Night Moves (Doc Ford)

28




AN HOUR BEFORE SUNRISE, I IDLED PAST THE SLEEPING portholes and listless halyards of A-Dock, where, just beyond solar lights that rimmed Seduci, I noticed a gaping hole in the mooring pattern: the Stiletto ocean racer was gone.

How the hell had I missed hearing those big engines fire up?

Well, probably because I’d been on the phone past midnight talking to Hannah, then pulled a pillow over my head to get a few hours’ sleep. Our conversation had begun with a chill, but had ended, an hour later, with admissions that so closely resembled affection I was still rattled. I didn’t want to marry the woman, for christ’s sake, but the fact she was often on my mind was reason enough to pursue the relationship. Get to know her better—slowly. When I saw that the Stiletto was gone, though, all thoughts of that vanished and I veered left just enough to confirm it was true.

Yes . . . during the few hours I’d slept, someone had slipped into the marina, started the boat, and left—the owner, presumably, because the marina gates had been locked earlier when I’d taken the dog for a last visit to the mangroves. Of course, the owner—or thieves—could have come by water. The driver could have also maneuvered the racing boat clear of the basin using steering thrusters—water jets normally used to facilitate docking—then started the engines far from the docks.

What to do? It was 5:45 on a February morning. Over the Gulf, at tree level, the moon mimicked sunset, a pale and heatless hole in the darkness. The east was black with stars that appeared to drift behind immobile clouds. Should I call Jeth? Alert Mack?

Mack lives in a piling house beyond the boat ramp, to the right of the mechanic’s shed. No lights on there. Tomlinson’s dinghy was ashore, the cabin of No Más dark, so he was staying with Cressa. My attention panned from the apartment above the marina office, to Tiger Lilly, to Playmaker, then along the row of cruisers and sailboats—everyone still asleep. Aboard the Brazilian’s yacht, though, cabin lights were on but dim. A pale blue flickering suggested a television screen or lighted candles. If Diemer was awake, he would have heard or seen something because the Stiletto had been in the neighboring slip.

I pushed the twin throttles forward and idled toward Seduci. A boat length away, I shifted to neutral and revved my engines a couple of times. Waited several seconds, then did it again. No sign of movement inside, no telltale swipe of curtains, so Diemer was asleep or . . . or he wasn’t aboard.

The possibility nagged at me for a moment, then I dismissed it. So what? My pal Donald Cheng had checked on the Stiletto. The vessel was owned by a Miami company that sponsored boats in the Offshore Grand Prix and the Key West International race series. No connection—not with the Brazilian anyway. So I turned the Zodiac toward the channel, running lights out because the moon illuminated Dinkin’s Bay with a pumpkin gloss so bright I could see that, aside from No Más, the bay was empty.

No Más . . . my eyes settled on the sailboat as I approached the No Wake buoys. The cabin dark, Tomlinson’s dinghy tied near the boat ramp, as it often was when he was gone for the night—nothing unusual, so why was I still troubled by the missing ocean racer?

Damn it!

I shifted to neutral and called Tomlinson’s cell. No answer, and no need to leave a message—the time stamp would tell him the call was important. It did, because my phone flashed a few seconds later, and Tomlinson, sounding groggy, said, “If you’re calling about your truck, yes, I stole it.”

I asked, “You’re with Cressa at her beach house?”

“At the Holiday Inn, unless someone levitated my ass to a different place. Middle Gulf Drive. But don’t tell anybody—especially that vicious little voodoo monster, Kondo. Geezus, what time is it?”

“The Haitian came to the marina?”

Whispering now, Tomlinson said, “Could be. I’m in hiding. Geezus, not even six yet, man! Is the dog sick?”

“How do you know Kondo’s after you? Someone must have towed him in.”

“Hang on, I don’t want to wake her up.” I heard the click of a door latch before Tomlinson resumed, “Two-bedroom suite, you believe it? Because she wanted me to, I rubbed her neck until she went to sleep, then snuck off to my own room. That was around one, and my willpower is running dead on empty. I thought you’d be on your way to the Bone Field by now.”

“Tell me about Kondo!”

“Christ, you don’t have to bite my head off. I’m the one he threatened to kill.”

“You did talk with him.”

