by Amanda Quick
“Something like that. Once I identify the elements that don’t feel right, I can usually see a kind of road map that leads to the answers.”
“How does Luther Pell fit into this situation?” she asked.
“I thought I made it clear—I’m investigating this case for him.”
“In other words, he’s your client?”
“You could say that.”
“Why does a nightclub owner care about a missing cipher machine?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that question. It comes under the heading of client confidentiality.”
“All right,” she said. “Let’s get back to Dr. Pickwell. You told me his motivation was fame and fortune.”
“Yes.”
“How would a secret sale of the Ares have made him famous?”
“Good question,” Matthias said. “The answer is that it wouldn’t have. I’m sure that was his goal at the start but I think he abandoned the idea because he was overcome with a far more compelling motivation.”
“What?”
“Fear for his life. Obviously his concern was justified.”
“Obviously. Explain, please.”
“If my sense of the situation is right, Pickwell murdered the inventor of the cipher machine in a moment of mad impulse,” Matthias said. “It probably didn’t take him long to realize that the Ares was too hot to handle.”
“Why?”
“There were too many people willing to kill to get it.” Matthias got to his feet and went to stand at the window, looking out into the night. “Pickwell must have realized how dangerous the Ares was very soon after he stole it, because it wasn’t long afterward that he tried to set up a deal to sell it on the black market. The government would have paid a fortune for it but he couldn’t go to the authorities. He would be arrested for murder.”
“So he was left with the underworld market.”
“A very dangerous place in which to do business,” Matthias concluded.
Amalie pondered that for a moment.
“How does a mediocre inventor figure out how to sell a red-hot cipher machine in a rather spectacular manner in a town like Burning Cove?” she asked.
Matthias turned away from the night scene. His eyes glittered with appreciation.
“Another excellent question,” he said. “As it happens, Pickwell had a gambling habit. He made the mistake of asking the owner of an offshore casino ship for advice on how to unload a very hot but extremely valuable item. He was referred to an underworld figure known as the Broker. When the Broker found out exactly what Pickwell wanted to sell, he contacted an acquaintance here in Burning Cove.”
“Who?”
“Luther Pell.”
Amalie took a deep breath. “So it’s true. Pell does have mob connections.”
And that meant Matthias had underworld ties, too. But she did not say that aloud.
Matthias did not confirm or deny. He simply drank his coffee and watched her intently, letting her form her own conclusions. She decided to move on.
“I understand now,” Amelia said. “Luther Pell is one of the people who is after the Ares machine.”
“He definitely has a deep interest in the cipher machine,” Matthias said. “But what he really wants is the man who is believed to have made the deal with Pickwell, an ex-spy who went into gunrunning after the Great War.”
“Gunrunning, hmm? I’ve never considered the career options available for retired spies.”
“Smith didn’t retire,” Matthias said. “He was fired. There are rumors that the spymaster who recruited him tried to neutralize him, but no one knows if that’s true or not.”
“You mean his boss tried to kill him?”
“Smith was considered extremely dangerous,” Matthias said. “But his real crime in the eyes of his employer was that he knew too much. Evidently the spymaster who handled Smith concluded that the country’s secrets would be safer if Smith were dead.”
“I take it the spymaster did not manage to, uh, neutralize Smith.”
“No. Evidently Smith did not appreciate the way he was treated. On his way out the door, he murdered his employer, who happened to be the only person who knew his real identity. To top things off, Smith stole his own file and an unknown quantity of intelligence documents. Then he vanished. According to Luther, very few people were even aware that Smith existed. No one knew his real name or anything about his past. He became a legend in spy circles.”
“Smith was a code name, I assume?”
“Right,” Matthias said.
“Why does Luther Pell care about this former spy turned gunrunner and murderer?”
“Let’s just say that Washington asked Pell to take on the investigation. Pell, in turn, called me.”
“Are you telling me that the director of some intelligence agency back in Washington asked a nightclub owner with mob connections for help in a matter that involves national security?”
Matthias looked amused. “Yes.”
“But why would someone in Washington trust Luther Pell?”
“The individual back in D.C. doesn’t have much choice,” Matthias said. “He needs Luther.”
Amalie decided she found that very humorous. “Because the black market deal for the Ares machine was set up by a mob broker and the man back east probably doesn’t have close ties with the criminal underworld. Luther Pell does.”
“The gentlemen who run our country’s intelligence agencies don’t like to dirty their hands by consorting with men who might have mob connections.”
“Except when they need someone with those connections.”
“Except for those situations.” Matthias drank some more coffee and lowered the cup. “This isn’t the first time someone in Washington has picked up the phone to ask Luther for a favor.”
“I’m just surprised that they think they can trust Pell. Talk about life’s little ironies.”
Matthias’s jaw hardened. “Luther may have mob connections, but he is a genuine hero of the Great War.”
