I'll say this for Sabrina, she didn't hold a grudge. Probably another thing she learned in prison—take care of business and move on.
"How did they die?" she asked.
"They were tortured. It was pretty gruesome. I talked to the Fairfield police, who put me in touch with the Nebraska State Police about a similar incident in Wahoo, Nebraska. I was told that you were involved in that one too."
"Involved?" I asked.
"You knew the victim."
"Barely," I said.
"The Nebraska State Police said you thought Guidry might be responsible for the incident in Wahoo."
"Can I call you back in a few minutes?" Sabrina suddenly asked. "This opens up a possibility that we haven't thought of. Del and I need to talk it out first, then I'll call you back."
"Make it fast." Uh oh. "Please." A last second save.
Sabrina hung up and stared into space. The wheels were turning. I was pretty sure they were turning in the same direction as mine.
"Guidry is not our enemy," she said. "Or at least he's not the one we should really be afraid of." I was right. The same direction.
"And I'm thinking that maybe Guidry might even be afraid of this third party. I'm thinking he went underground," I added.
"So who is it?" she asked.
"If we trace all this back to Vlad and his scheme to steal the eggs, and add to the mix the magnitude of the original heist from the Romanovs and the sheer value of the eggs, there can only be one answer. Who would still be in search of the eggs?"
"Russians."
Chapter 28
"So what do we tell Marsh?" I asked.
"The truth … or at least enough to get him looking in the right direction. He has a job to do and I wouldn't feel right withholding a vital piece of information. I don't know if he can do anything with it, but at least he'll have it."
"I don't think we have to tell him about Fordlandia."
"I agree. But we can tell him about the eggs. Honestly, I don't think it will help him much, but if he knows he might be looking for some Russians, it might put him in the right direction."
"Think it's the Russian mob?"
"Who knows? Maybe, or it could be like us and the Guidrys—a story passed down through the ages from family member to family member."
"And in the long run it really doesn't matter," I said.
"Exactly."
She called Marsh back. "You might be looking for some Russians," she said as he picked up. She kept the phone on speaker.
"Withholding information from me?"
"No. It's an angle we just figured out when you called. We had to discuss it to decide if it was a viable direction. We think it might be. I think early on Del gave you some of the story, but there wasn't much to give you—a missing painting that supposedly held a clue to some treasure that had our two families connected. It seems that Mario Guidry's family was connected too, and it all leads to Brazil, which is where we're going. Up until now, that's really all we knew. We did finally find the painting…" He tried to interrupt, but she talked over him. "…which has since been stolen again. It was with the man in Nebraska who was killed. The painting was of almost no help anyway. However, something that kept popping up, but that we kind of ignored, was something about eggs."
"Eggs," he stated flatly.
"Our thought exactly, which is why we put it on the back burner. However, it came up again just in the last day or so…"
"How?" he interrupted.
"Hard to explain."
"Try."
"No, I won't. Look, we are trying to be as honest with you as we can. There are aspects to this that would make no sense to you that might or might not be related to the case."
"Why don't you let me be the judge of that. I'm good at what I do."
"I have no doubt about that. We are not trying to keep you out of the loop. These are personal things that take on a whole new dimension. But they might only be family issues."
She was good. She was managing to skirt the issue by being just vague enough to give him no ammunition to come back with.
He sighed. It must have been frustrating for him, but dealing with a hot celebrity was always tricky and he knew he had to tread lightly.
"So, tell me about the Russians."
"Back in 1918, a collection of Faberge eggs was stolen from the Russian Royal Family. Some were never recovered. We think some of the treasure that has been referred to revolves around those eggs."
"Why?"
She was silent.
"Yeah, I know. It's part of what you can't tell me."
"What I can tell you is what we just found out. There seems to have been a Russian involved with our families. In fact, he may have been the one who got them into this whole mess. We think he was searching for them and got Del's great-grandfather and Mario's great-grandfather involved. Anyway, we don't know his name or anything about him beyond that, but we are deducing from all of this that there is a third party involved in this treasure hunt and we think it might be a Russian … or Russians. We are now thinking that it wasn't Guidry who killed my sister or tried to kill Del in front of his house. We also don't think he was responsible for Russ Simpson's death in Nebraska. We think it was people connected to that original Russian."
"So I'm looking for Russians. There might be one or two of them in Boston."
"Sorry. If we had a name, we'd give it to you."
"I'm not so sure about that."
"We would," I interjected. "Look, both of us have respect for what you do. Both of us have been threatened and almost killed. Trust me when I say that I'm scared shitless. If there was anything else we could give you, we would, but most of what we have relates to our families. For every ten pounds of crap we shovel through, we find one nugget, and then maybe we find another. But the problem is, they don't seem to be related. We've given you all the nuggets we can. Our families are interconnected in so many ways, and yet, things still don't make sense. And believe me, if they don't make sense to us, they certainly won't to you. If we find a pattern, we'll let you know immediately."
Marsh was silent. He finally said, "What about Guidry?"
