A.C. stared down at the gray-green water, watching it rise and fall in oily slopes against the side of the nearest boat.
“You’ve had lots of unsolved cases.”
“This one is special.”
The man in the straw hat was watching them, pretending not to.
“Why is Petrowicz working on another case?”
“Because the newspapers are on the mayor’s ass and he’s turned around and kicked ours. Petrowicz was transferred to another division. Caputo was suspended pending the outcome of the I.A.D investigation into the shooting of Bad Bobby Darcy’s girlfriend. My boss, Taranto, is on administrative leave. Detective Gabriel has left the department.”
“And you?”
“I’m fine.”
They sat uncomfortably for some time longer, feeling futile and nervous, as closely observed as Delasante’s empty boat.
“What if we just went aboard?” A.C. asked.
“There’s at least a couple of feds hangin’ around here. They might do something stupid. Let’s get your boat tied up where it’s supposed to be and then get something to eat.” Lanham stood up. “Maybe there’s a store where we can buy some penlights and a couple of knives.”
“Knives?”
“You’re a sailor. Knives can cut boatlines, if you’re in a hurry.”
They took dinner in a tourist café overlooking the harbor, then returned to their boat after sundown. The mooring A.C. had obtained was on the opposite side of the harbor. As the advancing night cleared the dusk from the sky, they sat in the cockpit of the O’Day, waiting, tired of waiting. There was a yellow glow from the streetlamps set around the harbor. The streets and public ways were still full of people. Loud shouts and laughter indicated the presence of teenagers, and the probability of beer.
“If Jacques shows up, there could be shooting,” A.C. said, seating himself by the tiller. “There are all these people around.”
“Santee only shoots who he wants to. You can say that for him.”
“I’m not sure you can say that about federal agents.”
“The first thing they learn is how not to shoot bystanders,” Lanham said. He was staring across the harbor. “Our friend has either been relieved by someone new or he’s dog tired. Either way, we’ve got a little more edge than we did this afternoon.” He leaned forward. “You see that rowboat tied up behind the sailboat there?”
“It’s a dinghy.”
“Whatever the fuck it is, see if you can get aboard it and cut it loose. Then bring it over here. I feel like a ride across the harbor.”
A.C. climbed up on the dock, walked a short stretch of its length, then doubled back and hopped on the other sailboat, moving swiftly aft. Telling himself simply to act as swiftly as he might in a sudden storm, he cut the line with three slashes of the knife and slipped into the dinghy. It had two small plastic oars.
“We’ll use them as paddles,” he said to Lanham, as the other got clumsily in, nearly capsizing them until he centered himself on the rear seat. “It’ll be quieter.”
They were nearly hit by a passing fishing boat, but managed to reach Delasante’s yacht and get aboard without prompting any alarm. There were two fishing chairs facing aft in the rear, and a seat forward by the steering and instrument console. There was a glass-windowed door to the left of the console, leading below.
“Get behind me,” Lanham said, kneeling. “I need the penlight to pick the lock.”
He had it open within a minute. They inched their way down a short flight of steps, then stood in the main cabin. Keeping his light below the level of the windows, Lanham flicked it about.
“Shit,” he said. “Somebody’s torn the place apart.”
“The federal agents?”
“Them. Perotta’s creeps. Santee. Maybe all of them. What’s that over there?”
“That’s the chart table.”
“All right. You know boats. Check it out. I’ll go up forward.”
Lanham worked quickly. He was back before A.C. was done.
“What did you find?” A.C. asked.
“A hell of a lot of booze. Not much else. How about you?”
“A hell of a lot of charts.”
“Great.”
“The one on top is of Daufuskie Island. And Tawabaw Island.”
They heard sudden shouting. Lanham had his small pistol in hand by the time they realized it was from the teens they’d heard earlier.
“Now’s a good time to go,” Lanham said.
They returned the dinghy to its parent boat, then crept back to their own.
