Whistler's Angel (The Bannerman Series)

by Maxim, John R.

  Carla’s eyes lit up. Molly’s didn’t. She seemed doubtful. She asked, “Have you ever seen Aubrey before?”

  “No, I’ve only heard him described.”

  “Felix Aubrey does not get around very well. He had…suffered an injury to his legs.”

  “This man limped.”

  Still that doubt. “A small man? In his forties? Odd-looking?”

  “With two younger men, both much bigger than he is. One, if I’m right, is the man named Briggs. I didn’t know the third one, but his first name is Robert. The man who brought their car heard him called by that name.”

  “So they picked up their car from the man who brought ours?”

  “He delivered a black Lincoln Town Car.”

  “Did you get the plate number?”

  “I didn’t think to. I’m sorry.”

  “And the plane that brought them. Still here, or has it left?”

  Kate pointed to it across the field. “That’s it.”

  “The Hawker?”

  Kate answered, “I don’t know them by make. It’s the one to the right of that Texaco fuel truck.” She asked, “By the way, those men who got off your plane…were they just commuters or did Harry send them, too?”

  Molly answered, vaguely, “Don’t worry about them.” She chewed on her lip. She turned to Carla.

  Kate watched as the two of them looked at each other. No words were spoken. Molly narrowed her eyes and Carla answered with a shrug. The narrowing of the eyes seemed to ask, “Could it be?” The shrug seemed to say, “I don’t know. Let’s find out.” Carla reached to pick up one of the duffles. She walked back toward the plane that had brought her.

  “Carla? Just check. Do you hear what I’m saying? Don’t do anything more than ask around.”

  Carla wet her lips. She said, “I’ll find my own ride.”

  “Carla? You heard me.”

  “I heard you. Where will you be? You’re still going to see Olivia first?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  Carla said, “I’ll catch up to you later.”

  Kate watched as Carla reboarded her plane. It started to taxi at once. It was headed, she assumed, to the far side of the airstrip where the other place in question had parked. Kate turned to Molly and asked, “Who’s Olivia? And why aren’t we going to the boat?”

  “We’re not going to the boat until we know who’s where. Adam and your daughter still don’t seem to be on it. Olivia’s a friend who I’ve been trying to reach. She is also the wife of Philip Ragland.”

  Kate blinked in surprise. “Wait a minute. You know them?”

  “Not the husband,” Molly answered, “but we all knew Olivia. Adam has met her, if that’s your next question, but that was a long time ago.”

  “So…he was in that bar and it wasn’t by chance. What the hell did he get my daughter into?”

  “Mrs. Geller, we don’t know yet. Olivia will.”

  “So that was Felix Aubrey who flew in with his thugs. They’re here after Ragland? To finish the job? Or are they after Adam this time?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “You can’t guess? It’s one or both. Why else would he have come?”

  “Mrs. Geller…either one would be abysmally stupid. Whatever else Felix

  Aubrey may be, there is nothing stupid about him.”

  “You’re sure? I’m not. And what if you’re wrong?”

  “If he’s here for either reason, he will die here.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Kaplan, so angry that his eyes were wet with tears, could barely keep his mind on his driving. First Lockwood and the wacko go down to that boat which Lockwood had no business going near. The next thing you know, the barmaid shows up and walks into a fistfight with the wacko.

  Not just a tussle. An actual fistfight. Crow sees her coming, says she caught him by surprise. She sees the look on his face and backs away. He thinks, “She must know me,” and he goes to grab her, calling her a slut and all other kinds of shit, including a spawn of the devil. He grabs her by her blouse and he rips off her sleeve. Next he grabs her by the hair and starts smacking her face. She responds with a hard right cross of her own that knocks him square on his ass. He gets up with blood pouring out of his mouth from a punch that made him bite through his tongue. He tries to square off, swinging both arms like windmills, but he’s wearing these golf shoes with spikes on the bottom. The guy might as well be on skates.

