Authors: Julie Smith
Skip wasn’t quite sure how to answer. Finally, she shrugged. “Still working on it.”
McGuire smiled, which made her look almost friendly. “You need some manpower. Let’s give Beau to somebody else.”
That was the last thing Skip expected her to say. At first she was deeply offended: She could handle the damn case herself. But then it occurred to her that, frankly, she did need some manpower—as long as it was a help, not a hindrance.
Holding her breath, she said only one word: “Abasolo?”
McGuire nodded. “Let’s see how he feels about it.”
They called him in and asked him. “Fine,” he said, giving Skip a what-the-hell-is-this look and, afterward, they compared notes.
“Her idea,” Skip said. “She thought I needed help. I didn’t want to get stuck with O’Rourke, so I said you might do.”
Abasolo stared after the lieutenant. “She’s—uh— different.”
“Yeah, but in a good way or a bad way?”
He chewed his lip. “Might be good,” he said, staring at her some more. “Might be just fine.”
Skip thought he was speaking beyond the professional level. “She’s married,” she said.
“Her husband cheats on her.”
“What on earth makes you think that?”
He shook his head. “She’s just got that look.”
“Want to go get coffee?” Skip wanted to talk with him outside the building.
“You got something on your mind, don’t you? Sure, let’s do.”
Abasolo and Skip were happily ensconced at the Plantation Coffeehouse, well into a latte and a cappuccino, respectively, when Skip said, “Look, let’s just partner up on the whole thing. It’s all of a piece, and I think that’s what McGuire had in mind. It’s almost like—” She didn’t want to say what she thought.
“What?” Abasolo said. “It’s almost like what?”
“Like she’s a mind reader. Look, I wouldn’t want to get into it with her, because the truth is, I don’t know anything right now. But Russell sure as hell does—and I think he’s the quickest way out for us. These dudes were screwing people out of oil leases. What if one of the screwees is exacting revenge? Russell splits, but his partner gets killed. Russell’s got to know who did it.”
“Well, great. Let’s just ask him.”
“Here’s the thing. I think I know where he is. With you working the routine stuff on Beau, I can duck out and run him down.”
Abasolo leaned his lanky frame against the back of his chair. “Langdon, you never cease to amaze me.”
“He’s probably in Fort Lauderdale.”
“You’re just such a hot dog.”
She was slightly taken aback.
This must be a guy thing
, she thought.
Something to do with ego.
She shrank back. “Oh, God, AA. I never know when I’m going to offend someone. I may talk Southern, but I’m not a true Southerner. If I were, I’d never make these mistakes. Listen, you want Russell? You got him. I’ll take Beau—I’m sure McGuire could care less who does what.”
Abasolo laughed. “I don’t want Russell. I just enjoy watching you hustle your butt, that’s all.”
“You’re so damn superior.”
“Come on, run it down for me.”
“I’ve traced him to Fort Lauderdale. I think he went there to get a boat.”
“Ah. Which he no doubt sailed away, days ago.”
“Maybe not, though. Maybe it’s taking him a while to get things together. A loan to buy a boat, maybe.”
“He probably chartered it.”
“Well, anyway, I want to go down there and poke around.”
Abasolo nearly spilled his latte. “How’re you planning to break the news to the lovely lieutenant?”
“I’m going on my own time.”
“Own money, too, I suppose?”
“That’s the idea.”
“Okay, I’m finally getting your drift—you want me to cover for you while you’re gone.”
She nodded.
“Well, I have to. The lieutenant gave me Beau, remember?”
“That’s what I meant by the way she read my mind.”
“It’s possible, Langdon. It’s possible. That woman’s probably as big a hot dog as you are. So naturally she’d figure out how you wanted to play it.”
“Feeling used, AA?”
Abasolo ignored her. He had a worried look on his face.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I don’t think she’s going to make it here. She’s too straightforward. Too independent.”
“Oh, come on. I do okay.”
“Yeah, you’re their poster girl—they don’t need two. Besides, you know your place. You could take the sergeant’s exam, move up, everything’s cool. But once you got to be a lieutenant, if you still acted like you do now, they’d bust your ass just to show they could do it.”
