Black Widow Page 8

  “You’re a quick study.”

  “Really? Then why did it take me so long to figure out that I’ve wasted the last two years of my life?” The woman checked her watch. “I don’t suppose you’re hungry?”

  I had spoken to Beryl Woodward maybe a dozen times since Shay finished her master’s degree. She’d struck me as a one-dimensional mall diva. Too much money, a daddy’s-girl ego, and too attractive for life ever to require that she risk an encounter with reality.

  Not now. But Beryl had never invited me to breakfast before.

  She’d told Elliot she would call from work, so I asked, “Isn’t your boss expecting you?”

  “I manage the spa at Naples-on-the-Bay Racquet Club. I’m the boss—which means I work twelve to fourteen hours a day. I’ll write myself a note.”

  Ten minutes later, we were drinking coffee at First Watch on U.S. 41, six lanes of asphalt jammed with commuters hurrying into this new summer day.

  8

  VANCE HAD USED Merlin Starkey’s letter as a torch . . . Starkey’s letter along with unopened bills, and the envelope containing my lab results.

  I found the remains on the kitchen floor a couple of minutes after walking into the house, hurrying to clean up the mess before my 10 a.m. meeting.

  The front of the envelope was the color of burned toast, my name and address unreadable. The back had flamed through. Hold a match to tissue paper, results would be similar.

  I opened the envelope to find out how much of the letter had survived. The paper began to crumble. A flake came off in my hand, and I saw the date. It was written in pen by Starkey.

  I tried again, even though I knew it shouldn’t be rushed. A larger flake broke off. I read, “Howdy, Marion. If you’re reading this, I reckon it means I’m dead, which is a disappointment to me, being outlived by the kin of that snake Tucker Gatrell . ..”

  The paper that remained was as delicate as ash. Was there a process to restore stationery after it had burned? Had to be. Somewhere at a museum, or some forensics lab, there was an expert who knew how to do it. Now was not the time to experiment.

  9:35 a.m.

  I had twenty-five minutes to clean up Varigono’s mess, finish a ream of unfinished paperwork, shower, and change. The place stunk of kerosene and smoke, and I hadn’t even touched the lab yet—which was okay, because I’d left it in pretty good shape. But the house was a disaster.

  Impossible.

  Well . . . maybe the team flying in from D.C. would be late—the weather had been terrible up there, stormy and cold even though it was June.

  No, they were early.

  I was placing the letter inside a Ziploc bag when I heard a decisive ding-ding-ding. Then a woman’s voice called, “Dr. Marion Ford? Do we have the right place?”

  I went out to the deck, pulling the wooden door closed behind me. I would usher them straight to the lab, and spare myself explaining why someone had tried to torch my house. Two men and a woman stood near the brass ship’s bell, looking up from the lower platform. Efficient, professional, humorless. Exactly what I’d expected.

  My new employer was one of the best-known U.S. intelligence agencies. The organization recruited heavily from the Ivy Leagues. These three had the look. They’d put in their time, had moved up the corporate ladder, and they were dressed for business. Briefcases and suits. I was wearing khaki shorts and a blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled to my forearms.

  I was buttoning one of the sleeves as I called, “Welcome to Sanibel. Ready to de-ice?” I smiled, trying to set the tone for what awaited them.

  Pointless to try. I had no idea . . .

  AS I HELD the screen door open, the woman, whose name was Margaret Holderness, stepped into the lab, then stopped, forcing the two men behind her to stop.

  “My God,” I heard her say, “is that a cadaver?”

  What?

  I slipped past them and took a look. Tomlinson was lying on the steel dissecting table, eyes closed, hands folded on his chest, wearing nothing but one of his idiotic sarongs. Black silk with red-and-yellow surfboards. No underwear, as usual—obvious.

  I told the woman, “It’s not a cadaver, but he’d make a good one,” attempting the same nervous smile, which she didn’t notice because it was impossible to look anywhere but at the dissecting table.

  I crossed the room, calling, “Tomlinson? Hey! Time to wake up,” which was overly generous. The man was passed out, not asleep judging from the empty rum bottle at his elbow. Nicaraguan rum, Flor de Caña.

