by Smith, Julie
“What? I don’t get it.”
“Well, first I had to swear on a stack of Bibles I wouldn’t go with you to get the papers. Then in the end he refused to give me the address. You have to call him to get it.” She gave him a number on a scrap of paper. “Go do it now.”
There was no name on the paper. He dialed and said simply, “I’m Dina’s friend.”
“What’s your name?”
Not knowing what she’d told him, he said, “I have two names.”
“Yeah. Russell Fortier’s the real one. Russell, you’re a dead man if I find out Dina’s been to Miami with you.”
Russell was unaware that probation officers talked so tough.
He said, “Don’t worry. Nothing’s going to happen to your sister.”
“My sister? Is that what she told you?” He got a huge laugh out of that one. “Look, here’s what you do. You got a boat? Dina says you got a boat.”
“Pearson thirty-eight.”
“Save it. I don’t know from boats. Sail it on down there and tie up at Dinner Key. Be there at four o’clock today and somebody’ll meet you. You got twenty-five thousand dollars?”
“Are you kidding? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“You got it or not?”
“I can get it.”
“Cash only—half up front. The guy’s name’s Lou.” He hung up, and when Russell returned, Dina wasn’t there.
She’d left a note: “Sorry to say I’ve got a secret or two myself. Hope things work out for you.”
Damn, the woman was mercurial. He went to get $25,000 out of the bank before setting sail, mentally composing the anonymous letter he was going to write.
She might be weird, she might be strange, she might even be a Mob princess—but she sure was smart. This was a solution that would protect Bebe and might even give Russell a choice or two.
***
Skip’s lieutenant called her in the morning, after Beau’s murder. “How’re you doing on the Fortier thing?”
“Great. Fortier’s alive and living in Fort Lauderdale—or, at least, he passed through there. Frankly, I don’t think he killed Beau or Allred, because why go to Fort Lauderdale and then come back?”
“Who did kill them?” Kelly McGuire was wearing an emerald green blouse perhaps a tad too bright for her paleness. But other than that, she was, like Cappello, the very personification of crispness—pink-red hair pulled back on the top and left long in back, tube-shaped silver earrings that made her long face longer, the merest touch of pinky-coral lipstick. You wanted to call her Madam Chairman, just for the way she looked. And she could stare you straight in the face and say, “Who did kill them?” like she might say, “What time is it?” Like she expected a serious answer. Something about the woman was scary.
Skip wasn’t quite sure how to answer. Finally, she shrugged. “Still working on it.”
McGuire smiled, which made her look almost friendly. “You need some manpower. Let’s give Beau to somebody else.”
That was the last thing Skip expected her to say. At first she was deeply offended: She could handle the damn case herself. But then it occurred to her that, frankly, she did need some manpower—as long as it was a help, not a hindrance.
Holding her breath, she said only one word: “Abasolo?”
McGuire nodded. “Let’s see how he feels about it.”
They called him in and asked him. “Fine,” he said, giving Skip a what-the-hell-is-this look and, afterward, they compared notes.
“Her idea,” Skip said. “She thought I needed help. I didn’t want to get stuck with O’Rourke, so I said you might do.”
Abasolo stared after the lieutenant. “She’s—uh— different.”
“Yeah, but in a good way or a bad way?”
He chewed his lip. “Might be good,” he said, staring at her some more. “Might be just fine.”
Skip thought he was speaking beyond the professional level. “She’s married,” she said.
“Her husband cheats on her.”
“What on earth makes you think that?”
He shook his head. “She’s just got that look.”
“Want to go get coffee?” Skip wanted to talk with him outside the building.
“You got something on your mind, don’t you? Sure, let’s do.”
Abasolo and Skip were happily ensconced at the Plantation Coffeehouse, well into a latte and a cappuccino, respectively, when Skip said, “Look, let’s just partner up on the whole thing. It’s all of a piece, and I think that’s what McGuire had in mind. It’s almost like—” She didn’t want to say what she thought.
