Salt River Page 8

  “What’s your name?” I asked. “Your real name?”

  The man said, “Give me twenty minutes to explain. It’ll be the smartest investment you ever made in your life.”

  I hung up the phone.

  * * *

  —

  Tomlinson’s sailboat, No Más, isn’t large by blue-water standards but sizable for a brackish area like Dinkin’s Bay. It has a twelve-foot beam, weighs nine tons, and requires a substantial depth to keep its keel off the bottom.

  Watching No Más beat its way upwind, mainsail and jib hunting from port to starboard, was entertaining. It was a zigzag battle that Delia, at the helm, finally won after a long reach that skated the boat clear of shoals at the mouth of Dinkin’s Bay. Tomlinson was a shirtless stick figure in the distance, his hair wild in the late sunlight. The yellow dinghy tethered off the stern resembled a miniature comet’s tail.

  Leo Alomar—he insisted that was his name—asked, “Doesn’t the fool have a motor?”

  We had moved outside to deck chairs, leaving recording devices—phones, pads, and computers—behind by mutual agreement. The transition had provided me time to throw a towel over the acetylene torch and other gold-rendering tools in the lab.

  “He has one, but she doesn’t need it,” I said.

  The man either didn’t hear or missed the significance of the pronouns, for he wondered aloud about Delia, “How could a woman so young afford such a boat? Must be loaded, huh?”

  I said, “All you need now is an informant to provide her name. Is that how this works? I make a call, you tear that girl’s private life apart, and, with luck, we split the profits? I don’t see much difference between people like you and treasure hunters.”

  Alomar, despite the relentless tapping of his foot, wasn’t offended. “How so?”

  “You both keep throwing darts at a map until you strike gold—usually at the expense of people who don’t know a damn thing about what you do. Or how you do it.”

  From my chair, I could see the marina docks. Figgy was near the boat ramp, lobbing a baseball with a college-aged kid, probably here on vacation. Jeth was outfitting a family of four with kayaks and life jackets. The go-fast Scarab I’d seen yesterday had just refueled and was idling out in the channel, engine burbling like a dragster.

  I got to my feet, stood there for a moment, then walked to the railing. At the wheel of the Scarab was a huge man, a sun hoodie over his head. No one else aboard, just him, unless a passenger or two were inside the cabin. Other details vanished when the boat rocketed toward the mouth of the bay where No Más, now tacking to port, was still visible.

  “Are you ignoring me, Dr. Ford, or are you going to keep playing dumb?”

  Alomar, I realized, had asked me something. I continued to watch until the Scarab exited the bay and turned right, the opposite direction of No Más.

  “You’ve got fifteen of your twenty minutes left,” I said, returning to my chair. “Jimmy Jones . . . I recognize the name, but who doesn’t? The guy made headlines a few years back.”

  Fingers drummed the arm of the teak chair in sync with Alomar’s tapping foot. “Look, Ford, I know you were one of the last people to see Jimmy’s ex before she disappeared. Lydia Johnson—skinny little mouse of a woman. I’ve got security cam video of you together at the mailboat dock in the Bahamas. That’s the last time she was seen, somewhere between Cat Island and Nassau. Why not just drop the act?”

  It was hot, an hour before sunset, but there was a breeze. Alomar was a heavy sweater. His chambray shirt was soaked. I added this detail to his nervous tapping and wondered what kind of drug he was hooked on—oxycodone, a prime contender.

  I said, “Now you’re accusing me of murder?”

  “I don’t investigate homicides.” He said this as if he were giving me a pass or didn’t care one way or another. “Two Christmases ago, an associate interviewed Jimmy—before that con used his head as a piñata, of course. From the beginning, Lydia was the key to this whole thing. She knew where Jimmy stashed what he stole from his investors—three tons of gold ingots and coins off the SS Panama.” He fixed me with a hard look. “Minus, of course, whatever you took. I’m guessing you chose coins over ingots—the historical value makes them worth more. Like I said, you’re smart.”

