Night Moves (Doc Ford)

7




SHE’S NOT AS NERVOUS AS SHE PRETENDS TO BE . . .

That was my initial impression when the married mistress greeted me with a request, calling softly, “Mind turning off those lights?” Then, when I was close enough, offered an apology. “This is very rude, I know. But your buddy is headed for trouble, I think. And you’re the only one who . . . well, who knows about us. Is it okay?”

Could she stay and talk in confidence, she was asking—as if I had a choice now that she was standing, watching me climb the steps to the upper deck.

“I’m Cressa,” she said, extending a hand. “Or maybe he already told you. Cressa Arturo. So I’m sure you understand why I’d rather not attract attention.”

I asked, “Where’s Tomlinson?” Beyond the porch railing, No Más was pointed into the tide, its yellow cabin lights afloat on a breezy moon-roiled bay. No dinghy tethered off the stern, so my friend was somewhere ashore.

The lady allowed her hand to linger in mine, then made a dismissive gesture, her white blouse hinting at angles and contours in the moonlight. “He took off on his bike looking for you and the dog. That was more than an hour ago, so I have no idea.” She looked past my shoulder. “Where is the dog? I thought I saw him.”

I was more concerned with strangers who behave as if they own the stilthouse I call home. “You’ve been here the whole time?” I asked.

“My house is on the beach, not far, so I drove home, got restless, and walked back because I know the gate’s always locked.” She hesitated. “Tomlinson doesn’t know I’m here, if that’s what you mean. Is that a problem?”

The question seemed innocent enough, but could have been interpreted as suggestive. I told myself I was being cynical and judgmental—no way to live for a man who’d been given yet another chance at life by an expert pilot. So I reassured her, “Probably not. Depends on what kind of trouble you think he’s in.”

Details were softened by the dusky light, but I sensed a smile. “He says such nice things about you. Sometimes he calls you Indiana Jones. Or Captain America, but not in a mean way. I guess it’s true.”

Before I could reply, her attention swerved to the dog who had stopped to lap from a bucket of water on the lower deck, then do some exploring. “My god, there you are! We looked all over the place!” She knelt and reached, but then immediately stood. “Ohhhh god, what stinks! He must have rolled in . . . no, a dead fish. Silly dog . . . and you smelled so nice after your shampoo!”

In response, the dog’s tail whipped the back of my leg once, then he ignored us by walking to the farthest, darkest corner of the deck to enjoy his mullet in peace.

I stepped toward the breezeway that separates the lab from my living quarters. “You can wash your hands while I find something to drink. What did the vet have to say?”

“I stayed in the car, but Tomlinson has a sack of stuff, pills and salve. Nothing serious, I guess. Oh—they did an X-ray and found a computer thingee under his skin, but it doesn’t work.”

So the dog had been microchipped—another indicator he was valuable. “I’ll get details later,” I said. “Come on in, there might be something to drink, but don’t bet on it.”

The lady’s laughter seemed genuine, just the right touch of self-deprecation when she replied, “I’m already a little stoned or I wouldn’t have had the nerve. A year ago, even two months ago, if someone had said I’d be high on weed, or standing here telling secrets to a stranger, I would have called them crazy. Just the way I say it—‘smoking weed’—it sounds ridiculous for someone like me, doesn’t it?”

Yes, it did, and yes she was a little stoned. But still articulate and in full control, which she proved as she followed me into the house, saying, “Hope you don’t mind, but I already closed the shades. Just in case you didn’t shoot me for trespassing, then we could talk privately without having to sit in the dark.”

I flicked the light switch. “My house is your house,” I said, giving it an edge.

“I deserve that, I guess. Tomlinson said that about you, too. That you can be intimidating. He’s even hinted you might be a little dangerous, depending on the situation . . .” She emphasized the last with a pause, her tone oddly hopeful. Then said, “But he trusts you. So I’ve decided to trust you. Is that so bad?”

That was my cue to turn and look at the woman now that the shades were drawn and a light on. Time to smile and stop the sparring. If she was as attractive as JoAnn had said, Cressa would expect it. She would be poised and ready to take advantage of my bedazzled reaction—or was I being the cynical misogynist once again? I might have played along if I hadn’t noticed that the coffee mug I’d left in the sink was now washed, and a stack of research notes had been straightened and squared on the desk beside my shortwave radio.

“Obsessive-compulsive behavior isn’t a bad thing,” I said, opening a cupboard. “We’d still be living in caves if the gene pool didn’t pick a few of us. And there wouldn’t be meds to treat the symptoms when they get out of hand.” I turned for the first time, adding, “Has your doctor tried prescribing something? Or would you miss the mood swing highs?”

