by Ted Bell
For his part, he was delighted to now find himself in the employ of one of Ireland’s oldest and most distinguished families. The current Knight was the twenty-ninth to hold that noble title, a fact that Drummond found quite remarkable.
The Knights of Glin were a branch of the great Norman family the FitzGeralds, Earls of Desmond. The family had been granted vast lands in County Limerick in the early fourteenth century by their Desmond overlords. The whole family were from the Norman Maurice FitzGerald, a companion-in-arms to the legendary warrior Strongbow, who’d acquired his fierce moniker in the twelfth century or thereabouts for his skill and use of the long bow.
Drummond was busy whacking away at floribunda and surgically pruning “Double Delights” in one of the Knight’s countless hybrid tea rose beds that morning when he heard a familiar voice calling his name.
“Bulldog! I say, Bulldog, where the dickens are you? I can’t see a thing for all these bloody roses!”
Ambrose Congreve, and someone named Hawke, were expected, of course; Congreve had called ahead. He’d never arrive unannounced, too proper for that by half. And he was the only man on earth Drummond allowed to call him “Bulldog.”
There was a story behind that. There was always a story. One rather late and liquorish pub evening, Congreve had gotten to his feet, pulled a black spiral notebook from the inside of his stylish Norfolk jacket, and opened it with a flourish and a clearing of the throat. He then started in to reading aloud a “tribute” to his new colleague in the Mountbatten murder investigation.
“Ahem…‘Drummond…has the appearance of an English gentleman: a man who fights hard, plays hard, and lives clean…His best friend would not call him good looking but he possesses that cheerful type of ugliness which inspires immediate confidence…Only his eyes redeem his face. Deep-set and steady, with eyelashes that many women envy, they show him to be a sportsman and an adventurer. Drummond goes outside the law only when he feels the ends justify the means.’”
“Rubbish,” Drummond said.
“Sound like anyone we know?” Congreve had asked, when Drummond stared at him in stony silence.
“Where the hell’d you find that nonsense?”
“I copied it. From a book. By Sapper. I’m rereading it now, having none of my beloved Sherlockian volumes at my disposal.”
“Pulp fiction.”
“Pulp truth, Bulldog,” Congreve had replied. And he’d called him by that name ever since. Drummond, snipping away at his roses, was snapped out of this reverie by a loud wail, once again calling his name.
“Bulldog! I say, where the hell are you, you little leprechaun? Have you fallen down a rabbit hole?”
“Over here!”
“Over where?”
“Here, you damn fool,” he said, and flung an empty wicker basket high into the air so the world’s most brilliant detective might accurately deduce his whereabouts.
“Oh. Over there. Why didn’t you say so?”
A moment later Drummond could hear his old friend’s heavy footsteps approaching on the gravel walkway. He was not alone. Someone with a more athletic gait was following in his wake. This man Hawke, or whomever.
“Oh. Hullo, Bulldog.”
“Hullo, Congreve. Who’s this?”
“May I present my dear friend Lord Alexander Hawke?”
Hawke shook the man’s rough red hand. “Alex will do, Mr. Drummond.” But Drummond wasn’t listening to him. He was eyeing Congreve through narrowed eyes. Ambrose had told Hawke the man was difficult and the less he said, the better. Alex was happy to let Congreve do the talking.
They stared at each other in stony silence.
“Haven’t changed much, have you?” Ambrose finally allowed.
“Nor you.”
“Ugly as ever.”
“Still fat as a Yorkshire pig.”
“Drink?”
“Not too early?”
“Never too early.”
And so they all three traipsed along winding garden pathways through endless acres of multicolored roses to Drummond’s cottage. Entering the tiny kitchen, they sat opposite each other at the round wooden table. Drummond put a decanter of Irish whiskey on the table, the strong sunlight gleaming on the facets of the carved Waterford glass, a retirement gift.