“What?” Abasolo said. “It’s almost like what?”
“Like she’s a mind reader. Look, I wouldn’t want to get into it with her, because the truth is, I don’t know anything right now. But Russell sure as hell does—and I think he’s the quickest way out for us. These dudes were screwing people out of oil leases. What if one of the screwees is exacting revenge? Russell splits, but his partner gets killed. Russell’s got to know who did it.”
“Well, great. Let’s just ask him.”
“Here’s the thing. I think I know where he is. With you working the routine stuff on Beau, I can duck out and run him down.”
Abasolo leaned his lanky frame against the back of his chair. “Langdon, you never cease to amaze me.”
“He’s probably in Fort Lauderdale.”
“You’re just such a hot dog.”
She was slightly taken aback. This must be a guy thing, she thought. Something to do with ego.
She shrank back. “Oh, God, AA. I never know when I’m going to offend someone. I may talk Southern, but I’m not a true Southerner. If I were, I’d never make these mistakes. Listen, you want Russell? You got him. I’ll take Beau—I’m sure McGuire could care less who does what.”
Abasolo laughed. “I don’t want Russell. I just enjoy watching you hustle your butt, that’s all.”
“You’re so damn superior.”
“Come on, run it down for me.”
“I’ve traced him to Fort Lauderdale. I think he went there to get a boat.”
“Ah. Which he no doubt sailed away, days ago.”
“Maybe not, though. Maybe it’s taking him a while to get things together. A loan to buy a boat, maybe.”
“He probably chartered it.”
“Well, anyway, I want to go down there and poke around.”
Abasolo nearly spilled his latte. “How’re you planning to break the news to the lovely lieutenant?”
“I’m going on my own time.”
“Own money, too, I suppose?”
“That’s the idea.”
“Okay, I’m finally getting your drift—you want me to cover for you while you’re gone.”
She nodded.
“Well, I have to. The lieutenant gave me Beau, remember?”
“That’s what I meant by the way she read my mind.”
“It’s possible, Langdon. It’s possible. That woman’s probably as big a hot dog as you are. So naturally she’d figure out how you wanted to play it.”
“Feeling used, AA?”
Abasolo ignored her. He had a worried look on his face.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I don’t think she’s going to make it here. She’s too straightforward. Too independent.”
“Oh, come on. I do okay.”
“Yeah, you’re their poster girl—they don’t need two. Besides, you know your place. You could take the sergeant’s exam, move up, everything’s cool. But once you got to be a lieutenant, if you still acted like you do now, they’d bust your ass just to show they could do it.”
“Who would?”
“You know who. The old boys.”
She had a sudden surge of affection for the lieutenant, suddenly saw her in a new light—as someone like herself. Someone not given to suffering fools or obeying other people’s rules. Abasolo was right—she probably wouldn’t last long.
But for the
moment, she’d given Skip her freedom. She fooled around the rest of the day, trying to help Abasolo with some of the routine stuff regarding Beau, but chafing to get out of town.
Which she did early the next morning, Steve Steinman more or less good-naturedly in tow. “You know what this is costing me? Three days’ work on the house.”
“Yes, but you know what you’re trading for it? Three days of sanity.”
In the end, of course, he didn’t go to the beach while she worked. He tagged along as she took Russell’s picture to every charter place in the phone book—it was an absurd long shot, she knew, because she had to find the one person who’d waited on him. He’d disappeared on a Sunday. She figured he’d probably chartered the boat—or bought it—the next day.
Fort Lauderdale being huge in area, they spent almost all day crisscrossing Broward County, showing the picture and asking for the guy who worked Mondays—who was almost invariably off Saturdays.
By the end of the day, Skip was sure she was on a fool’s errand, and slipping into a depression. Steve, on the other hand, was poring over a restaurant guide. “Hey, Asian food. You know how much you miss that if you’re from California? Along with fresh fruits and vegetables. What do you think about sushi?”