The lady was almost as advertised—attractive in a moneyed way that relies on style and cosmetic augmentation, but she also emanated a fleshy sensuality that I associate with ripeness or willingness—both, possibly, in her case. The woman had chosen the Grace Kelly look, Nordic face and hair, long legs in designer jeans, but the indignation I expected from my crack about obsession wasn’t there. Instead she appeared stricken as she stepped toward me. “My god, were you in a fight?” She reached to touch my cheek. “You’re scratched all to hell . . . and your shirt’s ripped. No wonder you’re in such a vile mood. What happened?” Her fingers were warm and confident, right at home, as she inspected my face.

That fast, I went from distrusting the married mistress to liking her—in a guarded way.

—

USING A CORKSCREW on a bottle of Concha y Toro merlot, I explained the scratches on my face and forearms. “I fell out of a tree trying to rescue a cat. Our marina’s cat, but it turned out to be a different one—they’re both black, so no way to tell from a distance.”

“So that’s where you disappeared to.” Cressa was inspecting my wounds, standing close enough that I got a whiff of body lotion. Girl scent and leather, a hint of soap. Nice. “A cat scratch can be serious,” she told me, then hurried toward the bathroom where, presumably, she had already gone through my medicine cabinet and knew what to look for.

I continued to talk while I poured wine into a pair of Bell jars. “Well . . . actually, I didn’t fall. There was a big bobcat above me and the limb broke when I looked up. I overreacted, entirely my fault. It was a stupid thing to do.”

Her voice, silky feminine, didn’t carry far, but I heard her well enough. “Bobcat. I had no idea.”

“They’re common on the islands. Anyway, this big male had flattened itself in the branches, all it wanted to do was blend in, which is why we didn’t see it. Plus, we were all focused on that damn stray cat. So I sort of lurched—you know, surprised when I figured out what it was?—at the same time that idiot cat tried to shoot past me. It was a gumbo-limbo tree, very brittle limbs. But only about ten feet off the ground. Somehow, the cat and I got all tangled up. Or maybe it was the bobcat, I’m really not sure. But it could’ve been worse.”

Cressa Arturo reappeared, salves and bandages in hand, an endearing smile on her face. “Tomlinson told me about your plane crash-landing. Which I suppose explains why—”

“I think you misheard,” I interrupted. “We didn’t crash-land.”

She responded with a shrug. “What I’m saying is, I understand. After almost dying in the Everglades, nothing seems like a big deal. You’re both looking on the bright side of life—pain, love, everything. I get it. How could anything be worse?”

No point in explaining I had landed on top of Jeth, the fishing guide. Or possibly Jeth, a big, strong guy, had tried to catch me, I didn’t know. Afterward, he was dazed and stuttering so badly I had yet to get the story straight. But I didn’t want to go into it.

“You mentioned something about our mutual friend being in trouble,” I said, placing her wine within reach, then sitting at the little galley table. She obviously knew about the plane, so I asked, “You were with him last week when he touched a wire and got shocked?” I had already seen where someone had left the hose on near the breaker switch downstairs. Because my power was off when Tomlinson had arrived, he’d been standing barefoot in water when he’d tried to fix the problem.

Cressa nodded. “Scary, but it was an accident—or so I thought at the time.”

“So that’s it. You’re worried someone’s trying to kill him, right? He told me the same thing. Look”—I put my glass down and tried to make my point—“you two are romantically involved. You care about him, maybe think you’re in love with him. Fine. But you haven’t known the guy long and he goes through these periods of—I don’t want to call it paranoia, exactly, but—”

“I’m not in love,” the woman cut in. “Neither of us are in love.” She was arranging first-aid items on the table as if preparing for heart surgery, but stopped long enough to joke. “Besides, I find the smart dangerous types more interesting. They’re damn rare these days.” Then laughed as if she wasn’t testing me.

I countered, “Maybe Tomlinson’s not as safe as he appears—we all have a darker side.”

Her expression read You’ve got to be kidding! “That dear, sweet man? I’ve only known him a few weeks, but that’s impossible. He’s too . . . free, too open to be dangerous. And so insightful. I didn’t believe him at first when he told me he’s an ordained Zen Buddhist teacher, but it’s true, isn’t it?”

“You really don’t need to do this,” I said, meaning clean my scratch wounds with the Betadine she was dripping onto a gauze pad, probably counting each drop.