“Who would?”
“You know who. The old boys.”
She had a sudden surge of affection for the lieutenant, suddenly saw her in a new light—as someone like herself. Someone not given to suffering fools or obeying other people’s rules. Abasolo was right—she probably wouldn’t last long.
But for the moment, she’d given Skip her freedom. She fooled around the rest of the day, trying to help Abasolo with some of the routine stuff regarding Beau, but chafing to get out of town.
Which she did early the next morning, Steve Steinman more or less good-naturedly in tow. “You know what this is costing me? Three days’ work on the house.”
“Yes, but you know what you’re trading for it? Three days of sanity.”
In the end, of course, he didn’t go to the beach while she worked. He tagged along as she took Russell’s picture to every charter place in the phone book—it was an absurd long shot, she knew, because she had to find the one person who’d waited on him. He’d disappeared on a Sunday. She figured he’d probably chartered the boat—or bought it—the next day.
Fort Lauderdale being huge in area, they spent almost all day crisscrossing Broward County, showing the picture and asking for the guy who worked Mondays—who was almost invariably off Saturdays.
By the end of the day, Skip was sure she was on a fool’s errand, and slipping into a depression. Steve, on the other hand, was poring over a restaurant guide. “Hey, Asian food. You know how much you miss that if you’re from California? Along with fresh fruits and vegetables. What do you think about sushi?”
Skip feigned gagging.
“Good. You can have tempura.”
Skip didn’t answer. She was too busy phoning guys who worked Mondays.
But in the end they did have sushi, and after that, they walked on the beach near their hotel.
The next day they hit the yacht brokers.
It was after lunch when they found the guy who sold him the boat—Gilbert Angus at Angus Yachts, sole proprietor, and from the looks of things, sole staff member. Angus was in his mid-fifties, perhaps, fit and tan, with slightly bowed legs sticking out of khaki shorts. He took one look at the picture of Russell, nodded, and said, “
On Y Va.
“
Skip was buffaloed. Angus was the last guy she could imagine saying a mantra, which was what it sounded like to her.
But Steve said, “Let’s go where?”
Angus laughed. “The name of the boat. ‘Let’s go’ in French. A Pearson thirty-eight; eighty-four.”
Gradually, they sorted it out: the boat was thirty-eight feet long, and used—an ‘84, in car terms. The man in the picture paid cash.
“Cash?” That was a shocker.
“Fifty-six thousand.”
“May we see the papers, please?”
It turned out an Edward Favret had bought the boat, giving the same Uptown New Orleans address as the real Edward Favret and using his driver’s license as identification.
“Nice guy,” Angus said. “What’s he wanted for?”
“Routine questioning.”
“All the way from New Orleans and it’s routine?” He snapped his fingers. “Hey, wait a minute. Hold it here.” He turned his back on them and started picking through a pile of newspapers on a table. “Here.” He tapped one. “This is what it’s about, isn’t it?”
It was a story on the mini-crime wave in which Beau was featured as the star victim. “It’s all here. United Oil, United Oil.” He was looking back and forth between Edward Favret’s stats and the story on Beau. “This guy killed his partner, didn’t he? I should have known. He didn’t seem like a druggie, but he had all that cash. Goddamn, I just should have known.”
After that, he was so helpful Skip couldn’t get a word in to ask a question. “You know, the guy just didn’t seem right. ‘Course, nobody who pays cash seems right. Edward Favret his real name? ‘Cause, you know, that picture on his driver’s license—I remember thinking it didn’t look much like him.” He gestured so wildly Skip was afraid she’d be hit. “But, you know, nine out of ten people—that’s the way it is—I just didn’t think.”
“Did he give a local address?”
“No, just that one. He said he didn’t have a slip yet.”
“In a marina, you mean?”
“I guess.” He thought a minute. “You can rent a mooring from someone who lives on the river or one of the canals, but that’s dicey. Must have meant a marina.”
“Wait a minute. See if you can remember the conversation exactly.”
“I just told you what it was.” Angus was suddenly testy.
“How did he happen to mention he didn’t have a slip?”
