Castro Directive

by Mertz, Stephen

  He'd taken it in Ecuador, at an Indian market in Quito, several years ago, and had made an eight-by-ten print of the slide. From a distance it looked like a hodgepodge of colorful ponchos and sweaters, fruits, and vegetables. But now as he leaned toward the photo, he saw that in the midst of the crowded market a girl of about ten was smiling and standing straight, seeming to pose for the picture. He'd never noticed her and yet there she was, standing in the center of the photo, beaming at him. Perhaps the lesson in that, he thought, was to pay attention to details.

  A woman's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Hello, sir."

  "Yes, I'm still here."

  "That was M-A-Y-A dash 2, correct? The clerk spoke in a syrupy Southern accent typical of Tallahassee natives. "Is that a personalized license?"

  He tapped his pen impatiently against his notepad. "Yes, it is."

  "Oh, no wonder I'm having trouble. That's another code. You'll have to excuse me. I'm new. One moment, please."

  Yeah, and I'm getting old waiting. Anyone could call Tallahassee and obtain the name and address of a car's owner with only the Florida license number. But sometimes he wished it was more difficult. Oddly enough, if you had the contacts to expedite matters, privileged information was sometimes easier to obtain than so-called public documents, because you sidestepped bureaucratic procedures.

  "Okay," she said a moment later. "The vehicle is registered to Elise Simms." She spelled both names for him, then gave him an address.

  "Thank you, ma'am." He hung up, rubbed his ear, and stared at the name and address he'd jotted down.

  She lived in Coconut Grove. No wonder "Monica" knew about the Chinese restaurant, he thought.

  Maybe the license plate was just a coincidence and Elise Simms had nothing to do with the crystal skull and its disappearance. Maybe she played tourist to fulfill some fantasy, or she was married and used a false name when she met someone new. Or she was an heiress and got her kicks slumming on South Beach. Then again, maybe she was like the girl in the photo—shrouded, but right at the center and staring intently at him. If that was the case, he wanted to find out everything he could about her.

  He lifted his reverse directory from a metal bookshelf and laid the twenty-pound tome on his desk. He'd paid $150 for it three years ago, and it had paid for itself many times over. He paged through it until he found the address. The entry listed Stephen and Elise Simms as the owners of the property. It also gave their occupations. He was listed as a lawyer, and she was an archaeology professor.

  He lugged the directory back to the shelf. Monica, or rather Elise, was getting more interesting by the moment. He picked up his phone and dialed information. "Florida International University, please. Archaeology Department." He was assuming she and Professor Redington were campus colleagues.

  "One moment. Checking under F.LU., I don't see any Archaeology Department."

  "How about anthropology?"

  "Thank you." A recorded voice gave him the number, and he quickly dialed it.

  "Do you have an Elise Simms teaching there?" he asked the receptionist.

  "No. Are you sure you have the right department?"

  "Is there any other university in the area that would have an archaeologist on its teaching staff?"

  "The University of Miami has an Anthropology Department. You might try there."

  A moment later he had the number, dialed it, and asked for Elise Simms.

  "She's not in. Would you like to leave a message?"

  "That's okay. Could you just tell me what her specialization is?"

  "Of course. She specializes in Mayan studies."

  He hung up, walked over to his bedroom closet, and pulled out the suit coat he'd worn the day of his visit to the museum. He reached in the right-hand pocket and smiled as he felt the booklet the guard had given him. He flipped through it and on the back page found what he was looking for. His investigation of William Redington was going to have to wait. Finding out everything he could about Elise Simms was more important. She was listed as a consultant to the exhibit, and he damn well knew that somehow she was entwined with Loften's murder and the theft of the skull.

  He spent his afternoon at the courthouse. It was a familiar routine for him, going through huge ledger books of county property records and viewing microfiche documents of civil and criminal records. He found out the Coconut Grove house was valued at $245,000 and the property was now listed solely in her name. She'd been to court in Dade County once, to get a divorce.