“Yes, I did hear something about that,” she said. She paused, trying to read his grim expression. “There’s a lot you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”
“A lot,” he admitted. “I’d rather not lie to you if I can avoid it.”
“I appreciate that.”
Matthias chose to ignore the sarcasm. “Lying gets complicated fast.”
“Why did the Broker contact Mr. Pell to tell him about the cipher machine deal?”
“Let’s just say the Broker owed Luther a favor.”
“It must have been a heck of a favor,” Amalie said.
“It was. But returning to our subject, Luther is convinced now that Smith has been operating out of Los Angeles for quite a while. Hollywood, to be precise.”
“The perfect place for an ex-spy to hide, if you ask me,” Amalie said. “Nothing is what it seems in Hollywood.”
“True.”
“Well, obviously things did not go according to plan.”
“They definitely didn’t go according to Pell’s plan,” Matthias said. “Somehow Smith figured out that he was being set up. He changed the location and the time of the transaction. Instead of taking place in the parking lot of the Paradise Club, it happened onstage at the Palace.”
“Very daring, when you think about it.”
“Yes. But I’m beginning to wonder if things went wrong for Smith, too.”
“Well, what you have described was a very intricate strategy,” Amalie said.
“Pell says that, according to the legend, Smith’s operations are always carefully choreographed. An elaborate setup that keeps him in the shadows at every point is his signature.”
“Burning Cove would be a great place for someone like Smith to hide in plain sight,” Amalie said. “People around here do like
to say that this is the perfect small town. It looks like a picture postcard. But I’ve been here long enough to know the sparkle on the surface is deceptive.”
“I sense cynicism.”
“I try to take a realistic view of things,” Amalie said. “Why do you think Smith took the risk of murdering Pickwell? Why not simply grab the suitcase and run?”
“Murdering anyone who might be a potential threat is another characteristic of Smith’s style. So is making sure that there are always plenty of people to take the fall.”
“In this case Smith evidently intended the robot to get the blame. I must admit, that was rather clever. If you and Luther Pell hadn’t been aware of what was going on behind the scenes, everyone would have concluded that the robot did it. That the murder was just a freakish accident.”
“Yesterday Luther and I were afraid that we had missed our shot at Smith. But tonight someone broke into your inn. I am not a fan of coincidence. Until proven otherwise, we have to assume that things did not go as planned onstage.”
Amalie stiffened. “Do you think it was Smith who broke into my inn?”
“Not Smith,” Matthias said, sounding very certain.
“What makes you so sure?”
“Sloppy work. Luther assures me that, whatever else you can say about Smith, he is not sloppy. Whoever broke in here tonight was an amateur.”
“I have to tell you, that is not particularly reassuring. My poor aunt is in the hospital tonight because of that so-called amateur.”
“Amateurs can do just as much damage as a pro,” Matthias said.
“Then what’s the difference?”
“Pros rarely get caught.”
“I would like to point out that whoever broke in here tonight didn’t get caught, either.”
“True.” Matthias gave that a moment of serious consideration. “It probably wasn’t Smith but it might have been someone working for him.”
Amalie shuddered. “Great. We could be dealing with a criminal mastermind who has a team.”
“Luther tells me that Smith never works alone. He is always the puppeteer pulling the strings. The puppets take the risks.”
Amalie widened her hands. “How about we go with the simple explanation? Maybe the intruder picked my inn to burglarize tonight because it looked like an easy target.”
“Then we’re back to a theory involving coincidence.”
“And you don’t like coincidence.”
Matthias looked at her. “Do you?”
“Well, no.”
“Regardless,” Matthias continued, “the incident tonight leaves us with a problem here at the Hidden Beach Inn.”
She studied him closely for a long moment, sensing a significant change in the atmosphere. She could read the subtle waves of energy charging the space around him the same way she had once read the invisible currents around other flyers and catchers. Sometimes you just knew things. Flyer’s intuition. She followed the thought to its logical conclusion.
“You think the burglar might come back, don’t you?” she said.
“It sounds like you chased him off before he had a chance to finish doing whatever it was he came here to do,” Matthias said. “So, yes, I think we have to assume that he might come back.”
“I suppose I could get a dog.”
“That’s not a bad idea, but if we’re dealing with Smith, or someone he’s manipulating, you’re going to need more than a dog.”
“You’re about to tell me that I need someone around who has had some experience with this sort of thing, aren’t you?” she said. “Someone like you.”
“I’ll be the first to admit that I lack many of a dog’s admirable traits. I don’t play fetch very well and I’m not cuddly. But on the plus side, my nose isn’t usually wet and I bathe daily.”
“Something to be said for those two attributes. Fine. You’re welcome to take a room. But I’ll warn you up front I’m going to charge full price. Under the circumstances I’m sure you’ll understand.”
“The money won’t be a problem,” Matthias said. “I’ll be happy to pay a week in advance.”
She brightened a little. “Do you think this business will be over in a week? That would be very good news. I can survive a week, especially if I have a paying customer. That would be you, of course.”