“No. And I deleted his messages after listening to the first one. But his texts, man, the way they flow—he writes in dialect—they’re, like, hypnotic. Can’t help myself. It’s like reading Matthiessen—Far Tortuga—only not as authentic, which is weird if you really think about it.”

I said, “Tomlinson . . .”

“Okay! A guy out mackerel fishing towed him and his buddies to Punta Rassa. Little bastard had his feet on the ground just about the time the party was ending for Crunch & Des. That was the first message I got. The guy, this mackerel fisherman, turns out he’s also a mechanic and he squealed to Kondo that I’d loosened all the spark plugs.”

“The mechanic blamed you?”

“That someone did it, and was lucky the engine didn’t blow up. Kondo, he’s vicious, but he’s not dumb. Plus, he had to pay the mechanic like five hundred bucks, but he’s probably lying about that. You know, like I’m supposed to reimburse him before he cuts my nuts off—that was how the first message started. Next one was that he would feed me Epsom salts until I turned into a zombie and parade me around Port-a’-Prince on a leash. You know, let the kiddies have fun with his pet white demon.”

“Did anyone follow you to the hotel?”

“Wait, this is how I know he’s serious. Next ten texts, he’s apologizing, telling me, ‘Hey, mon, you doan know a joke when you hear your good frien’ Kondo tell a joke?’ Wants me to meet him for a drink at the Rum Bar. Then some bar on Fort Myers Beach. See? Guy’s smart. I call the cops, the only thing I got in writing is apologies and invitations to have fun.”

“Did you tell Cressa?”

“Upset her? You kidding?”

“But she knows who he is.”

“Turns out, yeah. You were right. Deano bought pharmaceuticals from the guy. She’d lied to me all along, but tonight finally told the truth. Bad as the acid was, it might have opened her up as a person.”

“Always a silver lining,” I said. “Cressa was buying drugs from the Haitian?”

“That part she was vague about. Me giving her a nickel baggie, I think it’s what put Kondo on my ass in the first place—that’s the way I met her, the two of us shooting the shit on the beach. Nice pretty married lady who wanted to have some fun for a change.”

“Cut your nuts off,” I muttered.

“Wear them around his neck, yeah, or make a bolo out of them.” Tomlinson’s voice softened, his way of becoming serious. “Kondo’s reputation on the party circuit, he’s a sweetheart. A fun little actor, but I knew he was bad. I just didn’t know how bad. Cressa’s gonna be okay, so what I think I’ll do is turn her over to her hubby, hop on No Más, and see a new part of the Old World. I haven’t transited the Canal in a while, and Panama’s got some of the best surfing in the world.”

I didn’t ask, What about the Avenger wreckage? It would only embarrass the man by forcing him to admit he was scared shitless. So I asked him again, “Are you sure no one followed you?”

“How would I know? On Middle Gulf this time of year, everyone drives fifteen goddamn miles an hour. A funeral could have passed us, traffic was so backed up.” Then he said, “I’ve got to piss, so don’t worry. It’s not your phone.”

Engines in neutral, the Zodiac’s hull vibrated beneath me and had drifted so I could see the marina a hundred yards away: streamers of silver water linked to security lights that showed A-Dock and the Stiletto’s empty slip. I waited until Tomlinson said, “That’s better,” before asking him, “Does Kondo own a boat? Not the rental boat, his own boat.”

“Hang on,” he replied, and I heard a door click shut. Then, sounding more like himself, “I don’t know. Probably. He’s got a condo on Naples Beach—Coquina Sands. There’s a steel drum ditty for you: Kondo’s Coquina Condo . . . no, Kondo’s Cosmic Condo . . .”

“Anybody you could check with?” I interrupted, then told him, “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Did Cressa know you planned to go to Lostman’s River this morning?”

“The Bone Field, yeah. But I just told you, I’m not—”

“Does she know you’ve changed your mind?”

“Well, I’m right here with her, aren’t I? At the damn Holiday Inn, with my laundry bag and a shoeshine cloth.”

“Stay there,” I told him. “Order room service, don’t go anywhere—especially not her beach house.”

“What about the dog!”

“Between Janet and Hannah, that’s all taken care of.”

“Hannah? It’s about time you smartened up!”

“Pay attention,” I said. “Don’t go anywhere until you hear from me. Understand?”

I put the phone in my pocket and throttled toward the mouth of Dinkin’s Bay.