“Help yourself, gentlemen,” Drummond said, and slid two small glasses across the table. After they’d both downed one and replenished supplies, Congreve plastered his most serious expression on his face and looked at his old colleague.
“This is police business.”
“I’m retired. I’m in the rose business.”
“Involves the Mountbatten case.”
“Case closed.”
“Case reopened.”
“What the blazes are ye talkin’ about?”
“I think our ‘third man’ has surfaced.”
“And what makes ye think so?”
“The Prince of Wales found a death threat in one of Mountbatten’s books. It was signed ‘The Pawn.’”
“So?”
“Prince Charles recently received yet another threat from the Pawn. ‘Death to Kings.’ Clearly a reference to His Royal Highness and his two boys.”
“Same signature? Same hand?”
“Identical.”
“Fresh?”
“As a hen’s egg.”
“Anythin’ else?”
“Alex and I spoke to McMahon the other evening. He’s out of prison, I’m sure you know. Freed by some lunatic in the Good Friday pardons. Two days ago, over in Mullaghmore, we had a nice little chat with him.”
“Say anything new, did he?”
“I asked him about the missing girls. Did he know anything about that.”
“Did he?”
“More than he was telling, I think.”
“He have a name for the third man?”
“Same name we’ve always had. Smith.”
“And how, pray tell, is any of this new information?”
“Be patient, will you? He said he’d heard rumors this Smith was living on an island just off the coast. Place called Mutton Island. I went out there with Alex. Amid the ruins of an ancient settlement, we found evidence of this mysterious Mr. Smith. We also found evidence of murder, by God. And we found human remains.”
“Jesus Lord.”
“We’ve got fresh DNA evidence, Bulldog. We’re back in the game. We’ll finally get to the truth of this thirty-year-old crime!”
“We? What is it you want from me?”
“Help. Despite your many unpleasant qualities, you’re still the best copper I ever worked with. You were the one who first quoted Sherlock Holmes to me, and I shall be eternally grateful for that alone.”
“Did I? What was the quote?”
“‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’”
“Ah, The Sign of the Four. One of my favorites. What exactly do you want of me? I’m quite busy as you can see.”
“I want a look at your old files, first of all. Get the names and addresses of all the female victims. Get the M.E. to run a cross-check of their samples with the new DNA we found. If we get a match, everything else opens up. With this fresh evidence in hand, we’re bound to turn something over. With your help, we just might crack it, Bulldog. Only if you’re willing, of course. All these gorgeous roses.”
Drummond cast his eyes out the window at the sun beaming down on his beautiful roses. Was any place on earth lovelier than this castle and its gardens? Could he bear to be away, even for a short time? He looked at Congreve, remembering what a great team they’d made, each complementing the other’s strengths, and weaknesses. Their failure to find and prosecute the “third man” had been the one blemish on an otherwise sterling career of some forty years.
He looked at Ambrose and said, “We find this bloody Smith, we solve both cases. For good. Forever.”
“That’s correct. The murderer of the girls. And Lord Mountbatten.”
>
Drummond turned his eyes on Alex.
“You met our McMahon, Mr. Hawke, did ye trust him? I never did. A drunken, lyin’ cur, my estimation.”
Hawke, startled out of his reverie, said, “We don’t need him anymore, Mr. Drummond. We’ve got physical evidence of murder. Serial murder, in fact.”
“Hmm. I do have a week’s holiday coming up. But I’ve already told my employer I wouldn’t be taking it.”
“We need a cover story. Tell me. Is your dear mother still alive?” Congreve asked.
“Ah, no, she’s not. She passed in Dublin, just last year she did, bless her sainted soul. Ninety-seven years old. She’s at her final resting place in St. Stephen’s cemetery.”
“She’s back, Bulldog.”
“She’s back?”
“Yes, back. But, sad to say, she’s not doing all that well, I’m afraid. Fading fast, in fact. We could lose her any day now.”
“You’re talking about me blessed mother.”
“I am indeed.”
“You’re a right bastard, aren’t you?”