  Leo Alomar was confident that he had my attention. “It’s all in my briefcase, if you want to see it. We’ve got all kinds of ways of flagging illegal income. That boat show you went to in St. Pete? The big yacht dealers? We set up autonomous card readers at the gate. Nobody has a clue. A guy like you walks in and starts shopping for a million-dollar boat, the system immediately harvests your chip cards and electronics. If income and credit don’t mesh with the price of the boat, your data is linked to a tracking system. That’s how you were flagged. There’s something else odd about you, Ford.”

  “Hopefully, more than just a few things,” I replied.

  “A comedian,” he said. “What I realized is, there are no pictures of you on the internet. As in zero. That’s not the sort of thing that happens accidentally—another red flag.” He gave it a dramatic beat. “So far, I’m the only one who’s made the connection between you, Lydia, and the Bahamas. See what I mean about already being in ass-deep? No one else has figured it out—yet. That’s why I wanted to keep this a private discussion.”

  I had noted his nervous involuntary tweaks and twitches, but had already made up my mind about Alomar on a visceral level. We all do it in the blink of an eye—assess strangers as potential friends or foes or as meaningless passersby. Intellectually, of course, we then select data to support our first instincts. To do otherwise would be to admit that, at base level, we are nothing but primates with an inflated sense of ethics.

  I consulted my watch. “You never did answer my question about Glynco. Is the firearms course there as tough as they say?”

  The man’s face colored. Hands tightened on the arms of his chair. “What the hell does that . . .” He sat forward. “Are you too stupid to see what I’m getting at?”

  “Apparently,” I said. “Alomar, you’ve got five minutes left to help me understand.”

  “I’m the only one who knows,” he repeated, “about what you and Jimmy’s ex found in the Bahamas. And here’s the good news—I don’t give a damn about how much you took. Keep it, maybe even take a percentage if we partner up. Is that plain enough for you?”

  “Partners in crime, huh?” I said.

  He misinterpreted my musing tone. “There you go—and call me Leo from now on, okay? See, there’s no such thing as crime in the tax racket. Just criminals dumb enough to get caught. And we won’t. But here’s the deal . . .” He leaned closer. “First, you have to tell me where it is. I want GPS numbers and two weeks to check it out on my own. Be straight with me, this whole IRS mess will go away. What do you think?”

  He extended his hand to close the deal. I stared until he lowered his arm. “I don’t doubt you worked for Jimmy Jones or maybe even the Treasury Department at some time in the past. What happened? Get caught pulling a stunt like this? I’m careful about who I do business with . . . Leo.”

  “What’s it matter as long as I have the right contacts and know what I know?”

  Again, he extended his hand. I ignored it.

  “One more question,” I said. “Did you plant a GPS transponder on my truck?”

  It threw him. “Huh?”

  I repeated the question.

  “Good god, no. You kidding?”

  Leo, for once, was telling the truth. “How much gold did you say that guy Jones stole?” I asked.

  “Wait,” he said. “What the hell are you talking about? A GPS on your . . . This happened recently?”

  “Three million dollars’ worth?” I asked, getting to my feet. “Or was it three tons in gold ingots? Either way, that’s the kind of money that could get a man killed.”

&
nbsp; Leo had a mean streak. He got up. We stood eye to eye. “Hey, hold on here a second, Ford. Are you threatening me?”

  I backed away a step. To him, a minor concession. For me, a way to create enough space to move. “Think about it,” I said. “Someone planted that transponder on my truck. If it wasn’t you, that means you’re not the only one who’s wrong about my involvement in all this.” He still didn’t get it. “Leo, whoever it is, if they suspect me, they already know about you. How else could they have found me?” I waited for a light to blink on in his head before asking, “Who are your confidential informants?”

  He murmured, “Sonuvabitch. One of them planted the GPS, you think?”

  “There you go,” I replied. “You need to watch your ass, Leo.”

  SEVEN

  Nautical twilight is the term astronomers use to describe the pearly purple time between dusk and nightfall. The sky turns to indigo and stars pierce the last lemon glow of sunset.

  That’s when I began to worry about Tomlinson and Delia. It was nearly 9. No Más had yet to return.

