Whistler's Angel

by John R. Maxim

  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 groped. 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 gr
own 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 stopped 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.”

  Whistler heard a squeal of brakes in the distance. He realized that the sirens had stopped. He said, “Okay, we’ll walk up there, but only to eavesdrop. When we hear a description, we leave. Fair enough?”

  His cell phone chirped before she could answer. He flipped it open. His father, most likely. But the caller was the sergeant. He thought Moore had read his mind. Sergeant Moore, however, sounded upset. Moore asked him, “Adam, are you on your boat?”

  “Yes, we are. We just got here.”

  “Who is we? Is Leslie with you?”

  “Leslie Stewart?” Whistler asked. “No, she isn’t.”

  “Have you seen her at all? She was coming to get Claudia. From there, she was going to the hospital.”

  “Claudia and I just got back from there ourselves. What’s wrong, Ed? What’s going on?”

  “Look, I just pulled into Palmetto Bay. We have a report that a woman has been beaten and kidnapped. From the witness accounts, it sounds like Leslie. They ripped off part of a blouse like the one she was wearing. Oh, shit. Now I see Leslie’s car.”

  Claudia was standing a few feet away. She was staring at the phone as he held it to his ear. He raised a questioning eyebrow. She nodded in response. She mouthed the words, “I can hear.”

  “Ed…you said ‘they.’ What did the witnesses see?”

  “Three men, a green Pontiac and, God damn it, I saw them. They were crawling past Jump’s. This must have been why. They must have followed her down to the marina and…Oh, Christ. I think one of them had to be Crow.”

  Moore paused to swallow. He was more than upset. He seemed to be blaming himself.

  “Ed, slow down. Why might one of them be Crow?”

  “Witness description. His face all patched up. He called her a slut and something else about the devil. Who the hell else could it be?”

  Whistler had felt his own stomach tighten, but he forced himself to speak slowly. He asked, “And the others? You have descriptions on the others?”

  “Golf shoes.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “They say Crow was wearing golf shoes with spikes. Why would he walk around wearing spikes?”

  “I don’t know. Ed…the others. What did they look like?”

  “One had a gun. He whacked Leslie on the head. Then he threw her into the car. Dark suit, late thirties, linebacker build. He had a cigar in his mouth.”

  Whistler’s mind was spinning. Crow and Lockwood together? As unlikely as it seemed, he knew that Claudia was right. Vernon Lockwood had been aboard their boat. He felt a cold fury rising within him. In his mind, he saw Lockwood touching Claudia’s things and for that alone Whistler would kill him.

  Moore said, “Talk to me, Adam. You there?”

  Whistler, with effort, kept his voice calm and even. He asked, “And the third man? You said there was a third.”

  “Third man was the driver. Late forties, striped jacket, straw hat, tinted glasses. This is someone who I think Leslie knew before this. Do you know either one? They sound familiar?”

  That didn’t describe Briggs, but it did sound familiar. “Not off-hand,” he lied. “Have you broadcast those descriptions?”

  “Green Pontiac, three men is all that went out. The rest of it’s going out now.” Moore paused. He took a breath. He asked, “Adam…why Leslie?”

  “You say she knew the driver?”

  “She sounded that way.”

  “And she’s seen the flyer on Joshua Crow. She knows that his face was marked up. You say you think they followed her here. She got out of her car and they grabbed her?”

  “That’s what it looks like,” said Moore, “but why her?”

  “Ed, you just said it. They thought that she’d made them.”

  Moore answered, “Wait a minute. That couldn’t be right. She was halfway down to your boat when this happened. Crow didn’t chase after her and grab her from behind. He was already down there. He was coming from there.”

  Whistler felt a chill. He said, weakly, “I don’t know.”

  “Is this about you? Were they down here after you?”

  “Ed…I don’t know. We’ll be right up there.”

  THIRTY THREE

  Poole’s bodyguard, Robert, slowed the Lincoln to a crawl as Lagoon Road came into view. The first mailbox he could see showed the number 18. The house two lots beyond it was blue with black shutters. He pointed. He said, “There it is, Mr. Aubrey. That blue house must be 22.”

  “Good house,” said Briggs from the passenger seat. “Set back and it’s got a two-car garage. Got a privacy fence on one side of the house and what looks like a jungle on the other. Good choice by Crow. Even better for us.”

  Aubrey leaned forward, one hand on Briggs’ shoulder. “I do not see the car. Do you see a green Pontiac anywhere on that street?”

  Briggs shook his head. “It’s not there.” He seemed glad of it.

  If it had been, thought Aubrey, they would have followed plan A. All they’d need do is pull up and tap the horn. Kaplan would hear it, know that they’ve arrived, and promptly shoot Lockwood and Crow. Tidier, perhaps, but less gratifying than actual witnessing Lockwood’s comeuppance. Less gratifying, certainIy, for our Mr. Briggs who would prefer to see to Lockwood himself. But Briggs would want to preface the deed by telling Mr. Lockwood why he’s killing him. He would say, “See this face? You left me behind. You saved your own ass and they gave me this face. So I’m going kill you, you son of a bitch. But first I’m going to shoot off most of your own face before I put a couple in your gut.”

  Or words to that effect. Something melodramatic.
But that sort of confrontation was out of the question. You don’t warn a man like Lockwood. You don’t let him know what’s coming. Best to smile, say, “Hi, Vern,” and then shoot him.

  Young Robert, it developes, detests Lockwood as well. It seems that Lockwood once tried to intimidate Robert in the same way he’d tried to intimidate Whistler. Robert, who is even bigger than Lockwood, might have given a good account of himself had his boss, Mr. Poole, not told him to ‘forbear.’ Poole counseled him to turn the other cheek…which he did…so Lockwood, predictably, then slapped him. Well, we’ll see, thought Aubrey, who gets slapped this time around. We seem to be left with Plan B. We wait.

  “We’re here earlier than Kaplan expected us,” he said. “But that’s good. They’re still out. Kaplan’s keeping them busy.”

  Briggs scanned the street. He said, “We don’t know how long. We better get inside while we can.”

  “You’re quite right. Robert? Take us up to the driveway. The garage should be unlocked. Briggs and I will go in. You will then leave this car on one of the side streets, but not one that Mr. Kaplan is likely to use.”

  Robert’s feelings seemed hurt. “I’d have thought of that, sir.”

  “Forgive me,” said Aubrey. “I know that, of course. It’s just that so much has gone contrary to instructions, I find myself micro-managing. I’m sorry.”

  “I understand perfectly, sir.”

  “When you walk back…excuse me. How will you come back?”

  “I won’t walk up the street. I’ll come around through the woods in the back of that house. If you will unlock the back door for me, sir…”

  “That is where Mr. Briggs and I will wait for you, Robert. We’ll try not to start the party without you.”

  Whistler, after breaking the connection with Moore, took Olivia’s small caliber pistol from his belt, checked the barrel and chambered a round. He slipped into his jacket. He put the cell phone in his pocket. He said to Claudia, “It was Lockwood, no question. Remind me not to doubt you again.”

  She said, “Let’s go help them find Leslie.”

  “We’ll do what we can. Let me think for a minute.”