  As I removed the bottle, I said, “At least he has good taste. If you ever get a chance, try this rum. Really excellent,” playing it cool like this sort of thing happened all the time here in the subtropics, so why not relax, enjoy it?

  “Tomlinson . . . Tomlinson.” He stirred when I shook him, then sat up, wide-eyed as if he didn’t know where he was—which he didn’t. It took a few seconds.

  “Doc?” His eyes found the Flor de Caña bottle as he focused. “Ummm . . . looks like I caught the red-eye to Rummyville, huh? Demon sugar cane. Yep—” He smacked his lips; made a face. “—Awwg. Molasses mouth. What time is it?”

  “Time for you to be going.”

  “Huh?”

  “Time to be going now.”

  “Okay. Okay!” He swung his feet to the floor, yawning, rubbing his face. “I would’ve bunked in your house, but the place smells like fucking kerosene, man. Whew. So if you don’t want me sleeping in the lab, maybe consider hiring a cleaning lady, because there are other places I can—” He stopped, aware I had visitors. His eyes studied the three people wearing suits before he said to me, “Are you buying insurance? Or getting sued?”

  I said, “These are clients. I’m showing them around the lab. We’re going to discuss new projects—if you don’t mind.”

  I could tell he hadn’t heard about Shay or Corey, because he slipped seamlessly into his Harmless Hippie persona. He nodded to my supervisors, adding a friendly salute. “You folks are in for a treat. Don’t let this guy’s nerdy side fool you. Get a few drinks in him, he actually has a sense of humor—”

  I dug my fingers into his elbow to shut him up. “Too bad you can’t stick around—” I glanced at his sarong, then looked away fast. “— but you’re in a hurry to get to your boat. Right?”

  Confused, Tomlinson studied the sarong until he understood. “Geezus,” he whispered. “Piss hard-on. Always happens when you need it least.”

  I looked at the ceiling . . . looked at my shoes . . . looked at the window as he took a moment to regroup.

  Finally, Tomlinson said, “Yes . . . well! I’m damn lucky you folks showed up when you did. Just in the nick of time, apparently, so thanks from both of us. Excuse me while I step outside and write my name on the Saltwater Hall of Fame . . .” He winced. “Or I could hit the head at a public facility. Yes . . . that might be the prudent thing to do under the circumstances.”

  I used the elbow to give Tomlinson a push toward the door. Feet slapping, he walked barefooted across the room, smiling at Holderness, no rush, apologizing but not really embarrassed, saying, “Sorry . . . sorry. But, hey—what are ya gonna do?”

  The woman waited until he was gone to ask, “Does that person work for you?”

  Her tone said she disapproved, but her expression suggested she was interested.

  “No, he’s a colleague—a social scientist. Hard to believe, I know. Harvard doctorate, and he’s published some brilliant stuff. But he’s . . . eccentric.” I didn’t bother with the nervous smile.

  One of the men tried to help out. “I was stationed in Malaysia, then at the embassy in Singapore, so I’ve seen it myself. After a year or two in the tropics, even the best-educated professionals change. The Brits have a term for it—gone Borneo? Something like that. Life slows down; details don’t matter so much.”

  Ms. Holderness—my ranking supervisor, I realized—regained her composure by returning to task. “Well, let’s hope it’s not contagious. Details are very imp
ortant. So are contractual obligations—isn’t that right, Dr. Ford?”

  She placed her briefcase on the desk and opened it. “Shall we begin, gentlemen?”

  TWO HOURS LATER, I watched from the deck as Holderness and the men filed down the boardwalk, into the mangroves toward the road. When they were gone, I returned to the lab, carrying the folder containing my job-performance evaluation. I hurried for a reason. There was a lot to do.

  I needed sleep, needed to work out, but I also had less than seven days to get to Saint Arc, track down the blackmailer, and persuade him that it was unwise to target Shay and friends. I had to book a flight, get my gear ready, and telephone old contacts. I’d told Tomlinson the truth: I wasn’t sure if I could still count on past resources to help.

  Time to find out.

  As I entered the lab, I folded my performance evaluation, then spun it Frisbee-like toward the trash basket, playing a Walter Mitty game— Make this, I’ll have nothing but good luck.