Skip feigned gagging.
“Good. You can have tempura.”
Skip didn’t answer. She was too busy phoning guys who worked Mondays.
But in the end they did have sushi, and after that, they walked on the beach near their hotel.
The next day they hit the yacht brokers.
It was after lunch when they found the guy who sold him the boat—Gilbert Angus at Angus Yachts, sole proprietor, and from the looks of things, sole staff member. Angus was in his mid-fifties, perhaps, fit and tan, with slightly bowed legs sticking out of khaki shorts. He took one look at the picture of Russell, nodded, and said, “On Y Va.“
Skip was buffaloed. Angus was the last guy she could imagine saying a mantra, which was what it sounded like to her.
But Steve said, “Let’s go where?”
Angus laughed. “The name of the boat. ‘Let’s go’ in French. A Pearson thirty-eight; eighty-four.”
Gradually, they sorted it out: the boat was thirty-eight feet long, and used—an ‘84, in car terms. The man in the picture paid cash.
“Cash?” That was a shocker.
“Fifty-six thousand.”
“May we see the papers, please?”
It turned out an Edward Favret had bought the boat, giving the same Uptown New Orleans address as the real Edward Favret and using his driver’s license as identification.
“Nice guy,” Angus said. “What’s he wanted for?”
“Routine questioning.”
“All the way from New Orleans and it’s routine?” He snapped his fingers. “Hey, wait a minute. Hold it here.” He turned his back on them and started picking through a pile of newspapers on a table. “Here.” He tapped one. “This is what it’s about, isn’t it?”
It was a story on the mini-crime wave in which Beau was featured as the star victim. “It’s all here. United Oil, United Oil.” He was looking back and forth between Edward Favret’s stats and the story on Beau. “This guy killed his partner, didn’t he? I should have known. He didn’t seem like a druggie, but he had all that cash. Goddamn, I just should have known.”
After that, he was so helpful Skip couldn’t get a word in to ask a question. “You know, the guy just didn’t seem right. ‘Course, nobody who pays cash seems right. Edward Favret his real name? ‘Cause, you know, that picture on his driver’s license—I remember thinking it didn’t look much like him.” He gestured so wildly Skip was afraid she’d be hit. “But, you know, nine out of ten people—that’s the way it is—I just didn’t think.”
“Did he give a local address?”
“No, just that one. He said he didn’t have a slip yet.”
“In a marina, you mean?”
“I guess.” He thought a minute. “You can rent a mooring from someone who lives on the river or one of the canals, but that’s dicey. Must have meant a marina.”
“Wait a minute. See if you can remember the conversation exactly.”
“I just told you what it was.” Angus was suddenly testy.
“How did he happen to mention he didn’t have a slip?”
“I told you. I asked for a local address and that’s what he said.”
“Tell me about this sailboat he bought—is it something you could live on?”
“That’s what I just told you.”
“Uh-huh. And could you take it cruising?”
“Of course. That’s what it’s for.”
“But was it your impression that he intended to live on it?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
“Are there special marinas for that?”
He shrugged. “Some might be better than others. Why don’t you call around? There’s lots of them.” He swung an arm wildly. “All up and down the coast. Unless he had a friend—and it sounds like he didn’t—he probably did what I’d do.” He stopped and licked his lips, evidently thinking he had a hot tip.
“What’s that?”
“Just turn to the M’s in the Yellow Pages and call till he found a slip.”
Steve rolled his eyes.
Skip punched him gently. “Thanks. Say, I’m wondering something. Did you happen to notice what kind of car he was driving?”
Angus looked chagrined. “Nope. He walked in—don’t know where he parked.”
“Well, thanks again. We really appreciate your help.”
When they were outside, she said to Steve, “He had to have parked somewhere. I mean, he could have taken a taxi, but renting a car’s cheaper.”
“He bought the damn boat—maybe he bought a car. Naah. Probably not. He probably fired up the boat and headed for Timbuktu.”