  The barmaid sees this and goes for his knees. She takes him down with a leg sweep. She pounces on his back and has Crow in a chokehold before Lockwood can get to the top of the ramp. She doesn’t see it’s Lockwood, but she must have heard him coming. She must have thought maybe it was Whistler. Whatever she thought, she never looked up and Lockwood cold-cocked her with his gun butt.

  Kaplan, by this time, didn’t have any choice. He had to zoom down, pick up Lockwood and Crow, and get them out of there fast. There were people who saw it, but they ducked behind buildings when they saw that Lockwood had a gun in his hand. Kaplan got there, yelled “Get in,” but Lockwood said, “We can’t leave her.” He picked her up, threw her in the back seat and shoved the wacko in there on top of her. Lockwood jumped into the front and they burned rubber backing out.

  Kaplan raced out to Palmetto Bay Road where they almost hit a kid who was crossing on a bike. This happened because Kaplan was turning left while Crow was yelling, “No, we’re going right.” Kaplan tried to ignore him, but Crow swatted at his shoulder. Crow screamed into his ear, “Why are we going this way? This isn’t the way to the hospital.”

  Kaplan wasn’t sure that he heard Crow correctly because the guy’s bleeding tongue was all over his mouth and he sprayed half the car when he yelled. Kaplan said, “You think what? We’re still going to the hospital? Is that what you seriously think?”

  “Those were your instructions. You’ll obey them.”

  What he actually said was, “Doze weh yo izuctions.” “You’ll obey them” came out as ‘Yobayem.”

  “Joshua…shit-brain…look down on the floor there. Have you noticed that anything’s different?”

  His answer, in real words, was, “I’ll see that she’s quiet. I’ll keep her in the car while you scout.”

  “You’ll see that she’s quiet? Like you did back at the dock? If she wakes up, she’ll kick your ass again, pal. We’re going back to the house.”

  Crow started to rant. Kaplan couldn’t understand him. But at least he was mostly spraying Lockwood this time. Lockwood was just sitting there, stone-faced.

  Kaplan nudged Lockwood. “Will you shut this guy up?”

  All Lockwood could say was, “This is bad.”

  “Yeah, well,” said Kaplan, “I doped that out myself. Would you care to enlarge on your assessment?”

  “Just drive.”

  Kaplan heard a squeal from the well behind his seat. The girl had come to, but the squeal was more than that. It sounded like something else was hurting her. He looked into the mirror. Crow was sitting high up. He was sitting on his golf bag and he seemed to be bracing. He was putting his weight on her back with those spikes.

  Kaplan hit the brakes and pulled over to the side. He threw the car into Park, spun in his seat, and reached with both hands to grab Crow by the shirt.

  Lockwood said, “Arnold, not here. Let’s just go.”

  Kaplan had already pulled Crow forward between them, dragging him over the seatback. He stiffened his thumb and jammed it under Crow’s jaw. Near its hinge he pressed upward as hard as he could, his thumb nail crushing a cluster of nerves that ran from the jaw to the brain. Crow could only gag. His eyes almost popped. Kaplan would have kept pressing until Crow blacked out if Crow hadn’t bled all over his sleeve.

  Kaplan eased off a little. “That enough? You want more?”

  Crow said something that sounded like “Yak.”

  “Can you reach your shoes? Slip out of your shoes. Let me know when you’re down to your socks.”

  Crow reached and g
roped. He slid them off. He said, “G-agh.”

  “I’ll you what you’re not going to do anymore. You’re not going to open your fucking mouth unless somebody asks you a question. You’re not going to touch that girl again except to hold her down with your feet.” He said, “Vernon? Tell this schmuck that you made all that up, all that devil-worshiping shit.”

  “I said let’s go. Let’s get out of here, Arnold.”

  “Say it. Don’t you fuck with me either.”

  “Arnold, she’s still a friend of Whistler’s, remember? I couldn’t just leave here there, could I?”

  “You could have…never mind. You’re right. Let’s just go.”

  Kaplan shoved Crow back and put the car in gear. He eased the Pontiac into the traffic. Crow sat back there gurgling, trying to swallow, holding his throat in both hands. Kaplan tried to calm himself by taking several deep breaths. He said to Lockwood, “Vern, check the scanner. See if anyone called 911 on this yet.”