  The thing caromed off the rim onto the floor. I retrieved the papers, then slammed them it into the basket—a flash of anger that was out of character. But I’d just gutted my way through a morning of bureaucratic bullshit. Venting was okay.

  Personnel Attitude and Task Efficiency Evaluation. PATEE. A ridiculous acronym. But I’d asked for it. I’d signed their damn contract. Now I felt like a hawk who was being pecked to death by hens.

  Ford ... you fool, you silly fool. Why the hell weren’t you satisfied with what you had?

  It is a question that all risk takers ask themselves sooner or later. Dumbasses, however, ask the same question, so the association was not uplifting.

  Me, the dumbass.

  The agency’s PATEE packet contained standardized questions: Does subject respond positively to criticism? Is subject team-oriented? Does subject maintain a safe, efficient work space?

  As expected, I had not received high marks. But there was no way in hell I was going to review the thing as the gang from D.C. had advised me to do.

  Why bother? I read to learn, not to be instructed. Furthermore, it was written in a foreign language. The language was Biz-Speak, a form of oral semaphore. Instead of signal flags, it substitutes phrases that register on the brain as symbols, not words.

  Biz-Speak is useful in a culture that seeks standardization because it spares members the need to think as individuals. Biz-Speak also minimizes the risk of offending fellow members individually—imperative in a corporate world where political correctness has become a tool. Companies are easier to manage when “group” or “department” is the smallest unit of measure, not a person.

  I’d just finished a two-hour immersion course. Holderness had used Biz-Speak to relay her dissatisfaction without once looking me in the eye, or saying a single true thing.

  My “core competencies” were “below the curve,” which suggested I might benefit from a personal “repurposing,” or perhaps an “offline skills transfer.” But that would require increased “face time” and “boots-on-the-ground” attention from Ms. Holderness herself.

  When she told me that, I smiled. Yes, the woman had fallen for Tomlinson’s carefree hippie act. She was creating a reason to return to Sanibel.

  Her underlings wrote notes. I did, too. They approved of my conscientiousness and let me know it—but only because they didn’t see what I was writing.

  Bottom line ... on the radar . . . try it on ... at the end of day . . . empowerment,multitasking, warm-and-fuzzies, synergistic . . . ping (to explore), the Ten-KPerspective (overview), deep-dive (verb—to explore a problem in depth).

  Despite my poor evaluation, Holderness backpedaled when I suggested we terminate our contract.

  “Don’t be overly sensitive, Dr. Ford. Your actual work product is superb.”

  I replied, “Well then, that’s the bottom line, isn’t it?” moving to the door to show them out.

  End of meeting.

  FROM MY OFFICE DESK, I called and got an update on Corey Varigono. Her condition had been changed from critical condition to serious but stable. She was going to make it.

  Shay sounded better, too, although we didn’t talk long. Tomlinson had paid her a visit. Now Ransom was with her—stopped on her way to town. My cousin has an earthy stability, and a no-bullshit approach to life. It was good they were together, and I was tempted to ask Ransom to let Tomlinson ravage Seattle on his own for a few days. But Shay was going to be okay, and Ransom would be back in time for the rehearsal dinner Friday night.

  After I hung up, I turned my attention to the cell phone and derringer I’d taken from Vance Varigono. For the first time, I took a close look.

  The derringer wasn’t a lighter. It was a stainless steel over-and-under that opened like a double-barreled shotgun. He’d loaded the thing with .38 caliber hollow-points—man-stoppers engineered for maximum damage. The quasi soldier-of-fortune types buy them at gun shows.

  Damn.

  Varigono could have killed me if he’d pulled the trigger. A small entry hole but a grapefruit-sized exit wound. It made my stomach knot to replay the encounter, but I did it, taking note of mistakes that I didn’t want to repeat. I’d underestimated him, then played it way too close. The steroid freak had a big mouth but shaky hands. Surprising the gun hadn’t discharged accidentally. Hollow-points are indifferent. They would have displaced the same amount of flesh.

  I removed the cartridges, pushed the gun aside, and opened his phone.

