by Lyle Howard
Now that Toby was alone, he flipped open the phone but said nothing.
“Is this Doctor Toby Bilston?” asked the deep male voice.
“Who is this?”
“Not important.”
“How did you get my private number?”
“Also not important.”
Toby looked at the phone angrily. “Well, something better be important, pal, because I’m melting like a sweat-scented candle here, and I’m about to hang up.”
“I’ve seen that you’re a compassionate man,” the caller stated.
Toby shook his head in frustration. “But one who is growing less sympathetic the more you talk in circles. I really need to know who you are and how you got access to this number.”
Even though there was a gentle breeze blowing in off the river, perspiration was running down Toby’s scalp in rivulets.
“You’re probably going to need more than one hanky,” the voice revealed.
Toby instantaneously spun around and scanned the parking lot and the crowd gathering on the pier. “Where are you?”
“Don’t waste your time. You look like you don’t have much energy to spare. I want you to listen to what I have to say.”
“Who the fuck is this?” Toby demanded to know.
“We’ll meet soon enough, Doctor, but for now, just pay attention.”
“Fuck you. I’m hanging up.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Watch me,” Toby snarled, and snapped his phone shut.
Limousines were backed up bumper to bumper to Toby’s left. In the distance, he thought he could just make out the sounds of music coming from the direction of the hangar, but the melody wasn’t anything he recognized. The chances of a band playing a song that Toby actually knew were astronomical. He was slipping the phone back into his pocket when it vibrated again. Same number.
Toby stared at the phone as it continued to ring. He knew that call would go to voicemail, so he waited. A few seconds later, the phone began to vibrate again. “Stubborn son of a bitch,” Toby muttered.
“I’m not playing games with you. I have a boat to catch.” Toby fumed into the phone.
“This is no game, Doctor,” the voice insisted. “Your reputation for deciphering the tiniest piece of evidence is well documented, but tonight you’re absolutely out of your element. You and your colleagues have no clue of what you’ve stumbled onto, or what’s at stake.”
“Oh yeah? Then why don’t you enlighten me?” Toby acquiesced. “You’ve got two minutes.”
The caller never wavered. “I’ll need ten, but I promise it will only seem like two.”
48
Lauren King and Scott Simms were standing toward the back of the crowd when they were approached by a local newscaster and her cameraman. When the bright light above the camera hit their faces, and the newscaster didn’t recognize them, she immediately ran her finger across her throat and ordered the cameraman to kill the light. Without the hint of an apology, the newscaster pushed her way further into the crowd.
“It sucks not being famous,” Simms admitted.
The detective nodded. “Personally, I’m glad she took off. If the guys in my squad saw me dressed like this, I’d never heard the end of it.”
A helicopter floated overhead, shining its searchlight on the river to keep the channel clear of curious pleasure boats.
“This is some big to-do for the launching of a ship,” Simms commented loudly, to be heard over the noise of the helicopter blades.
“Supposedly, it’s not just any ship,” the detective admitted. “It’s said to be the first of its kind.”
Simms smiled politely, as he held up his finger. “First of all, ‘it’ is a ‘she.’ Don’t ask me why, but even ships named after famous men are always referred to as ‘she.”
Lauren nodded. “Because they’re a thing of beauty,” she shouted.
“You could be right. I’ve never thought about it much.”
“And second?” The detective asked.
Simms held up two fingers. “Secondly, hydrofoil technology has been around for years, so this concept of a vessel that travels above the water is nothing new. While I’ll admit that there was never one built on this scale, smaller versions have been in use as ferries at various ports around the world. They’re sometimes referred to as ‘puddle jumpers’ because they’re used exclusively for short commutes.”
Lauren put her hand on the Petty Officer’s shoulder. “Wow! Intelligent and good looking! How lucky am I?”
The harsh bright lights seemed to amplify the P.O.’s blushing cheeks. “I wonder what’s keeping the Doctor?” He said, checking his watch.
Suddenly, all of the lights in the parking lot and surrounding vicinity blinked off, leaving the crowd in near-total darkness. The only illumination came from the enormous white structure in the distance and a few headlights from late arrivals still hunting down a parking space.
It was precisely eight o’clock, and the front side of the hangar facing the river fell noiselessly to the ground like a silken bedsheet. At least a dozen workers scrambled to remove the pile of material, much like the grounds crew would do at a ballpark if it started raining.
The light from the police helicopter changed its focus to the sleek twin bows of the massive catamaran that was emerging like a butterfly from its cocoon. Standing alone at the front railing, a dwarfed Peter Mason waved to the admiring crowd. The Hydra glided slowly out of her hangar on a cushion of air. It was like witnessing the birth of something never seen before.
As the bridge of the ship revealed herself to the crowd, Mason turned and pointed up toward the single spotlight mounted high above the control room. The light flashed on with an intensity that seemed to raise the ambient temperature of the entire vicinity. The invited dignitaries and celebrities all cheered as the Hydra introduced herself by floating majestically across fifty yards of pavement and out over the river. Once in her natural habitat, she turned gracefully to port by pivoting one of the two fans on her aft section, and sidled up to the pier where a portable gangway was waiting to be attached to grant the passengers access.