  If someone had, and had given a description of this car, they’d be lucky to make it back to the house. He thought about finding another car fast, but the problem was transferring the passenger load. It would not go like clockwork with this bunch.

  A new sound from behind him interrupted his reasoning. It seemed the kind of sound that somebody would make when they’re trying to be very quiet. No breathing, no nothing, just a dull scraping sound. He said, “Hey, Josh. Is your hand in that golf bag?”

  The sound stopped abruptly. All was still.

  He said, “Josh, I’m going to guess that your hand is on your shotgun. You’re trying to slip it out of your golf bag, but you can’t without rattling your clubs, am I right?”

  Not a sound.

  “Say you pull it loose, Josh. What’s your plan after that? Were you going to blow my head off while I’m driving?”

  “Um…num.”

  “Was that yes or no? It did not sound decisive.”

  Now a faint rattling sound. The schmuck was still going to try.

  “Or else you figure with the shotgun, I’ll go where you want. Like you’ll make me turn around and go for Ragland again. But the reason, Josh, why that’s not a good plan…if I hear one more rattle, I’ll pull over again. What’s different this time is I’ll kill you.”

  Crow eased his arm out of the bag and sat back. He resumed his breathing and gagging and glowering. Lockwood had the scanner up to his ear. He said, “Nothing yet on this car.”

  “Keep listening. You’ll hear it. We got maybe five minutes.” Kaplan looked up at Crow in the rear view mirror. He said, “Now, Josh, if you’ll try to behave, me and Vern here will get you off this island. That’s all we want and that’s what we’re going to do. Vern, tell him that’s what we’re going to do.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “He can finish off Ragland some other time. Vern, tell him that this Ragland shit is over for now.”

  Lockwood nodded his agreement. “No hospital now.”

  “No nothing, right. We do what Aubrey said.”

  “First we wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  Lockwood said, “I still want Whistler. We stay until that boat of his blows.”

  “Which is when?”

  “Four hours,” he said. “Little over four hours.”

  “Fine by me. We sit tight until then.”

  Which is horseshit, thought Kaplan. You don’t have four hours. You have until Mr. Aubrey shows up. The minute he shows, you’re both organ donors. As if anyone would want what’s left over.

  “Something’s happened down there,” said Claudia, craning, as Whistler drove over the Cross Island Bridge. For a moment, from the highest part of the bridge, nearly all of the marina was in view.

  Whistler tried to look. The moment had passed. He asked, “What was it? Could you see?”

  “People running around. A man waving his arms.”

  “Near the boat? Our boat?”

  “No, up near the shops.”

  “An accident, maybe. We’ll know soon enough.”

  By the time they drove into Palmetto Bay and reached the side road that led to the docks, Whistler saw that a small knot of people had gathered. They seemed to be watching the approach of his car. No, not his car, he realized. They were looking beyond him. Perhaps waiting for an ambulance, he thought.

  He had to park in a space that was up near the shops. The much nearer space that he’d left had been taken. He and Claudia got out and proceeded toward the ramp. Another yacht owner whom he knew by sight was approaching from that direction. Whistler asked him if he knew what all the fuss was about.

  The man answered, “I didn’t see it myself. Man and a woman got into a fight. From what I hear, the woman was cleaning his clock. Some guy in a suit dragged her off him.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “I don’t know. They took off. I guess someone thought they should call the cops anyway. Like the cops aren’t busy enough since last night.”

  Whistler smiled an acknowledgment. “Yeah, you’d think so. Thanks.”

  He and Claudia reached the ramp that led to the fuel dock. But Claudia, by then, had been walking more slowly. She had fallen a few steps behind him. He saw that her eyes had narrowed a bit. Her head was cocked to one side. It was a look that Whistler had come to know well.

  He said, “Go ahead. Say it.”

  “A man in a suit?”