  He walked down the hail to the marriage and divorce records office and asked for the file on the case. In some of his cases, courthouse checks had yielded mother lodes of suspicious evidence. Once he'd discovered that a bereaved husband who was suing over his wife's fatal accident had filed for divorce a week before the accident, and had withdrawn the divorce procedure the day after the accident and two days before his wife died from the injuries.

  In another case, a man claimed that his car slipped out of park on an incline and pinned him against a wail, causing multiple fractures to one of his legs. Pierce's record check uncovered three arrests for check-kiting schemes and one for insurance fraud. Besides that, a half-dozen subcontractors had sued his construction firm. Two days after the information was presented to the defense attorney, the case was dropped. One of the insurance company's attorneys told Pierce that the information he'd obtained would have made it impossible to convince a jury that the man had actually set his car in park.

  When the file arrived, he went through it page by page. Even though there was no transcript for the case, he learned a variety of details about Elise Simms's life from the documents that had been filed. She had been raised in Guatemala, the daughter of an archaeologist, and after marrying Stephen Simms, had lived in Chicago and taught at a university until moving to Miami six years ago.

  She'd filed for the divorce, and he'd opposed it. She claimed he was obsessed with weight lifting and took steroids. The drug made him abusive when he was on them, and sexually impotent when he wasn't. He also hated to travel and refused to go to Guatemala with her or even visit her while she was involved in fieldwork at Mayan sites. In the end, she'd been awarded the house in the settlement.

  The ex-husband might prove worthwhile later, he decided. But first he wanted to confront Simms in person. He'd drive over to the Grove tonight and arrive unannounced. He couldn't wait to see the expression on her face.

  As he left the courthouse a few minutes later, he decided to make one more stop. The library was just a few blocks from the courthouse, and unless she'd changed her schedule, Tina would be still be there. When he arrived, he took the stairs. Her office was located on the top floor, five flights of stairs, ninety-six steps. Pierce's best time was twenty-eight seconds. Today, however, with his head still recovering from its recent blow, he took his time.

  Tina was on the phone when he reached her glass-walled office. He tapped on the door, and she glanced briefly at him, signaled him to enter. He made his way between two metal carts stacked with books and stepped over a cardboard box. Somehow, she managed to work amid the clutter.

  She hung up and looked him over with an appraising eye—as if he were here to apply for a job or had been caught stealing books. He knew it was her way of saying she hadn't seen him for a while. He simply smiled and looked her over, too. She wore a deep red blouse with a high collar, and matching ruby lipstick. Her thick black hair fell over her shoulders, but didn't hide the gold chain and cross that dangled from her neck.

  "How is your head?" she finally asked.

  "Better."

  "Good. Let me guess. You want me to look something up."

  "That's your job, right?"

  "Yeah. That is my job," she said in a weary tone. "What is it now?"

  "You having a bad day?"

  "I have had better ones."

  "When you get a chance, I'd like you to look for any published works by a William Redington or Elise Simms. He's psychology; she's archaeology. I'm especially looking
for anything about a crystal skull."

  She jotted down the names. "Does this have something to do with that murder at the museum?"

  "Tina, I didn't think cross-examining library patrons was part of your job."

  She dropped her pen on the desk. "I want to know about it."

  He folded his arms over his chest, and regarded her a moment. "Ray Andrews hired me. It was his money."

  "Raymond? I am surprised he even talks to you after you double-crossed him."

  "I didn't double cross anyone," he said testily. "I was the one who lost the clients, not Ray."

  "Well, if it was not for him . . ."

  "Yeah, yeah. That's enough, Tina."

  "Just do not offend him this time, all right?"

  He placed his hands on the edge of her desk and leaned over. "Are you going to help me or not?"

  "Of course, I am. Let me see your head."

  He tilted it toward her, made a face. "It's nothing."

  She ran her fingers through his hair. "Nothing? It is all black and blue." Her fingers slid down over his cheek. "I wish you would be more careful. I worry about you."

  That was Tina. Annoyed with him one moment, sentimental the next. He drew his head back. "There was nothing to be careful about. I had no idea I was in danger."