“Does this boat’s cabin have a light?” Lanham asked.
“Yes. Of course.”
“Well, turn it on for a while. I want our friends to know we’re here.”
They talked, fell silent, then talked some more. Finally, Lanham asked A.C. to turn off the interior light.
“You want to turn in?”
“No. I want to go to Delasante’s condo. How far is it to the south end of Hilton Head from here?”
“A mile. Maybe two.”
“Good. We’ll walk.”
“Weren’t you there before?”
“Not inside. Anyway, who knows? Maybe your lady love will be there by now.”
It took much longer than A.C. had expected, because they kept to the side of the blacktop road and leapt away from it whenever headlights approached—at one point cutting into some woods, getting their feet wet. Near the last group of buildings, there was a car parked improbably on the shoulder. They gave it wide berth.
There were floodlights on the grounds of the condominiums, especially near the parking lots, but large areas remained in shadow, or screened by trees. Lanham led A.C. to a building hard by the beach, pulling him down behind some bushes.
“Last time I was here, they had two guys in a car in the parking lot, another by the pool, and another idling around near the elevator. The guy by the pool has probably moved over by the beach or somewhere, but I don’t imagine the setup has changed much.”
“How are we supposed to get to his apartment? Just walk right up?”
“No, Mr. James. We climb. We’ll go around to the ocean side, dodge the lookout, and then use the balconies. Don’t worry. They’re almost like steps on a ladder. You just want to be careful you don’t wake anybody up.”
“I’m not sure I can do this.”
“You’ll have to. It’s our only way.”
Delasante’s condominium was on the fourth floor, in the middle of the building. They climbed the balconies on the far end, Lanham twice having to catch A.C. when he slipped, then worked their way across. In one apartment, a couple was noisily making love. In another, an older man was sitting watching television, his back to the open sliding door. He never noticed them.
Lanham had said that if Delasante’s balcony door was equipped with a horizontal jolly bar, they’d be stymied. If it was held closed only with a catch lock, he thought they might get in quickly. To their surprise, the glass door was wide open, and only the sliding screen barred their entrance. It was not latched.
The screen made a slight scraping noise when Lanham moved it. He opened it only a short distance, just enough to slip in sideways. A curtain had been drawn across. He pushed his way through gently.
They stood motionless a moment, listening. The refrigerator was humming, and there was a sound that might have been water dripping from a faucet. Another faint noise could be heard, but A.C. could not identify it. He supposed every modern habitation made such sounds in the dead of night, if you listened for them.
Lanham clicked on his penlight and made a slow sweep with it, illuminating a scene much like the one they had found on the boat—drawers removed, the carpet pulled back, upholstery slashed, pictures taken from the wall, papers scattered on the floor. The kitchen had received similar treatment, to the point of food cans being emptied into the sink and flour spread out over one of the counters. Small insects were crawling over the mess.
They back
ed out and started down a hall, stepping over clothes that had been pulled from closets and thrown on the floor. The hallway made a right-angle turn, passing the open door of a bathroom strewn with the contents of the medicine chest. At the end of the hall was the doorway to a darkened bedroom, a tangle of sheets and torn carpeting visible just beyond.
A.C. followed Lanham into the room, watching as the detective played the little light over a tumbled pile of dresser drawers at the foot of the bed. Lanham abruptly halted, as though hearing something, and then all at once the lights in the room went on.
“Well, well, well. More visitors. Only this time I’m at home to properly receive them.”
Pierre Delasante, grossly rumpled and drunk, lay on the bed, propped against the headboard like a wounded soldier left against a tree on a battlefield. He wore a creased and wrinkled beige summer suit, a sweat-soaked shirt hanging out of his pants, and a black tie pulled askew. In his left hand was a whiskey bottle; in his right, a long-barreled revolver, which was pointed waveringly at Lanham, though his bleary eyes flicked back and forth at both of them.
