Looker

by Michael Kilian

  Lanham rubbed his face. “Maybe you didn’t. If you’d tried to stop her, that fucking brother of hers probably would have come back and blown your head off. I’m surprised he didn’t do it anyway.”

  “What did you find on Hilton Head?”

  Lanham shook his head. “Not a hell of a lot. I had trouble getting in to Sea Pines Plantation, where Pierre’s condo is. I had to lift a windshield card from a parked car to get through the gate. Pierre wasn’t there. His condo was locked tight and there was mail in the mailbox. The maid said he hasn’t been there for weeks. The feds are there, though. I don’t know what Pierre was privy to in the White House, but they must think he’s got real potential as a turncoat. I spotted a couple of agents in a car in the condo’s parking lot. And there was a guy at the pool who didn’t look like he was on much of a vacation.”

  “Where in hell can Pierre be?”

  “The computer printout said he had a boat moored at Hilton Head but I couldn’t find it. I looked all over the marina. The kid in the harbormaster’s office there didn’t know anything.”

  “What kind of boat?”

  “Some sort of cabin cruiser. Probably a seagoing version of his limo.”

  “You said the harbor master’s office. Which harbor did you go to?”

  “The one down the road from his condo. It’s on the southern tip of the island.”

  “There’s more than one yacht harbor in Sea Pines. The one you went to is for shallow-draft boats. The channel snakes up a creek and it’s impassable at low tide. If Pierre has a big cruiser, he’d likely keep it up Calibogue Sound a ways at Harbour Town. It’s a deep-water marina.”

  “Is there any of these rich man’s playgrounds you haven’t been to?”

  “I’ve never been to Campobello. But I’ve sailed in Calibogue Sound before. That’s the stretch of water between Hilton Head and the mainland. I was just potting around in a day sailor and I never paid any attention to the names of the other coastal islands. But look what I’ve found now.”

  He pulled his map up on the table between them, spreading flat the folds.

  “When she was talking to her mother, Camilla mentioned three places; Savannah, Hilton Head, and someplace called Tawabaw. I’ve found Tawabaw.”

  Lanham wiped off his glasses with his handkerchief and leaned over the map, looking like a scientist studying some specimen.

  “Hilton Head isn’t very far from here,” A.C. said. “Not by water. See.” He pointed to the mouth of the Savannah River. “This bit of headland here is Tybee Island. Across the river mouth from it is Daufuskie Island. Across the Calibogue Sound channel from Daufuskie is the south end of Hilton Head—Sea Pines Plantation.”

  Lanham nodded. A.C. pushed the map closer.

  “This little island here,” A.C. said, “just off the coast of Daufuskie? That’s Tawabaw Island.”

  “Is there a bridge to it?”

  “Probably. It’s a narrow enough channel. But Pierre has a boat.”

  Lanham looked at him quizzically.

  “I think we should rent ourselves a boat,” A.C. said.

  CHAPTER 18

  In the morning, they took an early breakfast, using the time at the table to go through both the local and the Charleston newspapers. There were stories about the incident in both, the longer article in the Savannah paper, under the headline GANG-STYLE SHOOTING IN OLD SAVANNAH. The account was sketchy, attributing the violence to drug trafficking—the official police surmise. The dead man had not been identified. The man A.C. had shot was refusing to talk.

  The injured man was in the local hospital. There was a vague reference to the Drug Enforcement Administration having been called into the investigation of the shooting.

  “Do you think they’ll leave us alone now?” A.C. asked, sipping some of the excellent coffee.

  “Mr. Perotta has more than two employees.”

  “But they won’t keep on after Pierre, will they? You said there were federal agents around his place. They wouldn’t risk running into them, would they?”

  Lanham shrugged. “Somebody was given a job to do, and it didn’t get done. The penalties for failure in their line of work are considerable. Vince’s honor is still bent out of shape. Every wiseguy in New York is probably trying to get a copy of that videotape. They must be laughing their asses off—Vince getting cuckolded for all to see in a cheap skin flick.”