Petty Officer Simms didn’t realize it, but his mouth was hanging open. He had done his research on her, but to see the Hydra close up, he was genuinely in awe of how colossal she actually was! To get a ship of this size to ride ten feet above the surface of the water was nothing short of an act of God. The fans below her hull had to be whipping the water into a boiling froth. Just how much lift those blades were supplying to raise such a vast ship out of the water had to be mind-boggling. The Hydra was easily twice the size of any Coast Guard cutter he had ever served on, but the one feature that struck him the most was how quiet she actually ran. The casual observer wouldn’t pay much attention to it, but his trained ears could drown out the cacophony of the crowd, and he was amazed at the silence. No vessel on the open ocean would ever hear her coming.
Simms looked over at the detective who was equally speechless. “This might be the most amazing feat of marine engineering I’ve ever witnessed,” he announced. “Anyone can turn a skyscraper on its side and make it float, but Peter Mason has made one fly!”
“Incredible,” was all Lauren King could utter.
As if awakening from a dream, Simms shook his head trying his best to focus on the real reason they were here, but the miracle of personally witnessing something he never thought possible was making it difficult for him to concentrate.
“How much do you think she cost?” Lauren asked.
“Who cares?” Simms replied. “She’s worth every penny.”
As the gangway was brought into position, the fourteen pontoons supporting the Hydra’s twin hulls began to deflate, lowering the ship in the water for easier boarding. The media would compare the unique sight to the landing of a UFO.
The terminal lights blinked
back to life as Simms and King were jockeying for position in the sprawling crowd. Without warning, they both felt a hand on their shoulder. The detective was the first to react, instinctively grabbing the wrist and spinning around to confront the perpetrator. “Toby!” she yelled, “Don’t ever sneak up on me like that!”
The doctor pulled his hand free and began rubbing his wrist. “Duly noted!”
“Are you alright?” Simms asked. “You look ashen.”
Lauren nodded. “He’s right, Toby. You look really pale, and I don’t think it’s because of the lighting. Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m sorry, but I need to leave.”
Lauren placed her hand on the doctor’s cheek. His face was clammy, but that wasn’t necessarily abnormal. “Do you need to sit down?”
“I feel fine, but I can’t stay. You’ll have to board without me.”
“Is anything wrong?” Lauren persisted. “Is it Benjamin? Has something happened to Benjamin?”
Toby shook his head to the contrary. “Ben is fine. This isn’t a family emergency. Something has come up, and they need me back at my lab. They’re sending another car.”
Lauren put her hands on her hips defiantly. “We’re not getting on that ship without you. That’s not we discussed.”
Bilston rubbed his handkerchief across his salt and peppered beard. The linen cloth was already saturated and did little to stop the torrent of moisture. “You two need to do your jobs and stop whining.”
“I’m not whining,” the detective protested.
“You’re whining.” Toby scolded her. “You both need to be aboard that boat. ”
“Ship.” Simms corrected him.
“Whatever,” Toby glared at him. “You know your way around a ship better than Detective King does. Use the commotion as a distraction. See if you can find anything that would confirm your theory.”
“I don’t like this at all, Toby. There’s something you’re not telling us. ” Lauren complained.
The doctor turned toward her. “What? Suddenly you can’t handle undercover work?”
“I never said that.”
“Look, Lauren, you need to see if you can charm your way into talking to Mason or one of his cronies and try to broach the topic of Commissioner Beckworth’s death.”
She looked skeptical. “Something like that doesn’t just come up in casual conversation.”
Toby smiled at her in that fatherly way that made her feel safe. “Just do what you do best, but you need to stay sharp because I’ve just noticed that there’s been an extra wild card thrown into the deck.”
The Petty Officer leaned in. “What kind of wild card?”
“Look over your shoulder at two o’clock. Wearing the blue sports coat and escorting the young woman in the white dress. ”
Simms scanned the crowd that was still milling about patiently waiting for the gangway to be secured. “They’re practically all wearing white dresses!” He complained.
Toby jabbed out his chin. “Standing beneath the light pole, signing to each other.”
“Matthew Walker is here,” Lauren said. “I’ll be damned.”
“Who’s Matthew Walker?” Simms asked.
The pieces were falling into place. This was an omen that they were on the right track. Lauren smiled at Toby who nodded his head. Each could tell what the other was thinking. Using his extraordinary ability, Matthew Walker had learned something at the ballgame. Something important enough to compel him to be here.
“Are you sure you want to leave?” Lauren asked.
“Stay on him, but maintain your distance. Keep him safe.”
Petty Officer Simms waved his hand between the two co-workers who seemed joined at the brain. “Would one of you please tell me who this Matthew Walker is?”
A car pulled into the parking lot and flashed its headlights. “That’s my ride,” Toby said, as he turned to leave.
“Who is Matthew Walker?” Simms called after him.
Lauren King slid her arm formally through the Petty Officer’s arm. As the couple strolled past a gaggle of clicking cameras, she began swaying her hips in a manner that was entirely foreign to her. “Matthew Walker is not a wild card,” she whispered into Simm’s ear, looking seductive for the paparazzi. “He’s the ace up our sleeve.”