  On the wall near the phone hangs a VHF marine radio. White coaxial leads to an antenna mounted high atop the cistern of my old fish house. When conditions are right, the signal carries line of sight for twenty miles, occasionally more. Typically, Tomlinson turns off his cell phone but continues to monitor VHF channels 68 or 72.

  I hailed him at 9. No response. I tried again half an hour later. Same thing. By then, it was dark. A copper moon, three days before full, drifted low over the black mangrove fringe of Dinkin’s Bay.

  From the kitchen, Hannah Smith reminded me, “Marion, he’s a grown man, for heaven sakes. Leave them alone.” I knew what was coming next and it didn’t take long. “Or are you more worried about his daughter? Delia, you said? She’s very fond of you, from the way you two hugged, but, either way, I’m fine with it. Our agreement, I mean. But . . . Well, I’m not going to say what’s obvious.”

  Isn’t she awfully young? is what my sometimes lover had been too tactful to ask. Good. I took perverse pleasure in this subtle display of jealousy. Our “agreement” not to continue what had been an exclusive relationship was all Hannah’s idea. Caused, although she would not admit it, by her suspicions that my occasional need to drop everything and disappear for weeks at a time signaled illegal commerce of some type. Or, perhaps, there was another woman—or women—sequestered away somewhere, which, in her mind, might explain the lies I had to invent to explain those disappearances. Hannah was one of the rare ones—a man’s woman in every way. The drawback was that she understood—or thought she did—the innate duplicity of men.

  I had cooked dinner, so she was tidying up. Camp rules. I’d made Caribbean fish stew. It is an exotic name for a simple recipe. Marinade a prime grouper or snapper fillet in chicken bouillon, grated ginger, sea salt, and thyme. Sear the fillets in oil that is smoky hot, then simmer in the bullion rue. Add fresh onion, tomatoes, a sliced green pepper, a jalapeño or three, and, on this occasion, lots and lots of garlic. Fried plantains and rice had been our side dish. Chilled mangoes from nearby Pine Island had provided dessert.

  Hannah is a tall, busty woman, narrow-hipped, with shoulders that allow her to wear men’s shirts, no problem. Tonight, though, she had changed into light cotton slacks and a frilly green blouse that showed a hint of cleavage—a tasteful amount, of course, suitable for her second date with a man I had yet to meet and didn’t, by god, want to.

  I tried to turn the tables by asking, “Why are you going out so late? Not that it’s any of my business.”

  “You have every right to know what time I’ll be back to collect Izaak,” she responded. “There’s a special Mass at St. Isabel’s, then we’ll probably stop for ice cream. Is midnight okay?”

  Collect? This was an unusual choice of verbs for a woman who was Old Florida, a devout Christian who spoke with a drawl. People from the South carry or pick up. They do not collect. Who the hell was she dating, a vacationing Brit whose itinerary included a fling with one of the locals?

  Male territorialism is another primate-based taboo. It must be smuggled beneath a camouflage of reason. “I’m not an expert,” I said, “but I thought Christmas was the only time they held Midnight Mass. Sort of strange, when you think about it—and on a Wednesday. How well do you know this guy?”

  “Marion?” She came toward me, a dish towel in her hands, her expression maddeningly soft with empathy. Affection, too, I had no doubt. “I’m not going to fight. We’re going to be fine, you and me. And Izaak is going to grow up proud of us both—especially his brilliant daddy. You’ve got to trust my judgment. Both of us, for now, we need our personal space. A peaceful time. Okay?”

  Space. Geezus, what a dumb, nebulous term for what constitutes strict emotional boundaries.

  “Just like we agreed,” I said agreeably. “Even so, it can’t hurt to check the schedule of events at St. Isabel’s. Or maybe you already did. You know”—I let her see I was giving the subject careful thought—“I’d almost bet that I’m right about that Midnight Mass only at Christmas thing. The guy you’re seeing, it could be he’s, well . . . more interested in ice cream than going to church.”