"He's caught up in it too," said Sabrina. "He's a crook. No doubt about that. But we think he bit off more than he could chew and has run into someone even more crooked. We think he's on the run."
More silence, then, "So what's in Brazil?"
"We don't know."
"That's no answer."
"It's the best we can give you," I said. "Honestly, we don't know."
"Why do I get the feeling you people are fucking me over?" He sighed, started to say something, then abruptly hung up.
"That went well," I said.
"I feel bad for him," said Sabrina. "He's got so little to work with. He's treading water. He knows that we are holding back, but he thinks we are holding back a lot more than we are. Maybe after this trip we'll have something substantial for him."
*****
Two hours later we were back in East Boston. We both thought it prudent to avoid the Westin for now, at least until we could figure out how to gather her belongings without attracting a horde. As we entered the outer front door, Mo opened her door and greeted us. Sabrina introduced herself and thanked Mo for running interference for us in the hotel.
"Hey, that was my fun for the day. Took those guys ten minutes before they could move again."
She invited us in. Her apartment amazed me every time I saw it. It was always a mess. It wasn't dirty, by any means, but it was messy. There were piles of clean laundry that hadn't been put away, books and magazines piled high on bookshelves, and stacks of artwork given to her by her students. Knowing how precise Mo was in her martial arts and how perfectly groomed she always was, it just didn't seem to fit. She once caught me looking around and stated simply, "Priorities." I guess clutter was very low on her priority list.
We brought her up to date on our adventures. Impressed at first, her mood changed when we told her of our plans to t
ravel to Brazil.
"You're going into the jungles of friggin Brazil? Do you have even the slightest clue about what you're getting into?"
Friggin? She must have been impressed by Sabrina to clean up her language like that. So what did that say about her respect for me?
"Absolutely no clue," answered Sabrina. "That makes it more exciting!"
Mo looked at me. I shrugged.
"This is how she is. She lives for adventure."
"It's not Sabrina I'm worried about."
"Oh."
"Del, I'm not saying that you are helpless, but you've been stuck in an office for ten years. Are you ready for this?"
"Aren't you the one who told me I have to start doing something with my life?"
"I thought you might do it in increments, not jump off the cliff the first chance you got."
"Don't have a lot of choice now."
"We always have a choice."
"Del's right," said Sabrina, coming to my aid. "We've kind of put ourselves in a situation where we have to see it through. We have the Russians on our tail now…"
"Russians?"
"Long story. We'll tell you about it in a minute," I said.
Mo rolled her eyes.
"I think," continued Sabrina, "the only way to get them off our trail is to solve the mystery. Then they have no reason to go after us."
We told her about our speculation about the Russians. When we were done, she just shook her head. "I don't know whether to be scared for you both, or …"
It suddenly dawned on me. "You're jealous!"
"Hell, yeah, I'm jealous. I'd give anything to go with you." She turned to Sabrina. "Take care of him. Don't let anything happen to him. If you don't hold onto him, he'll get lost."
"Actually, he's the one who's kept me from getting lost."
I got the feeling that sometime down the line Sabrina and Mo were going to become good friends. Sabrina wouldn't have even hinted at her issues with anyone else. That showed an amazing amount of instant trust. Maybe there was some progress after all.
Chapter 29
The flight to Belém was long. We could have traveled across the U.S. three times in the time it took to get to there. If we were going to Australia or China, I could understand it, but wasn't Brazil just somewhere south of us? Of course, the seven-hour layover in Miami didn't help.
We had tried to time it so we'd arrive at Logan as close to boarding as possible to avoid excessive contact with people. Up to that point we had managed to avoid the press, but our luck didn't hold. When we arrived in Miami, two sleazy tabloid photographers were there to greet us. We managed to give them the slip thanks to some good planning on my part—yes, me for a change, not Sabrina—and some help from the very people Sabrina didn't trust—the public.
When we were buying our tickets, I suggested that since we had such a long layover in Miami, we should buy each leg of the trip separately. That way, someone smart enough to track us would see us going to Miami, with no connection to the flight to Brazil. A room at a local hotel would further shield us from the possibility of detection.
My second suggestion was that we each take only a carry-on bag. No checked bag meant we were going to have to rough it, but it also gave us more freedom of movement, particularly in the airports, where Sabrina would be more likely to be recognized.
The flight to Miami was uncomfortable enough for Sabrina. She was convinced that everyone on the plane recognized her, a paranoia that wasn't totally baseless. She had chosen not to radically change her appearance for the flight—her attempt at rebellion. She was regretting the decision by the time we arrived at the gate. I knew she was recognized by a half a dozen or so of the passengers—which meant, of course, that by the time we landed in Miami most of the plane knew. We had seats in the second row so we could be off the plane the moment the doors opened.
We were standing up waiting to exit the plane when we heard from somewhere in the middle of the plane, "We love you, Sabrina," whereupon the rest of the passengers broke out in a spontaneous applause. Sabrina turned bright red and looked at me, as if to say, "What should I do?" I gave her a nod to say it was okay. It seemed to reassure her. She gave the passengers a shy smile and wave, and said "thank you" in a small voice.
