Wrath in the Blood

by Ronald Watkins

  “Then why even make the trip?”

  “To show us up. To make us look bad.”

  “That's not it. I talked to the criminalist yesterday afternoon. She had some odd findings that weren't in her report.” Morrison told Kosack about the old and new fresh blood.

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “It means we were set up. It means Jack Swensen didn't kill anyone and Leah Swensen used us to get her revenge.”

  “Just because that ranger...”

  “Tom! Get off it with Goodnight! If it wasn't for him an innocent man would stay in prison, probably be executed. We made a mistake. Let's just face it. I'm having trouble enough dealing with this without putting up with your crap!”

  “You don't know him like...”

  “I mean it! Knock it off! If you want to talk about Goodnight so much why not tell me about Andy Cluff, because that's what this is really all about. What was it Cluff wanted you to do that caused you to ask for another partner?”

  “What? How did...”

  “Because I know you, Tom. Better than I ever knew my husband. You're an opinionated asshole sometimes, but you are a decent man. I know you liked Cluff, but liking him isn't what any of that was about. He was dirty. And you know he was. What dirt did he try to get you involved in?”

  Kosack stared at his paper and when he spoke his voice was soft. “O.K. O.K. Enough. You're right.”

  “Goodnight caught a crooked cop, even if you did like him, and Cluff killed himself rather than face the music. Goodnight's proved to me there never was a murder, that Leah Swensen used us. We should have picked up on the dust on the tuft of hair, and the mileage discrepancy was staring us in the face the whole investigation. So let's be grateful an innocent man won't stay in prison. We aren't the kind of cops who want him to rot just so no one proves us wrong. And don't forget – we aren't in this alone. Bill Gage prosecuted; a jury convicted. We'll survive. Come on, honey,” she said with a winning smile. “We're civil service.”

  The trip took 15 hours and it was night when Goodnight retrieved his bag and cleared customs in Lisbon, feeling naked without his gun. He understood that Portuguese and Spanish were related so he tried a bit of Spanish with the inspector without much success.

  Lisbon was a destination city – meaning you went there because that's where you were going. It wasn't on the way to anywhere else. As a result, most of his fellow passengers were Portuguese and had family or friends waiting for them. Goodnight had never felt more alone. In addition, they were generally a short people and Goodnight loomed over everyone in the terminal, as if his boots and Stetson didn't set him aside enough as it was.

  He changed $500 at the cambio then took a taxi to the Holiday Inn, located in the center of the city. He placed a short call to Conchita who was fine he learned and fast asleep. He chatted briefly with her cousin and gave the number where he could be reached if necessary. It was early morning for him so he slipped between the cool sheets and was asleep in an instant. It was too early for lunch, local time, when he dressed and went to the hotel restaurant. Instead, he had strong black coffee and thick toast sliced into three strips and coated with butter. As near as he could figure from what he'd seen every Portuguese adult smoked so he drew a Demi Tasse La Corona from his pocket and lit up without concern.

  The pleasure was short lived once he stepped out onto the sidewalk. His Spanish worked no better on the taxi driver who pointed to the 'No smoking' sign so Goodnight discarded the unfinished cigar then held up his guide book and fingered the address of the American embassy which the map told him was in the northern part of Lisbon on Avenida das For軋s Armadas.

  His first impression of Lisbon in daylight with its wide main street, aged trees, frequent statues and ornate architecture was of Paris. Since his guide book said the central city had been largely rebuilt by French architects in the late 18th century he was not surprised.

  Any similarity vanished once his eyes left the main boulevards and wandered down the winding narrow side streets. The city looked more Moorish than European with tile frescos and graceful arches. The streets were cobblestoned, even the sidewalks were constructed of small inlaid stones often designed into intricate patterns.

  Schiffman had agreed to call ahead so a security officer with the embassy was expecting him. He said his name was Anderson, Mark Anderson. He was a slender man in his early 30's with a compulsively cropped beard and an officious manner. Once they were in his small office he took his place behind a stark grey metal desk, laced his fingers in front of him, and said, “I had a few minutes to check our records and there is nothing on either a Leah Swensen or a Kate Morgan.” He eyed Goodnight evenly, taking in his hat, boots and dark suit, all without comment.

  “I'm not surprised by that, but it's always best to start with the obvious.”

  “You understand that Americans arriving in Portugal are not required to register with the embassy? They need permission of the country to arrive, but not from us. We give general permission to travel abroad when we grant the passport. Some Americans do register here in case of emergencies – but they are in the minority.”

  “Does Portugal maintain records of arriving Americans?”

  Anderson smiled. “Do you have any idea how many visitors Lisbon alone receives each year? For 150 years this was the richest country in the world and much of that wealth is still visible inside the churches you see on every street corner. Portugal is now part of the European Union. They've made remarkable progress with their infrastructure and some passports are entered into a central computer, but let me ask you: Did they enter your passport number?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  Anderson smiled condescendingly. “They only put in a random sampling of those they have a question about. Ninety- nine out of hundred passports are glanced at then the bearer passed through.” He looked unobtrusively at his desk clock. “There's something else I might as well tell you about since you'll learn soon enough. The Portuguese government is positively Byzantine in operation. You'll get nothing out of it. And frankly I don't think there is anything for you to learn to make it worth your effort.”