  He finished his coffee, declining more when the waiter quickly appeared at his side.

  “I’m more worried about the brother,” he said. “He knows we’re here now.”

  “Are you going to call your department’s mob crimes unit? Tell them what’s happened?”

  “I don’t think so. They’re frying their own fish. The two jerkoffs you tangled with last night—I doubt they’re the perps who whacked Belinda and the others anyway. Those guys did their jobs. They’re probably in Vegas by now, spending their hard-earned pay. Unless Vince has covered his ass by sending them into early retirement. In which case, the mob crimes boys are going to have to use up a lot of shovels finding them.”

  He pushed back his chair. “Come on, A.C. Let’s get this boat trip over with.”

  They stopped to buy some sailing clothes and change into them, hoping to look a little less conspicuous, then headed for the docks, making three stops before they found a marine service operator who was willing to rent them a boat.

  He offered them a twenty-three-foot O’Day sailing cruiser, with a small cabin and outboard engine, which they took for a week’s charter with a $500 deposit. The manager required A.C. to demonstrate his seamanship with a brief run across the river and back, and was sufficiently impressed to let them go without further question.

  When they were at last on their own, chugging downriver, Lanham came aft and took a seat in the cockpit opposite A.C.

  “Was all that crap because of me?” he asked.

  “No. A lot of people say they can sail when they can’t. It’s not like renting a car.”

  “I can’t sail.”

  “I’ll teach you a little something. Make you earn your passage. For starters, when we get out into open water, I’d like you to work the jib sheets. They’re those ropes that lead back from the forward sail. When we change tack, the jib has to be pulled from one side to the other, and then you’ll have to cleat the sheet to hold it tight.”

  “I don’t have the faintest goddamn idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You will. You’ll get lots of practice. The wind’s out of the northeast, in the general direction we’ll be heading. We’ll have to tack our way up.”

  Lanham looked at him balefully.

  “Tack.”

  “Tack.”

  They passed the old remnants of Fort Pulaski on the right, crossing the channel of the Intracoastal Waterway. There was some traffic in it, mostly powerboats.

  “Where are they all going?”

  “North. That’s the Intracoastal, a sheltered boat highway that runs all along the coast.”

  “Does it go anywhere near where we’re going?”

  A.C. looked at the chart on his knee. “Yes. It runs behind Daufuskie and comes out in Calibogue Sound.”

  “Why don’t we take it?”

  “It’s the long way around. We’d have to run on the engine all the way down the side of Daufuskie to get to Tawabaw. And I don’t want to use up all our gas.”

  Lanham accepted this glumly.

  “Don’t worry,” A.C. said. “We won’t be in the open sea long.”

  The wind began brisking up before they were even clear of the river. Leaving Lanham to hold the tiller steady, A.C. killed the motor and went forward to hoist the sails. After both were in place, he clambered back to the steering.

  “Hold on,” he said, steering off the wind.

  Pulling and cleating, he drew the boom back until the boat was sailing close-hauled and heeling over at a sharp angle, the running foam coming close to the rail.

  “The wind’s a good fift
een knots,” he said. “We’ll make good time.”

  Lanham clutched the woodwork tightly.

  “You do this for fun?”

  “It gets a lot more fun than this.”

  “Shit.”

  A.C. missed his son. He’d find a way someday to have Davey sail a boat with him again. He could see him aboard right then, showing Lanham how to work a jib.

  Lanham would like him. Davey was a very brave boy.

  “You’re heading straight out to sea,” Lanham said, as calmly as he could manage.

  “Don’t worry. We have to sail forty-five degrees off the wind. The further out we go, the less we’ll have to tack.”

  The water was choppy, the bow tossing up spray at every wave. The wind had blown all heat out of the air. They seemed at a far remove from the sultry Savannah square where he had last looked upon Camilla’s face.

  She had said she loved him, had told her mother that. But she hadn’t said it to him. What would he do if she ever did? What could he do?

  Husband. Camilla was married. It had angered him terribly to hear that, but by what right?

  “What are all those boats out there?” said Lanham, freeing one arm to point off the port bow.