Cressa made a shushing sound and continued. “He says people call him the guru sometimes.”

Among other things, I thought, but said, “Yeah. It seems to fit him.”

“Guru,” the woman said again, musing. “Must be true because he’s opened my mind to a lot of things. I was ready for a change, don’t get me wrong. But if I hadn’t’ve met him, well . . . let’s just say I’m way ahead of schedule when it comes to getting to where I want to go. He reads to me—he’s a beautiful writer. We meditate, we laugh, and he nails me on some of the totally bullshit lies I try to tell myself. Tomlinson’s more of a teacher . . . but fun, with absolutely zero inhibitions—I can’t tell you how refreshing that is for someone like me. And I don’t want to see him get hurt. Or you either.”

She attempted eye contact, adding, “It makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it? Talking about yourself.”

No, she was wrong. Even so, I allowed myself to be distracted by the rumble of a boat idling into the marina basin—Captain Alex returning from a dinner trip to Useppa Island or ’Tween Waters. Just in time, though, I noticed Cressa reaching for the bandage on my arm and slapped a hand over it before she saw the teeth marks beneath.

“Good god!” she said, giving me a look. Surprise, a hint of fear, then approval—an odd mix.

“I just changed it,” I explained. “Barnacle scrapes take awhile. It’ll be fine in another week.”

The woman took an uneasy step back and trashed the gauze pad as if I’d soiled it, then selected another. I watched her fold the pad into a perfect square, then dab Betadine on it, a precise circle of red. “I think my husband knows,” she said, finally getting to it. “I think he has someone watching me.”

I waited, letting her explain in her own way.

“His name is Robert—Robby. I was fond of him once, but ten years of marriage has turned our age difference into light-years. The younger man!” She laughed, an older woman amused by her own naivety. “I keep expecting him to grow up, but it’s not going to happen. He refuses to divorce. Now it’s getting ugly—only I didn’t know it was ugly until I started putting things together.”

“Tomlinson said something about him being the nonviolent type,” I replied.

“I still believe that. But I’m starting to wonder. Robby and his family are in the development business—beachfront condos and shopping malls. Mostly in the Vineyard and Buzzard’s Bay, but a few projects in Florida, too. See, we signed a prenuptial—”

“Where in Florida?” I asked.

Cressa didn’t like being interrupted. “I’m trying to explain my situation. Can you save the interrogation for later?”

“I’m trying to understand,” I replied. “Background would be helpful. Their projects in Florida, what kind?”

“Rob doesn’t exactly include me in the company’s business. I don’t know . . . they do gated communities . . . some low-cost housing if Tallahassee offers the right perks, and they speculate on real estate, which has gone to hell in the last few years. That’s what I was telling you—we signed a prenuptial agreement. I didn’t want to, but Rob—well, his father, Robert Senior, actually—he insisted. Which didn’t turn out the way they expected, because the prenup figures we agreed on don’t fluctuate with the housing market. That’s why his family’s so against a divorce.”

I nodded the way people do when they’re impatient with the obvious, saying, “Money, of course.” Then winced when she pressed the gauze to my face and scrubbed harder than was necessary.

“Cat scratches are dangerous,” she reminded me. “If I don’t get deep enough, you could end up in the hospital. They’re carriers, you know. A type of fever.”

I wondered if there was a message hidden between the lines but resigned myself to her nursing. The woman was thorough. While she worked on me, she addressed the dangers of cat scratch fever, but soon returned to the thread.

“Rob never calls between ten and eleven—ever. That’s when he meets with his online fantasy-league guys, and he’s a sports junkie. A tornado could land, a burglar could break into our house at ten-fifteen, it wouldn’t matter. But last night, around nine, I don’t know why, I turned off the GPS thingee on my cell just to see what would happen. And an hour later, my phone rings. Rob. It was ten-thirty.”

I acknowledged the significance with pursed lips.

“Tomlinson and I were on his boat playing Beach Boys cassettes. Maybe I shouldn’t have answered my cell, but I was thinking, you know, an emergency, like someone in his family had died. But it was nothing like that. Rob told me he called because he’d had a ‘premonition.’ He was worried I was hurt or in trouble. That’s what he said, anyway. Trust me, men like my husband don’t have premonitions. Especially not on the nights they’re drafting their fantasy baseball teams.”

“That was it, no details? How long did you talk?”

“He was checking up on me, that’s what I think. It still gives me goose bumps, the feeling I got”—Cressa held out an arm to prove it—“like he was watching me. Could see me right through the phone. His tone was weird, too. Suspicious . . . passive-aggressive. My husband knew I was with another man, I’m sure of it.”