49
As the gala crowd began to stroll up the gangway, one limousine in particular remained occupied in the parking lot with its engine running. Nick Coltello and Jimmy Diaz sat across from one another sipping bourbon while they waited for the mob to thin out.
“You feel okay, Nicky?” Diaz asked.
“Sure,” Coltello assured his most trusted confidant. “Don’t I look alright?”
Diaz peered out the side window at the ship that seemed to block out the entire horizon. “Well, the doctor upped your dosages and added that new anxiety drug to your daily regiment; I just want to make sure you’re not feeling any weird side effects. Sometimes when you introduce something new into your system, you can be a little off your game.”
Nicky the Knife held up his glass. “It’s nice to know you’re looking out for me. I’m sure the instructions on most of those drugs suggest you take them with generous amounts of alcohol.”
Diaz placed his glass into the holder built into the black leather armrest. “Point well taken.”
Perhaps it was the interaction of the new drugs and bourbon, but Nicholas Coltello suddenly felt introspective. “I think I might have a problem with my temper,” he said thoughtfully.
“Excuse me? Did you say something?” Diaz asked.
Nicky’s head tipped back, and he stared up at the oval-shaped overhead lamp fixture. “Why an oval and not a circle or a square?” He wondered aloud.
Diaz leaned forward and placed his hand on his bosses’ knee. “Are you sure you’re up to this tonight, Nicky? Maybe we should go back to the club.”
Coltello’s head snapped back into the upright position. “You think I squeezed myself into this monkey suit so that I could sit around my office? Just look at the size of that fucking boat out there! I want a piece of that fucking action!”
Diaz rubbed his fingers across lips that had suddenly gone bone dry. He didn’t need a weatherman to tell him that there was a storm looming on the horizon, and by the psychotic glaze covering his employer’s eyes, it was probably going to be a category five.
“Come on,” Coltello ordered, with a noticeable slurring of his words. “Let’s get going. It looks like most of the rainbow coalition are already on the boat.”
Diaz slid forward in his seat and took his bosses’ face by the chin. “Look at me, Nicky. Let me see your eyes.”
Coltello batted his hand away. “What the fuck, J.D., you one of them?”
“You can’t be talking like that, Nicky,” Diaz replied. “I just want to make sure you don’t do anything stupid tonight.”
Coltello swatted a nonexistent hair off his face. “Stupid? You’re stupid.”
“Goddamnit, Nicky,” Diaz objected. “How much have you had to drink tonight?”
Coltello’s face grew flushed. “None of your fucking business. Now, are we getting on that boat, or are we just gonna sit here and have another one of your bullshit anger management sessions?”
“Nicky, there are going to be hundreds of important people on this ship…”
“None more than me,” Coltello interrupted, waggling his finger.
“We can debate that point later, but for now let’s ignore the shipping magnate, the Congressmen, the celebrities, and the flying cruise ship, and assume you are the person everyone has come here to see.”
Nicky the Knife straightened his bow tie. “You’re damned skippy.”
Diaz could feel the pressure growing behind his eyes. If there was a God in heaven, he prayed that this was the onset of something that would take
him quickly. “Nicky, why are we here tonight?”
Coltello never skipped a beat. “To kill Peter Mason.”
It would have to be something quick, like getting hit by lightning. A drug overdose or carbon monoxide poisoning would take much too long. If Diaz wanted this torture to stop, he would have to pop the front hood and suck on one of the battery terminals. “No, Nicky, we’re not here to kill anyone. We’re here to negotiate, not to threaten.”
Nicky tipped his head from side to side. “Talk, talk, talk, blah, blah, blah.”
“I’m serious, Nicky. Local cops and the Feds are crawling all over that ship. You’re not packing any weapons are you?”
Coltello twisted his index finger in the air. “I don’t need any fucking weapons, I can kill him with a plastic spoon.”
Diaz looked over at the electric cigarette lighter and wondered if the socket had enough voltage to do the trick. Maybe if he wetted his finger first. “No spoons, no forks, and especially no knives, Nicky! This is your first meeting with the man. I need you to be on your best behavior. And if nothing comes of our conversation, then…”
“…then I bust a beer bottle and stab him in the carotid.”
“Jesus, Nicky. Who the hell raised you, Hannibal Lecter?”
“Talking is overrated, J.D.!” Coltello growled as he emptied his last sip of bourbon. “I didn’t get where I am today by kissing other people’s asses, and I’ve got an entire field full of corpses who wanted to negotiate with me to prove it.”
“Nicky, this man wants to dig up that field. You understand that, right?”
“And that’s why he needs to die.”
Diaz shook his head. “No, that’s why we need to convince him to move the location of his ballpark, so that you’re not indicted on fifty some odd counts of first-degree murder and put down like a rabid animal.”
Coltello leaned forward, and his whole demeanor seemed to change. “You really care about me, don’t you J.D.?”
“What?”
“I don’t have many people I can count on to have my back, J.D. You’re probably my only true friend.”