  He knew that she had a thing about suits. When you live on a boat, you don’t see very many. It was possible that the last suits she’d seen were those worn by Lockwood and Briggs. Oh, and then there was also that man on Grand Cayman whom Claudia was ready to stab with a fork. He grunted to himself. First a fork, then a knife. Perhaps they should stay out of restaurants altogether. Either that or give her plastic utensils.

  He said, “Claudia, all kinds of people wear suits.”

  “Down here? At a marina?”

  “One with four seafood restaurants. Bankers and lawyers wear suits every day and some of them come here for lunch.”

  Still that frown, that hesitation.

  “Tell you what,” said Whistler. “I’ll call Moore and ask him.” He patted his pocket where he’d put Ed Moore’s card. “I also need to call my father and come clean with him, but I’m not looking forward to that conversation. We’ll put Moore at the top of the list.”

  She asked, “What about the weapons? They’re still in the trunk.”

  “We’re not going to need weapons.”

  “There’s been trouble here, Adam.”

  “There’s been some kind of fight and it’s none of our business. Either way, there are too many people around. They’ll have to stay where they are until it’s dark.”

  She seemed very uneasy, but she knew that he was right. Perhaps she was sorry that she pulled that stunt earlier. He patted his waist and said, “We’ll be fine. I still have a handgun under my belt.” Not much of a gun, but a gun.

  They continued down the ramp and onto the dock. He could hear a siren in the distance. They proceeded to the fuel dock where the boat was tied up. He hesitated before climbing aboard, not because he sensed that there was anything amiss, but because he’d left the cabin unlocked. But the coil of line that he had tossed across the hatch was still draped pretty much as he remembered it. Whistler also noticed that someone had been crabbing. The trap was on the dock. It had left a recent puddle. He saw no bait, not even residue of bait. Perhaps someone had merely been cleaning it.

  Claudia asked him. “Is anything wrong?”

  “Not a thing. Go ahead.” They stepped aboard.

  She gathered the line and hung it from a cleat as Whistler stepped down through the hatch. The siren that he’d heard had grown louder. Whistler found his cell phone where he had left it. It was under the jacket that he’d meant to wear, but had forgotten in his rush to leave the boat. He checked the answering machine. It showed no new messages. Claudia had begun to climb down from the deck. He became aware that she’d stoppe
d half way. Once again, her eyes narrowed. Once again, her head was cocked.

  She asked, “Adam…what do you smell?”

  He sniffed and he shrugged. “We are at the fuel dock.”

  She shook her head slowly. “Not gas. Besides gas.”

  He gestured toward the galley. “I can still smell our breakfast.”

  Again she shook her head. She said, “Someone’s been here.”

  He’d seen nothing that seemed to have been disturbed. He asked her, “Why do you think so?”

  She said, “It’s a man. A man has been in here.”

  “You’re…saying you smell him? His aftershave? What?”

  “No, a cigar. Don’t you smell a cigar?”

  He tried to. He couldn’t. But he felt sure that she could. Claudia could catch a scent on a breeze like no one he’d ever met. He thought it likely, however, that what she was sniffing had wafted through the hatch from a neighboring boat. Perhaps whoever owned that crab trap outside had been puffing on a stogie while he used it.

  When she spoke again, her voice was quiet, but firm. She said, “Adam, I want you to listen to me.”

  “I am. I’m listening. What is it?”

  “That man…the big one…who came to our house. The one who smelled of cigars. It was him.”

  Whistler blinked. “You can’t mean Vernon Lockwood.”

  “I can and I do. I can smell him.”

  “Sweetheart…you’re saying he was here on this boat?”

  She said, “It’s strongest right here.” She was at the chart table. She reached across to the panel of instruments above it. She said, “They both wore dark suits when they came to Mom’s house. You told me that they always wore dark suits.”

  “The…um, man we just spoke to didn’t say it was dark. He didn’t say big. He didn’t mention a cigar. All he said was a guy in a suit.”

  “Adam…do you doubt that I smell a cigar?”

  “No, I don’t. But to tell me it was Lockwood’s cigar…”

  She said, “Then let’s ask. Let’s find out what he looked like. All those people up the road must have seen him.”