* * *
—
Deville?” I asked Tomlinson.
We were in a cottage, just the three of us. Delia had not reacted to the name assigned years ago at Mensal Cryogenics, so I mouthed the question while she was in the bathroom.
The mystic boat bum gestured, palms out, as people do when mystified. “That kid was spooky as hell,” he whispered. “No way am I going to tell her all of what just happened. My medical history, sure, but some of the vicious things the guy said would knock her off her pins. ‘Diseased genetics . . . A bloodline so vile, we should all be napalmed.’ Crazy kimchi like that. Doc, he not only knows my donor name, he found out how Granddad made his fortune.”
My pal leaned his head into his hand. “Blood money, and the kid was right. Kid indeed,” he added softly. “The guy looked more like the offspring of a Russian Cossack who’d screwed a grizzly. But it’s possible that he is my son. I suspected it the moment he—”
A toilet flushed.
I asked, “What kind of car is he driving?”
Tomlinson shook his head, unsure. “And he knows I inherited a bundle of money. Said I was plutocratic vermin for not giving it all away. A plutocrat . . . Geezus, lecturing me, of all people. Mack was right there, he heard it all.”
“You inherited a bundle when?” I asked. This was news to me.
The bathroom door opened. Delia stepped into the room, wiping her hands with a pink-flowered towel. “Deville—that’s French, isn’t it?” she said, not with distaste but concerned. “Please tell me I don’t have siblings spread all over the whole damn world.”
“Good heavens, no,” Tomlinson said. “Well . . . at least it’s unlikely. I don’t think FedEx offered overnight to Europe in those days. Why don’t you have a seat, dear? We have a lot to talk about.”
“Tommy . . . Tomlinson . . .”—she was folding the towel—“I’m not sure I want to. I can’t take much more of this. If you think—his name can’t really be Deville. But if you think he’s dangerous, maybe it’s best if I go back to my boat and we never see each other again.” She took a moment to get control of her breathing, then changed her mind. “No. I didn’t come this far to run away. I deserve to know the truth about what just happened. About you, me . . . Everything.”
Her eyes sparked when she turned to me. “Marion, I’d like you to stay. Someone needs to keep it real around here.”
I waited for my friend to nod his consent. He didn’t.
“Start without me,” I said, getting up. “I’m going to take a quick walk around the area first—just as a precaution.” Facing Delia, I tugged the back of my shirttail into place, then went out the door.
Outside, through the thin clapboard of the cottage, I heard the girl ask, “Who is Dr. Ford? I mean, really?”
* * *
—
I did a loop around the property, impressed by the improvements. A hot tub had been added next to the tiny swimming pool. Walkways were lined with whelk shells. One by one, I peered into the five empty cottages. Dusty bamboo furniture had been replaced with glass-topped rattan and overstuffed couches in garish hibiscus patterns of yellow and lime green.
No sign of the man who claimed to be Tomlinson’s son.
Near the pool and hot tub was a grove of mango and avocado trees the size of oaks, limbs sagging with fruit. I pocketed a mango, checked the bike path on West Gulf Drive, then returned to the clubhouse, where Mack had just finished hanging a wide-screen TV. The building, built in the days of nuclear panic, was as solid as a bunker and ten degrees cooler when you stepped inside.
“What happened to the police?” I asked.
“Canceled them,” he replied. “Decided it’s not worth the trouble. Cops and the Zoning Department are next door to each other, and you know how people talk.” He looked around and spread his arms to indicate all the progress he’d made. “What do you think? Cable for internet should have been laid a month ago, but the bastards still haven’t said yes.”
Transport a small gymnasium from Ohio to Florida and you’d have something similar. It was decorated with taxidermied fish, brass nautical lights, and lots of typical bar signage—Cuba: 200 Miles . . . Let’s Get Ship-faced. Behind the bar was a kitchenette similar to those found at a VFW or Moose Lodge.
I said, “Looks like you’re about ready for the Grand Opening.” He had waved me to lacquered bar, where there were stools. I took a seat and accepted a bottle of water from the cooler. “You mind telling me what happened?”