“In matters like this I am.”
“Life and death.”
“Precisely.”
“Unfinished business.”
“Quite.”
“I’m in, damn you,” Bulldog barked.
THIRTY
MIAMI
SO SHE’S GIVING THE FAT GUY a BJ while he’s sitting in your favorite chair waiting for you to come waltzing through your own front door?” Harry Brock asked Stokely.
“Correct.”
“But you got inside locked sliding glass doors by swinging down from the roof on a rope?”
“You got it.”
“Same blond broad who whacked the two guys we were staking out on the beach?”
“Yep.”
“But she got away. From your apartment, I mean.”
“She did.”
“And the fat guy tried to whack you with a MAC-10?”
“He did.”
“Your leather couch looks like shit.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You think they can stitch that up? Patch it, maybe?”
“What do you think, Harry? Patch it up? All that rich Corinthian leather?”
“Sucks. Can you put in for something like that, I wonder?”
“That’s a very good question, Harry.”
“You pissed at me about something? I went to the Bahamas for a couple of days, okay? I had some time coming. I met somebody. Jesus.”
“No, I am not pissed. I’m just trying to concentrate on this goddamn Dolphin game. Third and goal. We could score here. Okay? I told you most of this shit already.”
“It’s only preseason.”
“That’s the only kind we win.”
“They figure out who the fat guy is yet?”
“Bashi? Yeah. Bashir al Mahmoud. Pakistani. Formerly called Gitmo home, now a legal resident of the United States of America, courtesy of our all new and improved Homeland Security immigration policies.”
“Bashi. Shit. The guy we were trying to get to.”
“Right.”
“So, instead of us having to sit out in the blistering sun all day looking for this asshole, he just comes over to your apartment. Sits in your favorite chair.”
“That’s about it. Shit! Interception.”
“So, now what?”
“We go for the fumble.”
“I mean the case, asswipe.”
“Oh, that. We take a room at the Fontainebleau.”
“Who does?”
“You and me.”
“Together?”
“Of course. We’re partners, partner.”
“Listen, Stoke. You wanna come out of the fuckin’ closet, do it with somebody else, okay, stud? I ain’t interested.”
“Funny. Wait. Holy shit, another interception! D’you see that? Damn! We’re still in it, baby. Stick their dicks in dirt, Dolphins. Let’s see some bad sportsmanship out there for a change.”
“So, the Fontainebleau.”
Stoke spoke, his eyes never leaving the TV.
“Bashi had leased the presidential penthouse there on a long-term basis. We swept it clean. Computers full of incriminating shit. White slavery, pornography, possible terrorist activity, money laundering of massive cash coming in from Pakistan and Afghanistan poppy fields.”
“Cash used for what?”
“Services rendered here in the U S of A.”
“What kind of services?”
“That’s what we need to find out, Harry.”
“Probably not out there rehabbing houses for Jimmy Carter’s Habitat for Humanity, I don’t guess.”
“Probably not. Now, shut up. Third and long. And…another pick. Can you believe this damn team?” Stoke pointed the remote at the TV and it went mute.
“You did good, Stoke. I got to hand it to you. Served this fat pig up on a sterling silver platter. They gotta be loving your ass up at Langley.”
“Made your white ass look good, anyway. For hiring me.”
“What about the b-i-m-b-o, b-i-m-b-o, and Bimbo was her name-o.”
“She’s coming back to Bashi’s penthouse. Sooner or later.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Because there’s a wall safe there, behind a fake wall in the back of the closet that hides another fake wall. It’s got twenty mil and change in small, unmarked bills inside it.”
“Twenty million fucking dollars?”
“Right around there, yeah.”
“You guys just left it there?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think?”
“Because the b-i-m-b-o knows about all that hidden jack and hopes, no, believes you couldn’t possibly find it. So she’s abso-fuckin-lutely positively going nuts, got to come back to that suite and crack that safe no matter how incredibly dangerous such a stupid idea is or may well be.”