“I can’t give you a definite end date but Luther and I are convinced that Smith is working under a deadline. There are always guaranteed delivery dates in that business. Whoever commissioned the acquisition of the Ares will not be happy if he doesn’t receive his merchandise on time. And Smith won’t risk staying in the country now that he has taken the risk of double-crossing the Broker.”
“Does the Broker know his identity?”
“Probably not, but you can bet he will be looking for Smith, and Smith has to know that. He won’t want to hang around. Meanwhile, you must not talk about any of this, do you understand? Whatever you do, do not so much as breathe Smith’s name. Are we clear? I told you as much as I did tonight only because you have a right to know what’s going on in your own home. But I need your word that you won’t discuss this with anyone else. It would put you in grave danger.”
“What about Hazel?” Amalie asked. “She’ll be coming home from the hospital soon. The doctor assured me that she is going to be okay. What am I supposed to tell her?”
“Tell her that after what happened here tonight, Luther Pell became concerned for the safety of the ladies running the Hidden Beach Inn. He insisted on providing some security for you until the authorities arrest the intruder who broke in here tonight.”
“Just a neighborly gesture by the local nightclub proprietor, hmm?”
“Something like that.”
“No one, including Hazel, will believe that story, not for a minute,” Amalie said.
“Well, you could always tell people that, while visiting my pal Luther Pell, I fell for you, and that I moved into the inn in order to get closer to you.”
Amalie winced. “Forget it. That will never fly. Let’s stick with the first version. In the spirit of neighborly concern, Luther Pell suggested that one of his business associates move into the inn in order to provide security. People will have their doubts, I’m sure, but they will certainly understand that the new owner of the Hidden Beach Inn is nervous and deeply appreciative of Pell’s offer.”
“You prefer that version?” Matthias asked.
“It’s just a tad more believable, and it has one huge advantage over the other version.”
Matthias studied her with unconcealed curiosity. “What’s the advantage?”
“It’s the truth. We don’t have to pretend that you moved in because you developed a sudden romantic interest in me. I really don’t need that kind of gossip going around Burning Cove.”
Matthias’s eyes narrowed a little. “Exactly what kind of gossip are you talking about?”
“Do I have to spell it out?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Fine,” she said. She waved her hands. “I don’t want people thinking that I’m a . . . a gun moll.”
“I believe that term is used only in the movies.”
“So? Everyone goes to the movies. That’s the term people know.”
Matthias gave her an unreadable look. “Do you really think that is what people will call you if I move in here?”
She gave him her brightest, most sparkly smile, the one she reserved for showtime.
“You said you could read crime scenes, Mr. Jones. Well, I can read an audience. I promise you that if you insist on moving in here, there will be talk.”
“Amalie . . .” he began.
“Speaking of scenes . . .”
“What about them?”
She glanced at the copy of the Herald on the table. “It was like a scene out of a horror movie, wasn’t it?�
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Distracted, Matthias came forward to study the photo of Futuro and the accompanying headline. “Huh.”
Amalie watched him, fascinated by the edgy energy that charged the atmosphere around him.
“Yes, it was,” he said very softly. “Exactly like a scene from a movie.”
“Right down to the inventor’s dying words.” Amalie tapped the second paragraph of Irene Ward’s story and intoned the quote in a theatrical voice. “The creature turned on me. I should have known better than to play Frankenstein.”
Matthias looked up, his eyes sharp and fierce.
“Interesting.”
“Give me a break,” Amalie said. “You don’t really think that Dr. Pickwell actually said that with his dying breath, do you? He wouldn’t have been in a mood to philosophize about the nature of man-made machines. I’ll bet the ambulance attendant quoted some horror movie dialogue just to get his own name in the papers.”
Matthias picked up the newspaper, snapped it open, and took a closer look at the story. “If that was his plan, it worked perfectly. Thanks to Irene Ward’s attention to detail, we know that the ambulance attendant’s name is Seymour Webster. We also know where he is employed. He works the night shift at the local hospital. Shouldn’t be hard to find him.”
“Why do you want to talk to him?” Amalie asked.
“Pickwell was going into shock when he was loaded into the ambulance,” Matthias said. “He was dead by the time they got him to the hospital. But maybe he really did have some last words.”
“What are you thinking?”
“That I need to talk to the ambulance attendant.”
Chapter 15
Hazel was aghast. “You rented one of our rooms to that mobster pal of Luther Pell’s? Are you out of your mind?”
She was propped up on the pillows of her hospital bed, her head swathed in bandages. She had looked pale and pathetic when Amalie had walked into the room but the news of their new paying guest at the inn had revived her more effectively than a shot of whiskey. There was an unmistakable glitter of strong emotion in her eyes. Disbelief, maybe, or possibly horror.
Amalie was not surprised by the transformation. Circus people were show people. That went double for the aerialists, who were usually the stars. They possessed an innate talent for drama.