Night Moves (Doc Ford)

21




THE NEXT MORNING, IN THE GRAY AND SILKEN HEAT of a stormy Thursday, Dean Arturo confirmed a couple of things when he crashed through a glass door he had shattered with a camera tripod, then sprinted across the parking lot of a hotel, my off-duty cop friends in pursuit.

“Crazy as ten loons,” Tomlinson muttered, dazed by what had just happened or the hallucinogenics still in his system.

“That’s him, the one who came to my lab,” I said, meaning that Deano was also Luke Smith. Then added, “Stay where you are. I promised Kerry we wouldn’t get involved.”

“Involved?” Tomlinson said. “Hah! I want to get the hell out of here before the Earth catches fire!”

“Stay calm,” I told him. “Just sit there and let them handle it.”

Easy for me to say, but not so easy to heed as I watched Deano, ponytail swinging with every stride, hurdle a bike rack and disappear around the corner of the hotel. Kerry and his partner, Moonley, followed, Moonley pulling a radio from his pocket, not a firearm, before they, too, vanished behind the building.

“He’s headed for the beach,” I said, unaware I had opened the driver’s-side door and was standing outside my truck.

“This is your idea of nonviolent intervention!” Tomlinson hollered from inside. “I told you bad shit happens when I’m around cops. You and our new partner, the Nazi Brazilian—suddenly, it all makes sense!”

My pal was still brittle from a long night spent dealing with chemical demons and comforting the married mistress. For the past twenty minutes I’d been telling him the truth about how I’d discovered where Deano was staying. Shared it despite the Brazilian’s instructions to remain silent about the burglary. How else could I explain why we were in my truck, watching from a distance, while Kerry and his partner Moonley paid an unofficial call on the crazy brother-in-law? I had gone into detail—but also left out several key bits of information—about how my pact with the Germanic Brazilian had turned out better than expected.

Much better—until seconds ago when Dean Arturo crashed through the sliding glass doors of his hotel room and fled. And much too smoothly, as I was just now realizing, for the odds not to wipe the smug look off my face and remind me of something I knew better than most: in the field, nothing ever goes as planned.

—

UNTIL THAT INSTANT, my plan had gone without a hitch. At a little after eleven p.m., Vargas Diemer exited the side lawn of the Arturo property, wearing a jogging suit and surgical gloves. I had been standing watch near the street, which was where he’d slipped a candy box into my hands. Did it without slowing his breezy stride or saying a word, then disappeared toward the beach: a tourist out for a jog in the moonlight.

Impressive. Same with the Brazilian’s cat burglar skills demonstrated during the twenty-seven minutes it had taken him to override the security system, crack the safe, and reappear. Along with the candy box, Diemer had exited carrying an unfamiliar shoulder pack—a detail I had not shared with Tomlinson.

The bag wasn’t full, but it had looked heavy. Diemer hadn’t offered an explanation. I didn’t ask.

My truck had been parked at the Island Inn, and I waited until I was on the road to glance inside the box. It contained several video memory cards, a copy of a legal document—Crescent Arturo’s prenuptial agreement, I correctly assumed—along with an envelope and a Post-it note, something written on it in pencil.

The parking lot at Lilly’s Jewelry, on Tarpon Bay Road, was empty, so I pulled in and took a closer look: eight memory cards, which was promising. In a week of surveillance, Dean Arturo, hopefully, would appear in at least a few pieces of accidental footage. Finding the shot might take hours of scanning but worth the effort if it got him off the island.

My laptop and a card reader were in a computer bag next to me, but I had decided to wait. Wise choice, it turned out. The envelope, when I opened it, contained photos that spared me all that scanning. The Brazilian cat burglar had found a packet of photos that showed Deano in action. In one, he was peering through the curtains into Cressa’s home—the patio railing was wood on chrome and as distinctive as Deano’s own facial features: a good-looking guy, but for the scar on his forehead, and blazing pale eyes. There were two shots of him looking up from the lighted pool deck. Several more of Deano in a hoodie, setting up his surveillance cameras: shadowy images that wouldn’t hold up in court but good enough for my purposes. The photos were taken by Cressa, presumably, and probably shot as insurance against a denial from Deano that he was spying.