  Hannah’s look of concern provided a depth of caring that was undeserved, considering what I’d just insinuated.

  “It’s a special Mass,” she said, “for the victims of what’s been going on. Catholics, I’m not sure how many churches—dioceses, I think they’re called—they’ve been asked to hold prayer vigils tonight.”

  Hannah was Baptist, not Catholic, but I was done behaving like a jerk. “Then I’m sure it’s okay,” I said. A moment later, though, I had to ask, “What victims? I haven’t been following the news because . . . well, I’ve been away on business.”

  Fifteen days I had been gone in Guyana. She had been furious at me in her quiet way for disappearing without notice but had let it go.

  “Day before yesterday,” she said, “two people were killed when a bomb went off at a clinic in Miami—one of the suburbs, I think. There’s been several attacks, I don’t know how many dead.”

  I zeroed in. “You’re taking about abortion clinics, right?”

  Hannah had been following the story. “No, a different kind—fertility clinics, some call them. You know, for couples who can’t get pregnant? They’re holding a special Mass because, in Atlanta, a man broke in after hours and attacked three employees with an axe. One survived long enough to say the guy was dressed sort of like a priest—but with a hood.”

  She grimaced, internalizing the horror. “Just awful to think about. There’s no proof he’s a priest, but you know how the news is these days. The Catholic Church is being blamed for the actions of one crazy person. So that’s why I—my friend and I—we want to attended services at St. Isabel’s tonight.”

  She stepped closer, her manner serious. “Doc, please try to understand. I know that people make fun of people like us—Christians, I mean. I’m used to it. And don’t care, because I really believe there’s power in attending services. In Christ—or whatever religion you are—especially when people pray as a group.” She hesitated. “One day I hope you come to know the peace it can give you, Marion. To at least open your mind . . . It would mean a lot to me.”

  People like us—Hannah had included the man she was meeting, but had yet to use his name. Fine. And I was too damn stubborn to ask.

  So what can you do when your stomach knots with a primal response that borders on pain? You refocus and escape to the starboard side of the brain. It is a large and linear space, a hemisphere not shackled to emotion.

  I asked, “Did the survivor provide any more details? You said one crazy person. Are the cops sure it’s not a group of some type?”

  I was thinking about the man who had introduced himself as Deville.

  This was not what Hannah had hoped to hear. Disappointment registered, then resignation. Her express
ion told me You’ll never change.

  “I’m more concerned with the poor folks who’ve suffered,” she said. “But tonight, if you want, I’ll find out what I can.” Then, with a sly look, she offered to make peace in a way that was irresistible. She cupped a hand to her mouth, sniffed, then grinned. “Garlic—you troublemaker you. And don’t pretend it was an accident you added three times more than what that fish stew needed. Lord knows, He broke the mold when He made you.”

  The knot was gone, displaced by the clarity of a new objective. I laughed, and reached for the mother of my son, saying, “Look, just be careful, okay?” and gave her a tender kiss on the forehead.

  When she was gone, I went to the computer. By 10 p.m. I knew what little there was to know about three fertility clinic attacks—Charlotte, Atlanta, and Miami. Two were Mensal Cryonics franchises. The third was owned by an entity called Preferred Cryobank International. All provided a full catalog of options, from artificial insemination via unknown donors to in vitro fertilization.

  In vitro, from the Latin vitrum, meaning a shell that could be pierced—I had to look it up. This was a more complicated process. It required follicle aspiration, an outpatient procedure. Next, multiple eggs were fertilized in a lab. A few days later, the live embryos were transferred into the client’s uterus via a catheter tube and a syringe. In both protocols, the female was first given fertility medication to increase the number of eggs she produced during ovulation.

  My notions of romance and sex went out the window. But these options had made tens of thousands of infertile couples very happy.

  Not all involved agreed, however. A manifesto posted by one or more of the attackers condemned the clinics as “creationist orphanages” that marketed test tube babies to the highest bidder, indifferent to the child’s “true destiny in a future or past life.”

  The exact wording. Geezus, how could reading this nonsense not bring Tomlinson’s situation to mind?