“I remember you,” he said to A.C. “You’re the pretty fellow Camilla met at the fashion show. You were there when Molly was killed.” His eyes moved. “And you’re the police detective who’s been such a pest. Gentleman of color, at that. Clever of you to come looking for me here. Unfortunately, everybody seems to have been that clever. I fear even Jacques has been that clever. You know who he is, don’t you? Jacques Delasante? Of course you do. That’s why you’re here. Well, take note of his calling card.”
He waved the hand with the bottle at the disorder, then fell into violent coughing, the pistol barrel shaking with each spasm. When the attack subsided, he cleared his throat painfully, then took a long drink from the bottle, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. His finger sparkled with a large ring.
“Do you know where the fair Camilla might be, sir?” he said to A.C., pushing himself up higher on the headboard.
A.C. simply stared. Delasante steadied the aim of the revolver.
“A civil question, sir. A civil answer, please.”
“No,” said A.C.
“Northern manners,” grumbled Delasante. “Did she tell you about my little retreat here? Is that how you found it?”
“This place was listed in the federal computer files,” Lanham said. “Along with all your other assets.”
“Ah, yes. My federal friends. Grateful to have ’em. Yes I am. Follow me everywhere. But I’m glad to have ’em. I expect some callers from New York, don’t you know, and I do not believe that they are going to be very well behaved.”
He laughed giddily, but more coughing was the result. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, holding the revolver crosswise over his lap.
“I only hope the federal gentlemen can recognize them. I fear they’re expecting Russians or Cubans or some damn thing. I think perhaps the FBI has the mistaken notion that I’ve engaged in spying—sold secrets, trafficked in drugs, compromised the White House. Damned stupid. Never did anything of the kind. Never broke the law. I’ve done nothing to the New York gentlemen, either. I’ve done nothing wrong, sir. Committed no crime. This is just a family matter. Just between kin.”
“Molly Wickham wasn’t kin,” said Lanham, quietly.
“Wonderful girl, Molly. Real pussycat. The African body. Magnificent, wonderful girl.” He got to his feet, wobbling slightly. “Gentlemen, let us move to the other room. I don’t plan to leave here until morning, and I don’t wish to spend the night on a bed with you two looking down at me. Just move ahead of me slowly. Move along.”
When they were in the hallway, Delasante flipped on a light switch. At the end of the hall, he pushed another. Two lamps in the living room came on.
“Seat yourselves, gentlemen,” he said. “I’ll bring glasses, and we can all have a nice, pleasant drink. At least he didn’t pour out my liquor.”
“Is it wise to have these lights on?” Lanham asked, lowering himself carefully into the slashed remnants of an armchair.
“Oh, why not?” said Delasante through the wall opening above the breakfast bar. “The federal agents know I’m here.”
He returned with three glasses and a fresh bottle. The way he was holding his gun, A.C. feared it might go off, but Delasante managed, setting his burdens down on the coffee table. Removing the cap of the bottle, he filled his own glass, then shoved the bottle to the center of the table.
“Take your pleasure, gentlemen,” he said, easing his bulk into a lounge chair and propping his moist, stockinged feet up on the table edge. “It’s going to be a long night. Sorry there is no ice. My refrigerator was emptied of everything.”
A.C. poured himself a small drink. Lanham didn’t. The detective sat with his arms folded, assessing Delasante from behind his thin-rimmed glasses, the lenses a little misty from the heat.
“Why was Molly Wickham killed, Mr. Delasante?” he asked.
“Totally unnecessary,” said Delasante. “A gesture of contempt, directed at me. A threat of future violence, also directed at me. But totally pointless. Altogether ineffective.”
“Though here you are,” A.C. said.
“Here I am, but not at all intimidated. Not a bit. I am not deterred.”
“Deterred from what? What do you want? What have you done to make Camilla and her brother hate you so much?”
“As I say, sir, a family matter. But you’re interested in family matters, aren’t you? You write a society column for one of the New York papers. Very gossipy stuff, as I recall. Well, sir, I suggest you commence reading the Charleston papers. You might encounter something interesting in the next few weeks, perhaps in the next few days.”
