing is . . . well, here, you like old sayings? Pull the trigger, and you can never stop the bullet. Understand my meaning? Go to the police, Dr. Ford, that’s my advice. I can’t help you.”

When I replied, “That’s exactly what I plan to do,” I watched his impatience transition into curiosity. “Tonight,” I added. “I want to scare the brother-in-law off this island before someone really gets hurt. To make it happen, I need evidence the guy is making illegal videos of Cressa while she’s with male visitors. She’s been protecting the guy, so it’s better if she doesn’t know what’s up. This is a wealthy little town, and the local cops don’t tolerate the blackmailer types. Approach them in the right way, with the right evidence, there’s a chance they’ll run the guy off without arresting him. Everything nice and quiet and my problem’s solved.”

“He actually is filming her?” Now Diemer was interested, probably because there was a chance his visit had been documented by a camera.

“His name’s Dean Arturo,” I said, “but he also uses ‘Luke Smith.’ He sets up cameras outside her house and the pool area. Three cameras that I’ve seen, all activated by laser trip wires or sensors. With that many sensors, it’s likely that he appears in some of the footage—a shot that proves it’s him, that’s what I need.”

“Then he is blackmailing the woman.”

“In a way. I think the brother-in-law trades the videos to Cressa in exchange for protecting him, probably gives him money, too. When she doesn’t play by his rules—and it’s happened only once that I know of—the guy punishes her by delivering a DVD anonymously to her husband.”

“If she was filmed in bed with another man,” Diemer countered, “in flagrante or just having fun—it depends on the husband, of course—then the damage has been done. Why would the brother-in-law continue such a pointless threat?” The Brazilian, an expert on blackmailers, asked the question in a dismissive way, meaning Dean Arturo’s hold on the woman had already been neutralized.

I said, “I don’t know why. But his reasons won’t matter as far as the island cops are concerned. That’s the important thing. Personally, though, I’d like to find out. Cressa and her husband signed a prenuptial agreement. If we had a copy, it might explain his behavior. Hers, too.”

I had taken only a few sips from my beer, but now picked up the bottle and took a drink. The move gave Diemer time to sit in silence until he finally attempted to cloak his curiosity by saying, “I find Mrs. Arturo to be . . . sensual. For this reason, I’m interested.”

“An attractive woman,” I agreed. I took another drink and waited.

The man tapped the desk with an impatient finger, then pressed, “I don’t suppose you know where she keeps her valuables? If it is a local bank”—his expression read Impossible—“but her home’s another matter. People tend to entrust their cash, their jewels, et cetera, to the same hiding place. The videos and her personal papers might be there as well. But not actual videos, if I am right. She’s an intelligent woman. She would insist on having the original memory cards from the cameras. Not copies. My point is, if I . . . if a person found them, he would have no way of knowing in advance if the photographer himself is in a shot—and that’s the proof you need. Understand the problem?”

Diemer loved women and the adrenaline rush he got from stealing, so fretting about details didn’t disguise his willingness. Good. I placed my beer on the desk and tried to set the hook. The night I had gone to her house after she was asleep and found the cameras? I’d also done a little stealthy snooping in the house itself. Hadn’t found much, but I had found one thing. “At her beach house, there’s a hidden wall safe in the study. She doesn’t know I found it. A good one, modern, larger than most I’ve seen, and it’s wired into the security system. Even if it wasn’t too close to home, I don’t have the skills to breach something like that.” I gave it a beat before adding, “The son of a locksmith might be able to do it, though.”

For an instant, what might have been a knowing smile appeared on the man’s face but vanished when he said, “How would the locksmith’s son profit?”

“I’ve already told you.”

“Nonsense,” Diemer said. “I already have more contacts in South America than I can use. There is another way, though. Let’s assume there are other items in this safe, valuable items. Her husband is wealthy, you say. How wealthy?”

I looked in the direction of my living quarters, then got up and closed the heavy plank door I seldom use. When I was seated again, I kept my voice low. “She can’t know she’s been robbed. That should be obvious to someone like you.”

“Done properly, she won’t—not for a period of time. It depends, of course, on what’s in the safe. Gold coins and bars are an investment, not something to be fondled. I know women who seldom touch the actual diamonds they’ve had replicated for a ring. A matching necklace and bracelet, it’s common. Months go by, they never look.”

Was he serious? “Not only do you want to get the woman in bed,” I argued, “now you want to steal her jewels, too? That’s coldhearted even for a . . . Swissair pilot. No, you can’t touch her valuables. I’m after leverage, not profit.”

“The risk taker takes—it is always part of the deal,” Diemer shot back, then added in a tone that sealed the subject, “If your ethics don’t allow it, the solution’s simple: find someone else.”

I shook my head, frustrated, and tried to regroup by repeating, “She can’t know. You have to understand that or there’s no point in going any further.”

“And here is what you must understand,” Diemer countered. “I’ve been in the woman’s house only twice and I haven’t seen the safe. If I do this and anything looks wrong, or feels wrong, I will leave. My rules, not yours. You mentioned your local police—that’s another concern. I think it’s idiotic to involve some uneducated campesino with a gun. I won’t be a part of it.”

Peasants was the translation.

“This isn’t Brazil,” I reminded him, “it’s Sanibel Island, which means the guys I know are probably overtrained, so you can stop worrying.”

Diemer immediately shrugged his acquiescence, which told me I’d just been hand-fed the only concession he was willing to make. I was thinking, He won’t stop there, which the man proved by saying, “There’s something else I want—and it’s not negotiable.”

Flight 19. That was his price. The jet-set assassin wanted to be included in the search. He wanted to be along every step of the way and receive an equal share if there was profit.

“I have partners,” I reminded him.

“Telephone them now,” he said, getting to his feet, “but no mention of why I’m to join you. Then call your policeman friend, if you must—but speak as if you already have the evidence. It’s smarter to document ownership in advance of stealing it.”

I didn’t take his advice; waited until after eleven p.m. to telephone Lt. Kerry Brett and tell him I had photos and video of a stalker.

By then, it was true.