Night Moves (Doc Ford)

24




THURSDAY, AROUND SUNSET, DAN FUTCH TEXTED ME from somewhere over Lake Okeechobee—Have news, time to talk?—then landed in Dinkin’s Bay twenty minutes later, gunning the engine before shutting down and drifting into the shallows next to my dock.

“Isn’t the party usually Friday nights?” he asked, taking the iced tea I offered, then selecting a chair on the porch. He’d brought the leather briefcase again. Something new inside to show me, I hoped.

I popped my first beer of the day and said, “You remember the six-toed cat? Black with scars on his face, been around here for years. The guy who futzed your plane took him. It’s a sort of welcome-home celebration.”

“What guy?”

“The one who kidnapped the cat—I’m getting to it,” I said.

“Geezus, every marina has a cat, who cares?”

“I don’t think the cat cared one way or another,” I agreed, “but you know how some people get attached. The guy I’m talking about—had a partner—the cops found a ransom note, but one of them was sane enough not to bother delivering it. Or maybe they were saving it as a last resort. The cat was fine. Had a litter box, milk in the minibar. Sounds crazy, I know, because it is crazy.”

Futch sat forward and pushed his ball cap back. “You mean someone tried to kill us because of a goddamn cat?”

I shook my head and said, “Down there in the Glades, if Tomlinson hadn’t been so gallant about his married girlfriend’s name, you might have put it together right away. Does the name Arturo mean anything?”

“The Arturo family? You’re shitting me.”

“Robert Arturo Senior,” I said. “He’s supposedly got a lot of money.”

“Yeah. Big-timer from New Jersey, the family charters Frank Davis’s boat sometimes. Live bait, not jigging, okay? So a couple seasons back, I fished them because Frank had engine trouble. I remember because of the name—Deano, like the singer?—plus, one of them’s married to a blonde who would stop traffic.” A light blinked on behind the pilot’s sunglasses. “Geezus . . . you’re not telling me Tomlinson’s screwing her?”

I shrugged. “You’d have to ask him. Point is, our problems are over.” Then explained the probable linkage: Dan discussing Flight 19 with clients, Tomlinson leaking info to Cressa Arturo about the Avenger wreckage, Dean Arturo’s failed TV series, Tarpon Slayers, and his fixation on us—the three men who, in his mind, had destroyed his career but could also save it.

“Deano crashed a plane a few years back,” I said. “He hasn’t been right in the head since. But he’d know how to wire a tail rudder. Maybe he met his buddy in a psych ward, I don’t know, but the other guy’s no better.” Then held out my left hand, which was banded with a bruise, red and purple, my pinky finger black and bent like a can opener.

“Jesus Christ, Doc. You can’t leave for the islands tomorrow with a hand like that.”

I asked, “You still plan to meet us Saturday morning, right?”

“Yeah—and I might have something new on our Avenger, that’s why I came. But I’m not even going to talk about it unless you agree to get that hand X-rayed first, okay?”

“In naval crash records,” I said, “you found the plane, didn’t you?”

The pilot wanted to tell me, couldn’t wait, but he set his jaw and said, “Uh-uh. First the hand. If I didn’t have a trip in the morning, I’d fly you to see a doctor friend in Boca Grande right now.”

Futch, a stubborn man. Now that Deano was in jail, I didn’t mind postponing a day or two, but I wasn’t going to wait for news on the Avenger wreckage. “A splint, which I don’t need, and they’ll tell me to use ice,” I replied. “It just looks bad—and could’ve been worse. The two of them got interested in spear hunting on a trip to Africa. Cressa didn’t say it, but I’m guessing it was some kind of therapy retreat—sweat lodges, the primal roots deal. The guy—his name really is Luke Smith, the film shyster I told you about—he swung a piece of bamboo at me and took off. Bamboo as in spear, but no point on the shaft, luckily.”

I flexed my left hand without wincing much. “See? Works just fine.” Then pointed at the briefcase and said, “Now, damn it, tell me what you found out about the Avenger.”

Futch gave me a confused look, then rolled his eyes to put the details behind us. “Where’s Tomlinson? He should hear this, too.” The pilot reached for the briefcase, something important inside. Should I murk the subject even more with talk of acid-laced grass and a malicious drug dealer?

No . . . so I told him, “He’s either at the party, or he’s”—I didn’t want to bring Cressa Arturo into it—“he’s taking care of a friend. She, this friend, they both have what you’d call really bad hangovers. Or they might have gone to Lighthouse Point to watch the sunset.”

It was a possibility. Tomlinson had returned from No Más, binoculars around his neck, maybe hoping to catch a glimpse of the witch doctor as he drifted out to sea. Only a guess.

Futch, shaking his head again, was opening the briefcase. “You think that guy will ever grow up? Quirko . . . I don’t know, Doc.”

“Actually,” I said, “Quirko has made real strides in the last couple of days. Our new partner, he’s here, though, so maybe it’s time you two met. Or tell me what you found first and then—” A galloping vibration on the lower deck stopped me. It was the retriever coming up the steps, moving almost as fast as he did in the water. He skidded around the corner, claws clacking, ignored Dan’s welcoming hand, then sniffed and sneezed as he sat in front of me.

“Blood?” Dan said, wiping the spray off his arm.

I cupped the retriever’s head in my hands and leaned my nose close to his. “Humm . . . looks like you finally met Crunch & Des, huh?” Then said to Dan, “Just a couple of scratch wounds, so it wasn’t much of a fight. But deep. I better tend to this.”

As I got to my feet, the pilot asked, “Crunch and who? What the hell are you talking about?”