The photos alone, I’d hoped, would be enough to convince my cop pals that Deano was stalking his own sister-in-law—a woman who wanted to protect the family name and was too frightened to file a formal complaint. Lt. Kerry Brett was a rational man and a total pro. Same with his partner Moonley. Show the cops the photos and suggest they give Deano the option of leaving the island or face charges. No rough stuff, no intimidation, just an honest warning that videoing unsuspecting citizens wouldn’t be tolerated on our happy little island.

Convincing Kerry Brett had been key—and not just the key to scaring off Deano. At first Dan Futch had refused to honor my agreement with Diemer. No surprise. So I’d spent ten minutes on the phone arguing the wisdom of banishing an enemy quietly but without admitting my plan required breaking and entering and theft. “No headlines, no harm, no FAA,” I had assured him. Then even Tomlinson had balked at sharing the Bone Field with an outsider until my nonviolent approach finally won him over.

The success or failure of the plan all came down to a fifteen-minute meeting that took place around midnight in the jewelry store parking lot. Brett and his partner Moonley were on duty and had some time on what they’d said was a “very quiet night”—good news in itself after I’d just helped burgle a house.

The two cops had listened to my story, and they’d studied the photos while their squad car’s computer turned up something I didn’t know: Dean Arturo had a police record—misdemeanor assault and resisting arrest—that added weight to my claim the man was mentally unstable.

Friends of mine or not, though, cops are rightfully guarded when dealing with civilians who try to tell them how to do their jobs. Sanibel is among the most desirable billets in law enforcement, and I was dealing with top hands, not affable good old boys who were easily manipulated.

The Post-it note Diemer provided had made finding Deano almost too easy for them to refuse. On it, written in a woman’s hand, were initials and an address: DA West Wind, Rm 243-244.

The obsessive Cressa Arturo had done the last of the drone work for me. DA was Dean Arturo, and he was staying at a beachfront hotel, rooms 243–244. To me, booking two rooms suggested Deano’s affair with Cressa hadn’t ended. I could think of no other reason, so it didn’t strike me as odd—although it should have. A dangerous man books two adjoining rooms? But I was too preoccupied . . . no, too self-satisfied with what I’d accomplished to bother exploring the implications.

Which is why on this gray and stormy morning in the West Wind parking lot, while watching my nonviolent brain child come unraveled, I stepped away from my truck and whispered, “You bumbling dumbass. You idiot!”

Meaning me, Marion Ford.

—

WHY DOES A DANGEROUS MAN, operating alone, book an adjoining room?

The bumbling dumbass got his answer less than a minute after Deano sprinted toward the beach: because he wasn’t operating alone. A second man had appeared in the shattered doorway, looked both ways, then stepped out into the parking lot. I recognized him: triathlete muscles on a rangy frame, maple-colored hair, and close-set Bambi eyes. It was the man in the photos Cressa had e-mailed. All along she’d been misleading us, protecting her brother-in-law.

Tomlinson spotted him, too. “Christ A’mighty,” I heard him say. “It’s the spear hunter—freaking pig killer, man!” As he said it, Bambi scanned the parking lot, found my truck, then me, while Tomlinson muttered, “Get thee behind me, Satan!”

The man glared at us for a moment, then turned away.

“Stay here,” I told him, then hesitated. “Call Cressa—find out who that guy really is.”

“‘A quiet little warning,’” Tomlinson replied, mocking me. “‘The peaceful approach,’ he says. Marion, you try weathering this bullshit with acid in your brain!”

I went after Bambi who had turned toward the street, not the beach as I’d expected. He was carrying a camera case and an overnight bag—all packed and ready to go—leaving Dean Arturo to his fate.

Loyalty wasn’t part of their tribal code, apparently.

One glance over his shoulder, Bambi walked faster. So did I. After another look, he set off at a jog, taking long triathlete strides. Even though I wasn’t carrying luggage, I had to push to keep up.