  “Fishing boats, most of them,” A.C. said, speaking above the wind. “This is a big area for deep sea fishing.”

  “Rich guys?”

  “A lot of them. Some are just fishermen making a living.”

  “Look at them all.”

  A.C. did, his gaze traveling the hazy horizon. They could have been an armada of warships, they were so many.

  “I wonder if there are any drug runners out there.”

  “Could be. Nowadays you never know.”

  “So much coastline. So many boats. It’s no wonder nobody can stop them.”

  A.C. nodded, letting out the mainsheet a little to allow for a sudden strong puff of wind.

  The flat green sliver of land to their left that the chart said was Tawabaw Island was visible now directly abeam. A.C. made the boat fall off a little farther, evening their heel.

  “I’m going to come about now,” he said. “Here’s what I want you to do.”

  He showed Lanham the procedure, then retook the helm.

  “Ready about!” he shouted. He gathered in the main sheet, pointing the bow up, then shoved the tiller away from him.

  The O’Day spun, the boom slapping smartly into place to port. Lanham was too slow on the jib sheet, and it flapped wildly for a moment until he finally brought it under control.

  “Not too bad,” A.C. said.

  Lanham grinned. “It was fucking terrible.”

  “We didn’t capsize.”

  The island was flat and covered with trees. As they approached, moving fast on a beam reach, a thin line of brown appeared beneath the trees, widening and becoming yellow in color as they came yet nearer.

  Sailing parallel to the shoreline, they could see a few gray buildings between the trees and undergrowth. A glimpse of red proved to be the body of a pickup truck, though for a moment A.C.’s heart leapt with the hope that it might be Camilla’s car.

  “Can’t we get closer?” Lanham asked. A.C. shook his head. “These are shoal waters. I’ve bumped the bottom twice already. We don’t want to get stuck in the mud.”

  “Who lives on this island?”

  “Mostly Gullahs, I’d guess. Descendants of slaves brought over centuries ago. They have what amounts to their own language.”

  “I know about them,” Lanham said. “I took some black history courses.” He smiled, to show it was a joke.

  A.C. guessed at the conditions they’d find ashore. Shacks and sheds, unpainted houses, chickens wandering the muddy paths that did for roads. At a clearing in the trees, they saw two figures standing motionless, watching them.

  “I can’t imagine what interest the Delasantes would have in this place,” A.C. said, “unless they owned it.”

  The sailboat glided on. When they rounded a small headland, they could see surf breaking on the sand. The habitations disappeared in the hanging greenery. Beyond the next point, the larger mass of Daufuskie Island emerged.

  “I don’t think we’re going to have to get any closer,” A.C. said. “I don’t think any of the Delasantes are there.”

  “Why not?”

  “There aren’t any boats.”

  “You said there might be a bridge. There were vehicles on the island.”

  “Pierre has a boat, and brother Jacques is after Pierre.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “We’ll check out the channel on the other side. There’s probably a landing there.”

  Rounding the point, A.C. threw the boat into a careful gybe, a tricky maneuver involving a turn with the wind aft, in which the suddenly swinging boom almost clipped Lanham’s head. Then A.C. headed on a near run down the channel, until the island screened off the wind and the sails began to flap. He started the engine, and in a moment their speed picked up again.

  “There are some boats along there,” Lanham said, holding onto the boom to keep it from swinging back and forth.

  “Rowboats and skiffs. Locals.”

  There was an old, long dock, with several tired little work boats tied to it. Ahead was a rickety-looking bridge. A.C. slowed the motor, then carefully turned the O’Day, feeling the keel dragging through the muck.

  On shore, a number of people had come out to look at them, standing amidst the hanging moss. They all looked to be black people.

  “I don’t think the Delasantes are here,” A.C. said. “Not today.”

  “Okay,” said Lanham, assuming a leadership role again. “We’ll come back later.”

  “You want me to make for Hilton Head?”

  “Yes. I want to find Pierre and his goddamn boat.”