Mack popped a bottle of Steinlager, sat across from me, and summarized. He had been here, discussing the possibility of Tomlinson renting the cottages, when an NBA-sized man had appeared in the doorway and introduced himself as Mr. Deville.
“That struck me as odd from the start,” Mack said. “No one introduces themselves as Mr. these days. And the way he was dressed—a black robe, like a priest, but with bleach-blond hair to his waist. A full beard, too, ragged-looking.”
A rock ’n’ roll star, that was Mack’s impression. Or some kind of hippie preacher. With all the hair and his size, the man could have played Sasquatch on reality TV.
“Turned out, he’d been outside the door for a while, listening,” Mack said. “He was polite, at first. Very formal, but aggressive in that quiet way some men have—damn near crushed my hand when we shook. I thought Tomlinson was going to faint when they stood almost eye to eye. The guy—Deville—put his hands on Tomlinson’s shoulders, said, ‘Hello, Daddy-O,’ and gave him a kiss full on the lips.”
“How did Tomlinson react?” I asked.
Mack shifted uncomfortably on his seat. “Stunned, I suppose. It was a smothering kind of kiss, like that picture of the sailor and nurse in Times Square when World War Two ended. In Sarasota, there’s a giant statue of them kissing, and Deville is damn near as big. He shook Tomlinson like a rag doll, a huge, mad grin on his face, then let him go.”
After that, the scene escalated, according to Mack. Rapid-fire, Deville had accused Tomlinson of all kinds of crimes, murder included.
“Ridiculous, batty things,” Mack went on. “Claimed Tomlinson’s grandfather was responsible for the deaths of millions of people. Something about inventing a gear or motor—I don’t know—that allowed a machine gun to fire through an airplane propeller. ‘Built your fucking fortune off the corpses of young men,’ the crazy S-O-B said. By then, he was screaming, pacing back and forth like a lunatic.”
I cleared my throat without comment. Some of the accusations were true.
Finally, Mack had had enough.
“I picked up a hammer and told the sonuvabitch to get off my property. When I did, the guy turned on me. A wolf—you know how their eyes blaze?—he was like that, only his eyes were blue. When I dialed nine-one-one, he threatened to burn this place to the ground if I let Tomlinson—Daddy-O, he called him—hold a reunion here. Then stormed out.”
I asked a few questions. Deville was in his mid-twenties, according to Mack, six-six, or taller, and close to three hundred pounds. He hadn’t heard or seen a car, so maybe the guy had walked or come on a bicycle.
“Or had a driver,” Mack suggested. “He was wearing a gold Rolex, the big one with diamonds, so he’s got some money. Or he’s a thief.”
“What about shoes?” I asked. A man in a robe could wear six-inch lifts. He could also dump the robe, his wig, and walk away normally dressed, bald and half a foot shorter.
Mack was getting impatient. “What the hell’s it matter? But you know”—he gazed around the room—“the guy might have come up with a good idea before he started to rant. He told me this place was a gold mine, if I marketed it right. Seemed to know his p’s and q’s when it came to business. Said I should advertise the cottages as an internet-free zone—nothing else like it in Florida. Sounded idiotic, at first, but now? Well, I’m not so sure.”
“You told him about your cable probl
ems?”
“Already said the guy had been at the door listening. ‘Make people pay for what you don’t have,’ he told me, but then had to go and get nasty, added, ‘including a brain.’ That’s when I started to get bloody well pissed.”
Mack took a cigar from the pocket of his floral Hawaiian shirt and bit off the tip. “Guy’s an asshole, and the spitting image of Tomlinson if he lost a hundred pounds. Like they say, madness runs in the blood. If he ever comes back, I’ll lay a little Māori on him instead of bothering with a damn hammer.”
The owner of Dinkin’s Bay Marina got up, found his lighter, and started for the door, asking, “What do you think?”
“Call the police, let them take care of it,” I said. Outside, the wind had turned. Palm fronds were frosted with a sudden northeast breeze.