  “In that case how would you suggest I go about finding an American living here?”

  The officer sighed. “It won't be easy. I take it from what your colleague said this person will not want to be noticed.” Goodnight nodded. “There is an organization you should check with. It's the Anglo Women of Lisbon. It seems to have as members, or to at least contact, most resident British and American women. But no one has to join and I doubt your woman would since she doesn't want to make finding her easy. Still its members usually know of recent arrivals because they approach nearly every English speaking new resident. I've written a contact person for you here.” He handed over a sheet of paper with an expression of completion, then pointedly looked at his wrist watch again. “And candidly, Mr. Goodnight, I think that is about all this embassy will be able to do for you.”

  ~

  “A real detective?” Her name was Genevieve Larson. “Call me Ginny,” she had said over the telephone. They met for a drink at Cafe a Brasileira late that afternoon. According to Larson, the cafe was noted for the artists and poets who frequented it. There was even a life size statue of a Portuguese poet sitting at his favorite table with a cup of espresso in hand, attended by the occasional pigeon.

  “I don't believe I've ever met a real detective before.” Larson was in her 50's, of medium height and weight, with hair she was letting turn white. Reading glasses dangled from a gold chain around her neck and she wore a stylish burgundy colored scarf. She and her husband had moved to Lisbon from London 13 years before and now she worked selling real estate to other expatriates. “And you say that you got my name from the American Embassy?”

  “That's right. Mark Anderson there thought you might be of help to me in locating an American woman I believe is here in Portugal.”

  “My – this is all very exciting, isn't it? Hardly anything excit
ing ever happens in Portugal. That's why it's so wonderful. I was president of AWOL two years ago and I suppose that's why the embassy had my name, but I'm still active. Are you the detective I read about in the Herald Tribune yesterday? You're looking for a woman they thought was dead, but actually faked her murder? Oh my, this is exciting! Do you read Agatha Christie? It's just like that, don't you think – only better!”

  Larson had ordered a bottle of red Douro wine for them and he had to admit her choice was impeccable. He had been uncomfortable sitting outside initially, but no one was eavesdropping and the weather was almost summer-like despite the lateness of the season. The guide book said he was as far north as New York City but it felt more like a Mexican plaza on a Sunday afternoon in the fall.

  Goodnight handed Larson his photograph, wishing the computer enhanced versions had arrived. “This is the woman I'm attempting to locate. Her name is Leah Swensen, but she won't be using it. She has also used the names Lana Dahl and Kate Morgan.”

  Larson became theatrically serious. “Aliases, right? That's what you detectives call them, don't you?”

  “That's right. The cat is named Scottie and maybe she won't think to change his name. As a last resort I'll try to locate her through the cat. He's a Scottish Fold, a fairly rare breed. She will probably have changed her look, but there isn't much she can do with her cat.”

  “Are you carrying a gun, Mr. Goodnight?”

  “No, ma'am. The airlines frown on that sort of thing these days.”

  “But you were just in a western gunfight I read. I never met a real cowboy before.”

  “I shot a man, but that's not why I'm here, and I haven't been a cowboy in a long, long time. I was hoping you, or perhaps some of your members who have contacted most of the recent American arrivals for membership in your organization, might remember her.”

  “Would you tell me about the shooting?”

  “Another time. I'm concerned Mrs. Swensen reads the same newspaper you do and is already leaving the country.”

  “Of course,” Larson exclaimed as if suddenly realizing she had overlooked the obvious. “I hadn't thought of that! How silly of me.” She finally raised her glasses and regarded the photograph. “I'm trying to picture her with blond hair and thinner. That's what I'd do if I was on the run. Oh my! This is exciting. But I don't recognize her.” Her eyes lit up. “I have an idea! Our weekly meeting is tomorrow at the Hotel Atlantida in Estoril. You could bring your picture there and show it around. There's usually a little piece in the Anglo Portuguese News about our meetings so someone might read about you and give us a call if you have no luck at the meeting itself.”

  “Mrs. Swensen will probably read it if she hasn't seen yesterday's International Herald Tribune yet.”

  “I understand. We must think about these things, mustn't we?”

  “I believe Mrs. Swensen arrived last May. She's been here through the summer and now into the fall. She collected more than half a million dollars several weeks ago and just recently received a million. My guess is she feels secure here and is likely now living a life of some affluence. Where would a well to do American live in Portugal?”

  “That's easy. They live in Sintra, Estoril or Cascais, unless they buy a villa in the Algarve. That's in the south, all sea and sand, desolate during the winter and almost no one lives there year round. Sintra is in the mountains and was the location of the summer palace for the Portuguese kings. It's like a fairy tale. You really should make the time to go before you leave us.

  “Estoril is where Ian Fleming was stationed during World War II along with all the other spies. I suppose it made it easier having them all in one place. The casino there was his inspiration for Casino Royale. If it was me I'd live in Cascais. It's still quaint. It's facing the Atlantic with lovely beaches. Most importantly there is a fairly large English speaking resident community so I wouldn't feel out of place. It's mostly English from the NATO air base or retirees who prefer the weather here to Britain. Their pensions go further as well.