When we reached the end of the gateway, the two photographers were waiting for us. How did they get through security? It occurred to me later that they must have bought tickets to a flight just to allow them access to the gate. Diabolical. I had to give them credit though, they were determined.
We never heard the press conference by her agent, although we knew what he was going to say, but he must have been effective as he gave her history and emphasized her shyness and need for privacy. Sabrina was someone who was easy to root for, and let's face it, people were tired of abuse. Her story must have resonated with people all over the country. So when our fellow passengers exited the plane and saw the cameras in Sabrina's face, they took action. They could smell sleaze a mile away. As a single body they moved in and wedged themselves between Sabrina and the photographers. Nothing was said, but the message was clear: Leave her alone. That gave us a clear exit. As we scurried away, I turned and shouted out, "Thank you, guys!"
We were free. We jumped into the first taxi available and were delivered safely to our hotel. It was only going to be our sanctuary for a few hours, but it was enough to give us some space.
We didn't sleep, but it was a chance to shower and prepare for the second leg. I didn't bring up the incident in the airport. I didn't want to belabor the obvious: that not everyone is out for themselves. It was going to have to sink in on its own.
I found myself excited and scared at the same time. I hadn't traveled much in my life, and had only been out of the country a couple of times. But those were planned trips. This was altogether different. Not only was I going to a completely foreign place, I wasn't even totally sure why. Add to that Mario Guidry and the Russians, and I felt about as unprepared as one could be.
We returned to the airport two hours before our flight to Belém. When we were researching the trip we noticed that Santarém was closer to Fordlandia than Belém and had a busy airport. However, we decided against it for one main reason: Sabrina wanted to reenact the trip the four stooges took. Fordlandia was accessed only by river boat and a good portion of the river looked much the way it did eighty-five years ago. She wanted the full experience, not an abbreviated version.
"If we're going to do this, we need to do it right," she said by way of explanation. "We should get a feel for what they went through."
I had heard of mystery writers who never left the comfort of their homes. Sabrina was not one of them … by a long shot. I was coming to realize that mystery writing was just an extension of who she was—or more accurately, who she wanted to be. She wanted to feel the excitement she wrote about in her novels. Maybe it was because she lost six years of her life and wanted to make up the time. Maybe she just came to understand that living life to the fullest was what it was all about. I was beginning to understand why her books were taking off. It wasn't just her writing ability, it was her passion. When I was researching her, I had run across numerous reviews of her books. The word passion came up a lot. Maybe I would be able to find some of that passion myself.
*****
We arrived in Belém without incident. To the best of our knowledge she wasn't recognized on the flight, maybe because there were few Americans on board. I heard a lot of what I assumed to be Portuguese being spoken.
Belém was a modern city. It was actually kind of a shock. We kind of expected it to look like it did in the early 1900s, but when we passed our first Starbucks we were pretty sure that wasn't the case. Would Fordlandia turn out to be a theme park? No, that much we knew. Fordlandia was a ghost town, inhabited mostly by squatters.
We hadn't had a lot of time to research the river travel before we left, but had done some on the plane. There were numerous tourist-oriented boat trips down the Amazon, which we want
ed to steer clear of. We were searching for something small, partly for the "Mikey experience" and partly for the anonymity. How quickly would word get out the minute some American tourists recognized Sabrina? After making numerous inquiries of locals—luckily most people we encountered spoke English—we were directed to a small family-owned boat.
We knew we had found our ride the minute we met the family. The boat was only about thirty feet long and had seen better days, but it looked sturdy. The family was large—about eight, including grandparents and grandchildren—but it would only be the father and son taking us on the journey. The father, Luis, was about fifty, small and wiry, and with the leathery skin that came from a lifetime in the sun. He was shy with foreigners and spoke little English. He let his son do most of the talking. Paulo was close to thirty and was the exact opposite of his father in appearance. He was tall and stocky, with a gleaming bald head that we only saw the few times he removed his baseball cap—which also looked to be about thirty—and a perpetual smile. Unlike the father, Paulo spoke English. It wasn't great, but it would get the job done, communication-wise.
The price they quoted to take us to Fordlandia and back seemed low—especially considering the trip to Santarém was going to take almost four days, with another twelve hours after that to Fordlandia. It was going to be a bit slower than some of the tourist boats, but Paulo assured us that it would get us there and back with no problems. They were obviously desperate for the business, but in the process were probably only going to break even by the time the trip was over. We talked about it and offered them three times what they had quoted. It was nice to have money. They were thrilled. By way of explanation as to why we were paying so much, we were honest with Paulo and told him that there was some danger involved. Sabrina, whom he was immediately taken with (duh!), explained some of the story, which he then related to his father. If anything, it made them more excited for the trip. Treasure hunters must not have been their normal passengers. Paulo proudly showed us the two rifles they kept on board.
All Lies Page 17