“No, about the internet-free zone. Maybe the weirdo has a point. A niche market, like he said. Some folks are fed up with all the constant electronic garbage. People with enough money to pay for what they can’t get anywhere else.”
Mack lit his cigar while the pros and cons played out in his mind. He puffed a few times, then smiled through the smoke. “Sure . . . make the place exclusive. Charge more for what we don’t have. Bloody brilliant, you ask me. And tell the Zoning Department to kiss my ass.”
A marina employee, shirtless and heavily muscled, came down the drive pushing a wheelbarrow. “Where was Figgy during all this?” I asked, meaning Figueroa Casanova. The man, just over five feet tall, had suffered monoxide poisoning as a child in Cuba. He also smoked a lot of weed. One or the other had blunted his intellect, and possibly his growth, but Figgy was hardworking, a gifted amateur shortstop, and among my favorite people on the island.
Mack, lost in the idea of an internet-free resort, waved the question away, saying, “Ask Figgy yourself.”
I intended to. As I started toward the road, Delia and Tomlinson exited the cottage. They faced each other, hugged in a brief yet personal way, Delia red-cheeked from tears but happier than she’d been.
Tomlinson called, “We’re going for a sail this afternoon and it’s getting late.” This was followed by a searching look that inquired Any sign of Deville?
My wordless response was Nope. “Take my truck,” I suggested. “I’ll use the bike and see you back at the marina.”
Figgy watched Delia get in on the truck’s driver’s side and pull away. “Wow! That lady sure has some nice chichis,” he said in Spanish. “I like the way they bounce, you know? Makes me hungry for mangoes.”
He had already told me he hadn’t seen a stranger on the property, with or without a black robe. The little Cuban had slipped off to the beach to smoke a joint, then spent an hour helping kids build a sandcastle.
“She’s Tomlinson daughter,” I warned.
Figgy misread this as ignorance on my part. “Doc, my friend, every girl is someone’s daughter. Don’t you know that simple fact? . . . Think she likes baseball? I might invite her to play catch and smoke a pitillo, if she comes back to the marina.”
The rumble of a motorcycle drew my attention—a Harley, possibly, carrying just one, not two, helmeted riders. My truck had just turned right on West Gulf, and I’d forgotten to remove the GPS transponder from beneath the bed.
“I’m an idiot,” I murmured.
“No, I make the same mistake before I learn about life,” Figgy reassured me. “Same with everyone, girls and boys. We all got parents. My papa, I never met him, but I’m pretty sure he was someone. You know, an hombre, ’cause that’s the way it works. In Gringolandia, they don’t teach this in schools?”
The mango I’d picked was in my pocket. I gave it to Figgy, and said, “Gotta go.”
* * *
—
A man, mid-thirties, wearing slacks and a starched collared shirt, was peering into my truck until I surprised him from behind on Tomlinson’s beach bum bike.
“Where’s your motorcycle?” I asked, coasting to a stop. We were on the mangrove side of the boardwalk to my lab.
He was startled yet his puzzled reaction seemed genuine. “What? No . . . my car’s parked at the marina and I walked. Are you Dr. Marion Ford?” The accent was Midwestern, a generation removed from some New York barrio.
“Depends on who’s asking.” This was said in a friendly way.
From a computer bag the man produced a business card. “I’m with the Internal Revenue Service,” he said. “Special Investigator Leo Alomar. Nice to meet you, Dr. Ford.”
I took the card as if unaware he intended to shake hands. If it was a fake, the card was well done. His name was in raised letters below the embossed stamp of the U.S. Department of the Treasury.
I handed it back to him. “Must be interesting work, Mr. Alomar. But don’t you folks usually phone for an appointment or send something in the mail?”
“Call me Leo,” he said. “This isn’t official, I just happened to be in the area. Can you spare fifteen minutes?”
Amused skepticism was my response.
He waited out my silence. Finally, he gave in. “Okay, there you go. Smart. I admire that. All right, cards on the table. I came to see you. We can make it official if you want, Doctor, but it’s better this way. A private talk just between us. Off the record. How’s that sound?”