He began his wheezy laughter again, drowning his chortles finally in more whiskey.
“You’re in love with Camilla, aren’t you?” he continued, when he could. “Of course you are. They all fall in love with Camilla. I did, you know. Madly. But all she was ever willing to give me was trouble. She’s the devil’s own unholy work, that woman. Brings trouble to every man. To fall in love with Camilla Delasante is to curse yourself.”
“Jacques Delasante killed Molly Wickham,” said Lanham, a question uttered as a statement, asked as though the answer was to be entered into some record. “You were a witness to it.”
“Yes. Of course. I was there. I watched him do it. Extraordinary shot, that man. Extraordinary shot, extraordinary rider. Jacques Delasante would have been quite a legend, if he’d been around to fight in the War Between the States. Instead, he merely became a murderer. Jacques began killing a long time ago. He thought it would solve all the Delasante problems. So wrong, that boy. He hasn’t solved them yet.”
A.C. started to ask the man about Tawabaw Island, then thought better of it. It served no good purpose to reveal to Pierre what they knew, or were guessing at.
“Would you be willing to come back to New York?” Lanham asked. “To testify to the grand jury?”
Delasante laughed, the sound grating on A.C.’s nerves. “My business is here, sir. You find Jacques. That’s your business. You take him back. I’ll be much obliged.”
“You could be subpoenaed.”
More laughter. “I have already been subpoenaed. I have in fact been indicted. I’m to stand trial in Washington City. But I intend to be in neither place. I’m ruined, gentlemen. Jacques and you newspapermen accomplished that. But it’s I who will do the final foreclosing. I have only vengeance left. But I shall have it. You just read the Charleston papers. There’ll be something of interest to you soon enough.”
There was a sudden snap of a sound outside—a gunshot, and then another. Then shouting. Lanham pulled out his pistol. A.C. let his be. Delasante dropped his feet to the carpet and leaned forward, his eyes fearful and glassy, his mouth hanging slightly slack.
“Is it Jacques?” A.C. asked.
Delasante took a last slug of whiskey, then stood. “Sounds much too clumsy for Jacques.”
He was sweating profusely. His overblown aplomb now seemed so much affectation.
“Put down that silly little pistol,” he said to Lanham.
The detective only stared. Delasante raised his huge revolver, the sight level with Lanham’s head. A.C. realized he could do nothing, not yet.
“Put it down! On the table!”
Lanham did so.
“Now walk ahead of me. Both of you. Down the hall.”
They caught each other’s eyes. Lanham’s offered no counsel. A.C. moved ahead, with Lanham following. All Lanham had to do was reach beneath A.C.’s coat to get the .45. But he did nothing—perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of wisdom. For the maneuver to succeed, he’d have to kill Delasante, and no one wanted to do that. Delasante had all the answers. Delasante was immortal.
“My apologies, gentlemen,” he said. “I’d hoped to spend the night. Good drink. Good conversation. Sitting around the table. A very Southern evening. But now I think it best that I move on. Alone. Get into the closet.”
He pulled open the door, giving Lanham a slight shove. The closet was deep, and the shelves in the rear had been emptied. Linens and the remains of cardboard boxes were all jumbled on the floor. A. C. stumbled over them, reaching to the wall for balance. Lanham bumped up against him. They tried to turn around.
“This is the storage closet,” Delasante said. “It’s for keeping personal things out of the hands of vacation renters. The door is stout; the lock’s strong. You’ll be here for some time. Someone will find you, have no fear.”
He shut the door hard and everything went dark. They heard the lock turn.
“Nice fellow,” A.C. said.
Lanham clicked on his penlight, flicking the tiny beam to the door, then to his watch.
“We’ll give him five minutes,” he said. “You still have bullets in that thing?”
“Yes.”
“Give it to me.”
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