I glanced out the window toward A-Dock, where the no-name Kevlar Stiletto was moored. Then said, “The guy’s ten years younger than you, but has no problem with his wife spending part of every month in Florida?”

“Nine years,” she corrected. The woman was adding salve to my scratch marks, but gentler now. “I’m not getting into our personal life. He’s not gay, but sometimes men get injuries playing sports . . . or there’s a chemical imbalance. I’ve stopped wondering or blaming myself. So let’s just say he prefers fantasy sports to f*cking.”

It wasn’t just the profanity, it was the angry emphasis that caused me to look up. But the woman was still focused on her work and carried on. “Robby might be laid-back, but Robert Senior isn’t. Robby has a younger brother, too, who’s crazy—I mean that literally—and seems to be getting crazier. The Arturo family is very powerful in some circles”—she let it float there a moment—“if you know what I mean.”

I understood. She was insinuating a popular fiction about Italians and an underworld organization that had been dismantled by the Justice Department decades ago.

“No kidding?” I said. “So the crazy brother or his dad might have Tomlinson killed because you’re having an affair? A debt of honor? Swimming with the fishes?”

“Make jokes, if you want, but I’m scared. Something’s going on. I’ve never given Rob or his father reason to be suspicious—until the last month or so.” In response to my expression, she snapped, “That’s the truth!”

“If you say so,” I replied, then looked at my watch. “It’s getting late. Full day tomorrow.” I was thinking, I need some ice on this knee.

Still standing, the woman picked up her wine and took a first sip, her mind working at something. After several seconds, she said, “You can be an ass. Tomlinson said that, too.”

I wasn’t going to deny it, plus I like assertive women. Somehow she’d sensed this and was still trying to win me over. Why?

“What time do you leave?”

I replied, “For where?”

“Tomorrow. You’re flying to the Everglades in that damn seaplane again. Tomlinson told me all about it—those five Bermuda Triangle planes from World War Two. Then, next week, it’s some cleanup project in Boca Grande. More flying, more diving. It worries me. Couldn’t you two just play it safe for a while?”

I got to my feet and went to the fridge. “Why not relax for a few minutes, enjoy your wine. Then I’ll drive you home.”

“Especially diving that goddamn pass!” she said.

The cleanup project, she meant. Every winter, scuba volunteers sweep the bottom of Boca Grande Pass, a saltwater canyon that separates two barrier islands, Gasparilla and Cayo Costa. Annually, groups collect more than a ton of lead fishing weights, hooks, and miles of monofilament line, much of it residue from fishing tournaments. What I saw would be a useful follow-up to the project I’d done there.

I wrapped ice in a towel, asking, “You scuba dive?”

The woman shook her head, still preoccupied. “No . . . Robby’s brother and his father are into fishing. I went out with them twice in Boca Grande Pass, but never again. It’s a circus with all those boats flying around at full speed. Even on the charter boat they hired.”

Once again, the lady had earned my attention. I wondered if I should press it and ask if the Arturo males fished the big-money tournaments. Before I could decide, she returned to what was actually on her mind, insisting, “It is true, you know.”

She’d lost me again. “What?”

“I’ve never been unfaithful! Ten years living like a nun and not one single slip. That’s what’s so maddening about you, Ford. I’m the private type. I come here—which wasn’t easy to begin with—and I tell you something honestly. Your reaction? Like it’s no big deal! And that I’m lying to somehow hide my lustful ways. Please don’t expect me to feel guilty for finally having the nerve to—”

“I don’t,” I said. Then added, “That was unfair,” even though I wasn’t persuaded.

Cressa Arturo touched my shoulder with tentative fingers—a request for permission, it seemed—then softened her tone to share another secret. “You’re forgiven,” she said. “The truth is, I am worried . . . but mostly glad. If I’d only known what freedom feels like . . . so now I’m making up for lost time.”

Her meaning was obvious enough for all but the naive and slow-witted, which is why I had to bumble along, saying, “With Tomlinson, you mean.”

My answer was delivered via green eyes, an acetylene look that left no room for doubt. “Tomlinson and I are friends and nothing’s going to change that. The chemistry, though . . . let’s just say the pheromone wallop wasn’t the same as the one I just experienced on your porch when we shook hands.”

My second impression of the married mistress was now tied to my own internal struggle:

Take advantage of this woman, just to even the score with Tomlinson, and you are scum, Ford. Scum.