“About an hour ago, I got an e-mail from the dog’s owner,” I explained. “Well . . . the family he belongs to. The cat I mentioned—that’s why he’s bleeding. When the family sends someone—this weekend, possibly—I don’t want the dog’s nose to be infected. He’s got scars enough to surprise them.”

Then added as I walked toward the lab, “I’ll call Vargas, too, and see if he can stop by.”

The pilot, getting frustrated, asked, “And who the hell’s Vargas?”

I had slipped. “Alberto Sabino,” I amended. “The Brazilian who owns that big Lamberti yacht. His name throws me sometimes.”

“Hold it a minute, Doc.” Futch’s no-bullshit tone demanded attention. “What exactly did this guy do to help us? Sharing the Avenger wreckage is one thing, but taking him to the Bone Field, my god.”

“I wouldn’t have pushed if I didn’t think it was the safest solution,” I said. “Put it this way: we’d all still be feeling crosshairs on our backs if it wasn’t for what he did.”

“Why is it I’m thinking you two pulled something that could put all our asses in a sling?”

“You’re better off not knowing, if that’s what you’re asking. If you want the truth, though, I’ll tell you.”

“Does Quirko know?”

“Yeah. He wasn’t involved, but there’s a reason he had to know some of it.”

Futch, scratching the dog’s chest, thought about that for a moment. Then said, “What the hell, go call the guy. His boat’s big enough, we could use it as a mother ship instead of camping with the snakes and mosquitoes.”

I smiled and said, “Thanks, skipper.”

—

MY FIRST-AID KIT was below, packed aboard my boat for the trip, so I went into the lab and collected what I needed—gauze, spray to dull the pain, antibacterial salve—then turned and noticed I’d left my computer on, a letter from Dr. Arlis Milton of Atlanta still on the screen. So I stooped to read it for the fifth or sixth time:

Mr. Ford,

My wife and I are still in shock that the photos we sent confirm the lost dog is the same one you advertised in the classifieds of Retriever Magazine. With your permission, we will arrange to have him transported home to Georgia within the week. I understand your eagerness for an explanation as to how my late father-in-law’s dog ended up lost in the Florida Everglades, and we much appreciate your generous refusal to accept a reward, or payments, for your trouble. However, I spoke with our attorney this morning and she advised me that precautions must be taken to protect our interests and yours and the dog’s as well, especially since his microchip is no longer functioning and ownership might be in question.

I trust your motives 100%, but as a search on the Internet will prove, what my attorney calls “the dognapping industry” has made it necessary to follow what for me is an embarrassingly strict legal protocol. Please don’t be offended, here is what my attorney suggests:

1. You must accept a reward and sign the attached agreement.

2. You must sign a waiver (attached) that holds our family free of any liability.

3. You must sign a release form (attached) that confirms you have no past or future claims on the dog.

These days, nothing is simple, is it? Once you have returned these documents, I will be happy to answer all questions, and look forward to buying you dinner if you ever visit Atlanta. As a reward, I am also pleased to offer you $500—it’s great to know my late father-in-law’s dog is alive and well, so I really must insist.

Arlis Milton, M.D.

That dog’s valuable, I had told Tomlinson, and the letter proved it. No mention of the father-in-law’s name, or the dog’s name, his breed, his age, nothing—which indicated the information could be linked together on the Internet. And also suggested the animal was worth a lot more than five hundred.

Why? The photos Dr. Milton had sent weren’t taken at Westminster or a field trial—not that he would have made the mistake—and the only thing remarkable about the animal was his oddities. Some kind of rare barkless breed, perhaps, known for its willingness to stay for hours on command before savaging the neighborhood boats and pool cleaners.

The only way to learn the truth was to sign the forms, which I had already done—but had yet to hit the Send button. No particular reason why. Even if I’d wanted to keep the retriever—which I didn’t—the man I see in the mirror, although flawed, had yet to sink to something as reprehensible as stealing a family’s dog.

Thinking that reminded me I was supposed to call Vargas Diemer. I did.

“Is this Alberto?” I asked tentatively.

“Alberto Sabino, Rio World Exports,” the Brazilian replied, meaning we would stick with his alias.

“Dan Futch is here,” I said. “I was thinking you two ought to meet.”

“That explains the seaplane tied to your dock,” Diemer replied—an attempt at humor, possibly. Then he offered further instructions, saying, “I hope you’ve told him I have a commercial license. So we can discuss airplanes sensibly?”

“He’ll know it by the time you get here,” I said.

Diemer ended that. “Your dog, I don’t care to have him show me his teeth again. I’ll open a Malbec and have cheese out. Your friend with the long hair, will he be—”

“Tomlinson has other plans,” I interrupted.

“I see. Too drunk last night? Or was it drugs?” A judgmental tone that disapproved.

I responded, “You hear the music outside your door . . . Alberto? It’s called a party. He’s around here somewhere and he’s doing just fine.”

If I’d told the truth, Diemer’s little trap wouldn’t have worked, but I had stepped right into it. “Really. On the phone this morning, Cressa told me your friend gave her LSD. She sounded frightened, said he was in bad shape, too.”

“Dan and I will be there in a little bit,” I told him. “Anything else?”

“Ring the bell before coming aboard. And Dr. Ford? After the pilot leaves, I would like ten minutes alone to discuss something.”

Back on a formal basis again. Which is why I tried a preemptive strike. “I had to tell Tomlinson about breaking into the house. I never said I wouldn’t.”

“That’s not what I want to discuss,” the Brazilian said and hung up.