  Vance had been in a talkative mood between the hours of 1 a.m. and 3 a.m. I checked the recent calls menu and saw that he’d dialed eight different numbers, including Michael and Elliot, whose names were logged on speed dial. There was also a number I knew well. Mine. He’d tried several times—probably confirming I wasn’t home.

  The calls were local except for an international number with the prefix 4-1-0. I checked the computer: Switzerland.

  The time log indicated that Vance had gotten nothing but voice recorders until he tried Beryl’s fiancé. Someone had answered, presumably Elliot, but the conversation was brief, only three minutes.

  It explained how Elliot knew what he knew. Michael Jonquil, too. But three minutes wasn’t enough time for Vance to go into detail about what he’d found on his wife’s computer.

  Would he tell them the rest? Of course. I’d scared him, but Vance was a type, and his type recovered fast. If the cops found him, though, it might be a couple of days before Vance had free time to spend with his fraternity brothers. Detectives would question him about Corey’s bruises and her overdose. How would he explain where he was between the hours of 3 a.m. and 5 a.m.? He couldn’t use me as an alibi, so he would lie. Good cops always know. Could be that Vance was sitting in jail right now, nursing his dislocated elbow.

  I toggled back a few days into the call log and found the four-digit code he used to retrieve voice mail. I called and used it.

  All messages erased.

  From my office-supply cabinet, I selected a fresh spiral notebook, reporter-sized. I can tally the number of trips I’ve taken by the number of similar notebooks stacked in my file drawers, or hidden away. Each trip gets its own, no matter how sparse the notes.

  I retuned to the desk and wrote Medusa on the cover. Medusa is the free-swimming, predatory phase of animals in the phylum cnidarians. Medusa—the rare jellyfish found off Saint Arc. Research would be my excuse for returning to the island.

  I sat for a few minutes making notes about yesterday’s trip to Saint Arc. After leaving the Bank of Aruba, I had followed the blackmailer’s bagman to a bar called the Green Turtle, then to a parking lot where he got into a Fiat. I had noted the license-plate number on a business card. I found the card, copied the number into the notebook, then flipped to a back page where I copied numbers from Vance’s phone.

  When I was done, I thought for a moment, then slipped the phone into my pocket, power on. It might be interesting to monitor the man’s calls.

  Vance had come way too close to killing me not to pay att
ention.

  9

  GEAR FOR MY TRIP to Saint Arc was on the bed: two semiautomatic pistols, ammunition, a dive knife, Rocket fins, two masks, a compact spear gun, black watch cap, military face paint, handheld VHF radio with built-in GPS, two false passports, a satellite phone, Triad flashlight, infrared Golight, an envelope containing $10,000 in euros . . .

  I had the hidden floor locker open. The collection grew as I moved between the bedroom, the lab, and my boat.

  My boat . . . that’s what I needed. Saint Arc was only a few miles from Saint Lucia. I wanted to book a room on Saint Lucia and use a boat to slip on and off Saint Arc. It would be cleaner that way. But I didn’t want to rent some tourist junker from an island marina. You can’t check a twenty-one-foot Maverick at the luggage counter, and I was going to have a tough-enough time getting firearms on a commercial airliner, then past the Saint Arc customs officers. They weren’t well-trained, they weren’t methodical, but they weren’t idiots, either.

  Weapons and a decent boat . . .

  I have operated in parts of the world where I had neither, but it was rare. I could usually rely on my contacts to provide equipment. I needed their help now. So why was I putting off making the calls?

  From the fireproof box, I took a weathered address book. Blue cover; alphabet tabs broken off. Most entries in pencil—pencil because it can be erased, but also because ink bleeds if soaked in a jungle storm.

  As I leafed through the pages, I found my attention wandering to the videocassette, which I’d placed on the bed while packing. I had already checked it for serial numbers and identifying marks—nothing to distinguish it from millions of other Panasonic DVD tapes. But now, when I looked at it, Beryl Woodward came into my head. Her face, the auburn hair, her aloofness and heat. Her voice, too.

  Especially after seeing some of the clips from that tape—my God. I would’ve watched. I’d pretended like I hadn’t, but I would’ve watched from beginning to end.

  I could hear her saying it, words clipped by wealth and the careful genetics of her caste. The inflection when she said, I would’ve watched. The stage innocence of her inflection on my God.