  She rested her chin on her hand. "So tell me about this crystal skull. It sounds very mysterious."

  "Not much to tell. That's why I want you to find something on it."

  "Was it stolen?"

  "Good guess. Listen, I've got to go. Call me when you have something. All right?"

  Those big brown eyes fixed on him. "I always do," she said.

  He stepped over the box, edged through the carts, and left the office. Jesus, she loved to make him feel guilty. But he knew damn well he asked for it. Even though it was her idea that they should remain friends, he was the one who kept asking her for help. Maybe it worked for some ex-spouses, but it wasn't working for him and Tina. Sooner or later, he would have to end it.

  Pierce drove slowly along a quiet residential street in Coconut Grove. A plum-colored ribbon of light bled across the western sky, the last vestige of dusk. Halfway down the block, he pulled to the curb near Elise Simms's house. Nice neighborhood. But when you paid nearly a quarter-million for a forty-year-old, two-bedroom wood-frame house, you'd damn well better like the neighborhood.

  The house was shrouded in hibiscus and bougainvillea, but he could see that the windows were dark and the driveway leading up to it was empty. He would wait for her, but while he waited he would have a chat with her neighbors. No resource had ever proven as fruitful as neighborhood gossip. The things some people divulged about their neighbors never failed to astonish him. It was as if they'd been waiting for someone to ask what so and so did at night, who visited, who else lived there.

  Just in case Simms knew his car, he parked it around the corner. He passed under a streetlamp just as the light blinked on for the night, and his shadow veered out in front of him.

  Pebbles crunched underfoot. As he approached the house next to Simms's place, he took out his notepad, rang the bell. When the door opened, a man in his early thirties, wearing suspenders and a tie, greeted him with a questioning look. "Can I help you?"

  "Evening. My name's Tracy Holmes. I'm a private investigator. I'm just doing a routine insurance company check on your neighbor, Elise Simms. Can I ask you a couple of questions?"

  "You got a card?" Suspenders asked warily.

  Pierce patted his shirt pocket. "Just gave out my last one. Sorry."

  He hadn't used his real name because he didn't want Suspenders warning Simms if he didn't manage to talk to her this evening. He always used Tracy Holmes, because it sounded vaguely familiar, like someone you'd heard of. No one, to his knowledge, had ever realized it was a combination of Dick Tracy and Sherlock Holmes.

  "Look, I don't know her very well. We've only lived here a few months. I've said hello once or twice. That's about it."

  "She have any friends in the neighborhood?"

  Suspenders frowned at him, obviously interested in ending the conversation. "You might ask across the street. The old lady keeps tabs on everyone."

  Over the, years, he'd developed his own interviewing technique, and usually knew just what balance of authority and friendliness to use to get a person talking. With suspicious types, like Suspenders, he looked for leads while assuring them he'd be on his way any moment now. He noticed the man's smug smile when he mentioned the neighbor lady. Either the woman was going to beat him with a broom, or she'd talk nonstop about everyone on the block. He was hoping for the latter.

  He thanked the man, started to turn away, then stopped. "Has Ms. Simms caused you any problems?"

  "Like I said, I don't know her well. She's a good neighbor as far as I'm concerned. She's quiet. Real quiet. Like a mouse."

  "Seen any visitors over there?" he asked, making one last effort.

  "Can't say I've noticed any. But I don't have a good view with all her trees and shrubs, and I really haven't paid much attention. Now if you'll excuse me, my dinner's getting cold."

  Pierce walked across the street. Suspenders had been a disappointment, but there were plenty of neighbors, even if he struck out with the old lady. Unlike most of the others on the block, the house the man had pointed out wasn't encased in tropical shrubbery. The front windows offered a clear view of the street, and he could detect a shadowy figure watching him as he stepped along the walk. He glanced over his shoulder as he approached the door; he could see Simms's driveway and part of the house.