“Darn nice of you, Leo,” I said, “but if I screwed up a tax form or something, why keep it a secret?”
He didn’t expect that. “Not secret. I didn’t mean . . . Well, let me put it another way. What it doesn’t say here”—the card again—“is that I’m a Special Investigator with the IRS Whistleblower Program. Ever hear of it?”
“Nope,” I said. “And, frankly, I doubt it exists. What are you really after?”
The man maintained his composure. He turned toward my stilthouse. “Do you have a computer? How about I wait out here while you go inside and look it up?”
I had gauged the man’s age, his size, and was heartened by the absence of scar tissue around his ears. The fact that he looked nothing like Tomlinson was a bonus, as was an intriguing oversight. He had failed to offer his ID and Treasury Department shield even though I had just called him a liar.
“In this heat?” I said. “Come inside with me.”
“There you go,” the man said again, and was delighted when the IRS webpage proved me wrong about the Whistleblower Program.
SIX
Special Investigator Leo Alomar—or whoever he was—explained that anyone can call an IRS hotline, accuse a person or company of tax fraud, and remain anonymous throughout the process. If an individual or company is found guilty and has assets of more than two million dollars, the whistleblower, depending on the court’s findings, can be rewarded with fifteen to thirty percent of whatever the IRS recovers in fines or auctioned assets.
We were in the lab. Alomar had taken a chair at the workstation, where there is a sink, an emergency eyewash, a Bunsen burner, and a rack of Pyrex in utilitarian sizes. I sat across from him at the computer, confirming that everything he’d said thus far was true.
I’d also skimmed ahead regarding the Whistleblower/Informant Awards Program. What I learned was interesting . . . and troubling.
The IRS wasn’t as fussy when it came to accusing individuals. As long as informants turned in people with annual gross incomes of more than two hundred thousand dollars, the process, the rewards, and the promise of anonymity were much the same.
I said, “Leo, take a look around. Do you see two million in assets here? Good luck, if my business is what you’re after. And if you’re recruiting informants, you picked the wrong guy. I suggest you target people who’re already ass-deep in debt to the IRS.” I rolled my chair back, done with the conversation.
He stopped me with a sharp look. “That’s exactly why I’m here, Dr. Ford. You’re not ass-deep yet, but you soon will be.” Slowly, his thin smile faded. I had failed to react. “Thin
k I’m bluffing? How about we go over a spreadsheet of your income versus expenditures over the last three months? I’ve got it right here in my briefcase.”
“Fine,” I said. “While you’re at it, pull out some ID. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Treasury Department badge before. Did they run you through the pistol course at Glynco? I hear it’s pretty tough.”
I watched his face change. I waited while he fumbled around in his head, unsure if the question was a trap. Starched confidence was displaced by impatience and an involuntary thrumming of the left foot.
“Let’s stick to income versus expenditures,” he said. “You’re in enough trouble as is, unless we can come to some sort of agreement.”
“Agreement?”
“There you go. It’s something I’m authorized to offer if you cooperate.”
I got up and walked to the phone. It is an outdated wall model, hot-wired, which is a necessity in a building with double thick walls and a tin roof.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Calling the police,” I said.
Leo Alomar—or whatever his name was—got to his feet so fast, his briefcase fell to the floor. “Goddamn it, Ford, I’m trying to do you a favor. This needs to stay between us.”
I paused with the phone to my ear. “Give me one good reason why an agent from the Treasury Department doesn’t want the police involved?”
He gave me two. A name—Jimmy Jones, the infamous high-tech treasure hunter, a felon, who had been beaten to death in jail.
“I was on the team that helped bust that Ivy League prick,” Alomar said. “We net-worthed him—Al Caponed him, we call it. A ton of gold is still out there waiting to be found, as you damn well know.” He waited for that to sink in. “Don’t deny it. My contacts in the Bahamas confirmed that you and your seaplane spent a month there around the time that Jimmy’s ex-girlfriend disappeared.”
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