“I don’t know. I’ve got a feeling that slip thing was—you know—a slip. You just wouldn’t think about mentioning a slip as an address unless it was.”
After that it was a piece of cake. She did exactly what Gilbert Angus suggested—looked in the Yellow Pages—and pretty quickly found the On Y Va at the Bahia Mar Marina. “Got it!”
Steve was napping on the other of the two queen beds in their small beachside hotel. His eyes snapped open. “Got what?”
“Found him. Be back in a while.” She checked her gun.
“You’re going over there alone?” He lifted his head, looking alarmed.
“Haven’t you heard? I’m a police officer.”
“I don’t know. I don’t feel great about this.”
She chuckled, giving him a wave as she left. “You’re so cute when you’re worried.”
“Just be careful.” He lay down again and waved back. He’d long since given up putting up much resistance.
The marina was bustling—it was a gorgeous Sunday, boats coming and going on innocent errands, no one, seemingly, with a thought in his head beyond a picnic or a pickup. And there was the Pearson 38, a blue sailboat floating merrily, like anyone’s weekend toy. She saw no sign it was occupied.
She didn’t quite know what to do next—how did you knock on a boat? She ended up hollering: “Mr. Favret! Mr. Favret, are you there?”
Evidently he wasn’t.
Or maybe he was. Maybe he just hadn’t heard. She climbed aboard, still shouting. There was still no answer.
She wondered if she was trespassing, concluded that she probably was, and decided not to go below. Not yet, anyway. She settled for looking in the windows of the low structure built on deck. At first she wasn’t sure what she was seeing. It looked as if Russell hadn’t been taught the word shipshape—cabinets were open and things were on the floor that she thought shouldn’t be, almost as if someone had gotten drunk and clumsy, knocked over one thing reaching for another.
Slowly it dawned on her that the place had been rather gently tossed. It wasn’t the kind of thorough going-over in which pillows
are pulled off and slashed, but someone had very definitely been looking for something. Perhaps for Russell.
She went below, thinking he could be injured in there.
In fact, nobody was aboard, and since she was already far, far over the line, she hadn’t the first qualm about looking around. There was a fascinating item in plain sight. Attached to the bathroom mirror was a Post-it that read, “Passport!”
It was the sort of note she wrote to herself when she didn’t want to forget something. “P.U. cleaning” meant “pick up cleaning.” But “Cleaning!” meant “No margin for error here. Pick up cleaning or go naked.”
A passport would be a very fine thing for the pseudo-Edward Favret to have—or for someone else now in the process of being invented.
As she climbed back onto the dock, it occurred to her that this was an excellent place to disappear. She stared out to sea, out to where she knew the Caribbean was, with its hundreds of tiny cays and coves. It would be so easy to drop off the face of the earth … if you had papers. And something told her they wouldn’t be that hard to get down here.
Maybe, she thought, it would be a good idea to go introduce herself to the Fort Lauderdale police. For one thing, she might need backup later. For another, they probably knew a few forgers.
Twenty-four
OFFICER MARTINA RUDOLFO was a dark woman with pitted skin and long curly hair that didn’t quite go with her crisp shirt and creased trousers. She probably thought the hair was her best feature. And a little shorter, it would have been, Skip thought.
She looked at Skip with evident curiosity. “I’ve heard of you, Langdon.”
“You’ve heard of me?”
Rudolfo nodded. “My sister lives in Louisiana—married a man who works on oil rigs. They’re always sending me clips from the New Orleans paper—about the police department. They’ve sent me two about you, with little notes saying, ‘Why can’t you do stuff like this?’ “
“They’re kidding, of course. No one in their right mind …”
Rudolfo cut her off with a laugh. “You’re right. You’re sure right about that. Now, what can I do for you?”
“Well, I’ve only got today to find this guy—the one I mentioned on the phone. And I’m wondering if he’s got a new name. Could he get papers in Fort Lauderdale?”