  As soon as he knocked, an outside light came on. He read the name on the mailbox just as the door opened. He wouldn't have been surprised to see a woman in a loose shift and gray hair tied in a bun, wearing pointy-rimmed glasses—the prototype neighborhood gossip. Instead, he was looking at a spindly woman whose shoulder-length silver hair was streaked with pink. She was dressed in a gaudy outfit with black tights, tennis shoes, vibrant green mini- skirt, and paint-splattered baggy white blouse. She might've been dressed by a granddaughter on bad drugs. Her lips were smeared red; she was a nightmare.

  "If you're selling something, I've already got one. Or I don't want it."

  Pierce smiled, shook his head. "I'm not selling anything, Mrs. Johnson." He told her who he was and what he was interested in talking about. He caught a glint of interest in her eyes. She nodded.

  "Well, you look like a nice young man. If we're going to talk, let's not do it on the front step. Please come inside, and you can call me Fanny."

  She led the way into a living room that was furnished like a boudoir. She stopped in front of a plush pink couch. "Sit down. You're lucky you caught me. I was just about to leave for the movies. Can I get you a drink?"

  "No, I'm fine." He felt a little uneasy as she sat down next to him on the couch.

  "Now who'd you say you were with, Mr. Tracy?" She laughed. "This is kind of exciting. Like the movies. Did you see Dick Tracy?"

  "It's Holmes. Tracy Holmes. Like I said, it's simply a routine check for an insurance company."

  "Was it a home invasion? I haven't seen any police cars out here."

  "No, it's nothing like that."

  "Oh, just a burglary?"

  Pierce knew it was important to feed her some information to encourage her to reciprocate. "She's a key witness in a case going to trial, and—"

  "Murder?" the woman's eyes widened.

  "No, no. It was just a car accident. The insurer wants to know who's going to be on the witness stand to testify against his client."

  She gave him a disappointed look. "Oh, what do you want to know?"

  "Whatever you can tell me about her, Mrs. John—Fanny."

  "Well, she's an odd one."

  Pierce nodded. Look who's talking, he thought.

  "Know what she does for a living? She's one of those bone diggers."

  "An archaeologist," he said evenly.

  "Divorced, too. Think she kicked him ou
t. Such a shame. You know, when I was young, it was terrible to have your husband leave you. Now, it's a goddamn ritual. But you know, I still see him poking around the place once in a while. Makes you wonder."

  "Notice any other visitors, a boyfriend maybe?"

  "There's one." She cackled, reached for his forearm and squeezed it, and gave him a conspiratorial look. "This old fart's gotta be in his seventies, a white-haired man. Long white hair. More my type than hers. Wonder where she dug him up." She laughed again and slapped him on the arm. "Get it? Dug him up?"

  Pierce smiled. "Yeah. Maybe it's her father."

  "Nope, not her father. A while back, she stopped over here and asked if I'd keep an eye on her place while she was visiting her father. Said he lives somewhere overseas and she hadn't seen him in a while. Think she said her mother is dead. Suppose she doesn't see much of her, either." She cackled.

  "So when did you last see the white-haired man?"

  "Oh, not long ago. Yesterday, the day before. Can't remember now. These pills the doctor gives me for my nerves get me all confused." She tilted her head, listening. "Wait a minute." She walked over to the window. "That's her now. I always recognize the sound of her car." Pierce joined her at the window and watched as a slender woman stepped from the white Cabriolet and headed toward the house. It was dark and she was far away, but he knew it was Monica. Elise Simms.

  "You've been very helpful. I want to thank you for your time. I hope I didn't keep you from your movie."

  "No, not at all, Mr. Holmes. I'm just going to rent one from the video store tonight. You're welcome to join me if you'd like. I make great buttered popcorn."

  He couldn't help smiling. "I bet you do. Maybe some other time."

  "By the way, Holmes, you ever seen The Seven Percent Solution?"

  Time to retire Tracy Holmes, he thought. He wished her good night and headed across the street, preparing to confront Simms. He glanced down the quiet street, preoccupied with his thoughts.

  He didn't notice a dark blue Mercedes parked on the street, and even if he had, he wouldn't have been able to see the man behind the dark-tinted window.