  A.C. increased the little motor’s speed, heading back up the channel. Lanham was facing away from him, still looking at the shore.

  “Are you in love with her?”

  “What?”

  “With Camilla Santee?”

  “That’s a gentleman’s own business.”

  “Fuck the gentleman shit. I want to know how deep your feelings run. I want to know what I can count on from you when we get to where we’re going.”

  “My feelings run deep. Very, very deep.”

  “I thought so.”

  “But you can count on me. You can count on me to do anything but hurt Camilla.”

  “Fair enough. Do you still have that gun?”

  “I’ve got it. I only have about a dozen rounds for it, though. I left the box in the car.”

  “I have what I used to carry around as an ankle pistol. It’s accurate up to about two feet. Let’s hope we won’t need them.”

  They caught the breeze from the sound. The jib began flapping, then the mainsail. A.C. remained on the engine, holding course.

  “You never told me where your partner was—Detective Petrowicz?”

  “He’s working other cases.”

  “They couldn’t send anyone else down with you?”

  “The trip was my idea.”

  “You don’t want to call in the locals?”

  “Do you? You want to explain Camilla to them?”

  “No.”

  They were clear of the channel and in full view of the open waters of Calibogue Sound, the long green mass of Hilton Head on the distant shore. To the north, along its coast, pricking up above the trees, was the tiny, white stick that was the lighthouse at Harbour Town.

  “Then let’s go see what there is to see,” Lanham said. He moved to the starboard jib sheet, awaiting A.C.’s command. A.C. killed the motor, letting the boat fall off and gather speed as the mainsail filled.

  “We’ll have to tack all the way across,” A.C. said.

  “Whatever it takes.”

  The channel at Harbour Town was wide and deep. Some very large yachts were tied up at the outer quay. Powerboats and sailcraft of smaller size were crowded along the main wharf. The town
had a very artificial look, a children’s-book illustration of a seaport. In a sense, the place seemed a foreign country, a far off, isolated land in which the inhabitants wore T-shirts and shorts as a form of native dress. Crowds of people milled and swarmed about the waterfront—a number of children waiting in line to ascend the lighthouse, a tourist attraction that provided a background for snapshots but appeared to serve no real nautical purpose.

  With the sails dropped and furled, A.C. putted through the harbor traffic, making a full, slow circuit and carefully reading the names on the sterns of the moored boats. None struck him as significant.

  Leaving Lanham at his own request to prowl through the crowd along the dock, A.C. went to the harbormaster’s office to acquire a tie-up for the night. He was treated as just another yachtsman, his wealth and business there presumed. He asked after Pierre Delasante casually. The attendant was busy, but took time to quickly glance through a registry book, informing him that Delasante’s boat was named Floride and that it had not left its slip for weeks.

  He found Lanham sitting idly on a bench not far from the Floride. A.C. took the place beside him, copying Lanham’s slouching posture.

  “How did you find his boat?” he asked quietly.

  “I didn’t,” Lanham said. “I found that mope over there in the straw hat with his shirt hanging out. He looks so tired I’ll bet he’s been out here all day. And I’ll bet that lump under his shirt holds eight rounds in a clip.”

  “The fourth boat down is Delasante’s. The Floride. The man has a sense of history. That was the name of John C. Calhoun’s wife.”

  “It’s big.”

  “Not so big. No more than fifty feet.”

  “It’s got its own rowboat. I never even owned a row-boat.”

  “It’s called a dinghy. I don’t think there’s anyone aboard. They told me at the harbormaster’s that it hasn’t been out in weeks.”

  “I’d like to look it over. But let’s wait awhile.”

  “What can we find that the FBI or whoever hasn’t already looked for?”

  Lanham shrugged. “We might find something they don’t know they’re looking for.”

  “And if we don’t find anything?”

  A growly sigh preceded Lanham’s reply. “A.C., I’m so fucking tired of this case I’d just as soon give it up and go back home right now. I’m really just going through the motions. But I want to go through all the motions, so I can at least tell myself I did everything I could when I ask myself years from now why we never caught the son of a bitch.”