  “That entire area isn't far. It's called the Coast of Kings because so many deposed monarchs have lived there since the turn of the century. You should see their mansions! Breathtaking. It's enough to make us all feel like paupers.”

  Larson looked Goodnight over for what seemed the tenth time since they met and grew quite serious in manner. “There's something you should understand about our lovely Portugal. Until the last decade it had no extradition treaty with other countries. All sorts of wanted persons with money have found refuge here. In Estoril and Cascais you find many Germans, for example. These were often Nazis who couldn't go home after the war, or perhaps Germans from eastern Germany who didn't care much for Karl Marx.

  “What I'm getting at is that the international community here is very secretive. People only tell you what they want you to know about their past and no one asks questions. Prying isn't considered polite and that will be a problem even for a detective such as yourself. Your Mrs. Swensen isn't going to stick out as much as you might think. In fact, she'll hardly have made a ripple.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Schiffman's package arrived by DHL at 9:00 the following morning and was delivered directly to Goodnight's room though he waited until breakfast to review the computer enhanced photographs. There were sixteen variations of Leah Swensen. She was heavier and thinner, she was her customary brunette, but also a blond and redhead, her hair was shorter and longer, she was with and without various types of glasses. The quality was remarkable and Goodnight slipped the photos into his suit pocket with some optimism.

  Ginny Larson had explained how to reach the Hotel Atlantida in Estoril by commuter train and claimed it was easy, but he was confused enough and decided to take a taxi which she had told him could cost as much as 15 pounds, or a bit over 20 dollars. That seemed a small price to pay to actually arrive.

  The drive took him north into the newer section of Lisbon and Goodnight observed the Portuguese were capable of building the same ugly rectangular glass buildings everyone else did. The highway to Estoril followed the coast but too far away to catch anything but occasional glimpses of the ocean. The laundry hanging from windows reminded him this was Latin Europe.

  Estoril was cluttered with century old aristocratic mansions lining cobblestoned streets. Ginny Larson spotted him as he entered the Atlantida and at once rushed over to greet him with a wide grin. “I have been the soul of discretion,” she assured him in a whisper after kissing him on each check. “People will ask questions but I am leaving it up to you what to say. You're in luck. I'm pleased to say that the APN reporter isn't here. I suggest you mingle. The luncheon doesn't start for another half hour.”

  Once she stepped away three women approached and asked if he was the American cowboy here to catch the woman who had tried to fake her murder. “I'm the insurance investigator, yes. Perhaps you could take a look at these photographs and see if you recognize anyone.”

  The women were more interested in him than the pictures but each took a turn staring at them and shaking their head in turn. The story was the same with the other 25 women at the gathering, all of whom knew his business before they approached him. Lunch itself was excruciating with so much unwanted attention directed at him, and he couldn't help nodding off as the guest speaker droned on about comparable health care plans for expatriates living in Portugal in the context of the new European Union.

  It was over by 2:30 and Goodnight had never been so relieved to leave a table. He received a number of invitations to dinner and several single women suggested getting together while he was visiting. Larson was beaming as the last women reluctantly left.

  “What a success! If only you had been able to speak and tell stories from the Wild West it would have been perfect. What are you going to do next?”

  “Old fashioned police work, I suppose. I was disappointed no one here had seen my lady.”

  “You're probably right. She's keeping her head down I suspect. I read that in a Western novel
by Zane Grey one time. Is that an American expression?”

  “Yes, ma'am, and generally pretty good advice.”

  “Is she alone?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Then she goes out, Mr. Goodnight. Only the Irish spend more time in pubs and restaurants than the Portuguese. It's a way of life, and very infectious.”

  “Where would she go?”

  “In Lisbon there are many, many places, and frankly I don't think you'd have any luck unless you spent months at it, but here and in Cascais the selection for an American is limited and in that regard you are fortunate. My guess is there are perhaps 30 bars and restaurants she might frequent. I could give a list of the ones that come to mind. Just ask at those and the staff will direct you to any I omit. What fun! Pub crawling in search of a fugitive! I wish I had the time to join you, but I have a villa to show to some Russians this afternoon. Nasty people, but with lots of dollars.”

  Over strong Portuguese coffee Larson wrote out a list of more than 20 establishments an English speaking expatriate would frequent in the area, then handed it over with a flourish. “What about Sintra? You mentioned it yesterday.”

  “Yes, I did. She could be there but it hasn't an ocean and the expatriate community is much smaller. I'd start here. If you have no luck then give me a call and I'll take you to Sintra. It's quite unique and utterly charming. Well, I must be off.” She stood and gathered her bag. “Do stay in touch, won't you? Ta ta!”

  The first place on the list was here, the Atlantida, so Goodnight began in the nearby bar. His search proved both easier than he had initially feared, and more difficult. The staff at the Atlantida and at the other hotels and restaurants listed in Estoril spoke at least some English and were eager to please. But no one recognized his lady from the photographs he showed and he realized after working Estoril late into the night that he would have to revisit every establishment at a different time of day to catch a different shift.