“Incredibly stupid move on her part.”
“But she’ll do it.”
“She’ll do it.”
“Hotel in on this? If she tries to check in?”
“No. We’d have to keep someone on the front desk all the time. Better just let them be natural, somebody shows up and wants to spend ten grand a night on a room.”
“You ever hand somebody who works in a hotel a fifty and ask for a better room? They take it?”
“Good point, Harry. We get the hotel manager in on this, use your CIA creds.”
“Exactly. Forty-eight hours. She’ll show up. Guaranteed.”
“You’re good, Harry. Turn pro someday, keep your shit together. Ah, shit, Pennington, don’t throw the damn ball, run it, you dickhead, run left, you’re wide open, man!”
“Stoke?”
“What?”
“Our new stakeout, if I have this straight, is not a shitty Suburban or a rusted-out Ford Taurus with chicken bones under the seats.”
“No. Not.”
“It is a palatial penthouse suite at the Fontainebleau Hotel on Miami Beach.”
“It is, Harry. Our suite is right across the hall from Bashi’s former residence. Only two suites on the top floor. We’ll get management to put a security camera on Bashi’s front door. We’ll be able to monitor it twenty-four seven. And give the manager instructions to have the front desk call our room immediately should anybody try to check in or gain access.”
“This could be good, Stoke. A stakeout in a penthouse at the Fontainebleau? I like it.”
“I thought you might. An upgrade from cold coffee and stale Krispy Kremes in a piece of crap SUV anyway.”
“You been inside our rooms?”
“Yep.”
“Ocean view?”
“Pool.”
“Still. We’ll have government-issue high-powered optics. Keep up to date with the latest in ladies’ swimwear fashion.”
“Bet on it.”
“And room service. Adult movies twenty-four hours a day.”
<
br /> “Uh-huh.”
“I like this.”
“I knew you would, Harry.”
“When do we check in, Stoke? I can hardly wait. We can order up a pitcher of extra dry martinis and an extra cheese pizza with pepperoni, mushrooms, and onions. Curl up under the covers and watch Brokeback Mountain together if you want.”
Harry Brock, ladies and gentlemen, Stoke thought to himself. What a card.
FORTY-EIGHT HOURS LATER, STOKE and Harry had pretty much exhausted the room service menu, the minibar popcorn and candy and scotch, the soft porn movies on the adult channel, the telescopic chicks by the pool, the Weather Channel, not to mention their patience with CNN, MSNBC, and each other.
It was midnight and finally Stoke’s turn to go catch some Zs. Stoke had put them on a watch system. Four watches, six hours on the security monitor, six blissful hours in the rack while the other guy sat out in the living room and popped reds to stay awake looking at a crappy black-and-white movie about a goddamn hotel door for six entire hours without blinking.
Harry Brock was standing in the doorway in his T-shirt and boxers, drinking a mug of steaming coffee while wolfing down a really disgusting-looking slice of cold pizza.
“Morning,” Brock said groggily, not too happy about it either.
“Yep. Bedtime for Bonzo, Harry,” Stoke yawned, getting up out of the armchair they’d stationed in front of the security monitor and stretching his aching back. Getting old, Stoke. Aches and pains. He was beginning to understand why they said old age wasn’t for sissies. Time to start hitting Gold’s Gym over at the beach three or four times a week, work out on the speed bag, get his rhythm back, put in some serious ring time.
“Yeah? Who’s Bonzo?”
“It’s a goddamn movie, Harry. Ronald Reagan and some chimp named Bonzo. Jesus. Don’t you know anything?”
“What’s on the TV today? Anything good?”
“Yeah. This movie called The Door. Really, really long and nothing ever happens.”
“Sounds good. Who’s in it?”
“Nobody. But it’s a laugh riot. You will laugh your damn ass off, Harry, I swear to God. Grab a seat while it’s still warm.”
“Funny.”
“G’night, Harry, don’t forget your little red pills.”