“I told you. I asked for a local address and that’s what he said.”
“Tell me about this sailboat he bought—is it something you could live on?”
“That’s what I just told you.”
“Uh-huh. And could you take it cruising?”
“Of course. That’s what it’s for.”
“But was it your impression that he intended to live on it?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
“Are there special marinas for that?”
He shrugged. “Some might be better than others. Why don’t you call around? There’s lots of them.” He swung an arm wildly. “All up and down the coast. Unless he had a friend—and it sounds like he didn’t—he probably did what I’d do.” He stopped and licked his lips, evidently thinking he had a hot tip.
“What’s that?”
“Just turn to the M’s in the Yellow Pages and call till he found a slip.”
Steve rolled his eyes.
Skip punched him gently. “Thanks. Say, I’m wondering something. Did you happen to notice what kind of car he was driving?”
Angus looked chagrined. “Nope. He walked in—don’t know where he parked.”
“Well, thanks again. We really appreciate your help.”
When they were outside, she said to Steve, “He had to have parked somewhere. I mean, he could have taken a taxi, but renting a car’s cheaper.”
“He bought the damn boat—maybe he bought a car. Naah. Probably not. He probably fired up the boat and headed for Timbuktu.”
“I don’t know. I’ve got a feeling that slip thing was—you know—a slip. You just wouldn’t think about mentioning a slip as an address unless it was.”
After that it was a piece of cake. She did exactly what Gilbert Angus suggested—looked in the Yellow Pages—and pretty quickly found the On Y Va at the Bahia Mar Marina. “Got it!”
Steve was napping on the other of the two queen beds in their small beachside hotel. His eyes snapped open. “Got what?”
“Found him. Be back in a while.” She checked her gun.
“You’re going over there alone?” He lifted his head, looking alarmed.
“Haven’t you heard? I’m a police officer.”
“I don’t know. I don’t feel great about this.”
She chuckled, giving him a wave as she left. “You’re so cute when you’re worried.”
“Just be careful.” He lay down again and waved back. He’d long since given up putting up much resistance.
The marina was bustling—it was a gorgeous Sunday, boats coming and going on innocent errands, no one, seemingly, with a thought in his head beyond a picnic or a pickup. And there was the Pearson 38, a blue sailboat floating merrily, like anyone’s weekend toy. She saw no sign it was occupied.
She didn’t quite know what to do next—how did you knock on a boat? She ended up hollering: “Mr. Favret! Mr. Favret, are you there?”
Evidently he wasn’t.
Or maybe he was. Maybe he just hadn’t heard. She climbed aboard, still shouting. There was still no answer.
She wondered if she was trespassing, concluded that she probably was, and decided not to go below. Not yet, anyway. She settled for looking in the windows of the low structure built on deck. At first she wasn’t sure what she was seeing. It looked as if Russell hadn’t been taught the word shipshape—cabinets were open and things were on the floor that she thought shouldn’t be, almost as if someone had gotten drunk and clumsy, knocked over one thing reaching for another.
Slowly it dawned on her that the place had been rather gently tossed. It wasn’t the kind of thorough going-over in which pillows are pulled off and slashed, but someone had very definitely been looking for something. Perhaps for Russell.
She went below, thinking he could be injured in there.
In fact, nobody was aboard, and since she was already far, far over the line, she hadn’t the first qualm about looking around. There was a fascinating item in plain sight. Attached to the bathroom mirror was a Post-it that read, “Passport!”
It was the sort of note she wrote to herself when she didn’t want to forget something. “P.U. cleaning” meant “pick up cleaning.” But “Cleaning!” meant “No margin for error here. Pick up cleaning or go naked.”
A passport would be a very fine thing for the pseudo-Edward Favret to have—or for someone else now in the process of being invented.
As she climbed back onto the dock, it occurred to her that this was an excellent place to disappear. She stared out to sea, out to where she knew the Caribbean was, with its hundreds of tiny cays and coves. It would be so easy to drop off the face of the earth … if you had papers. And something told her they wouldn’t be that hard to get down here.
Maybe, she thought, it would be a good idea to go introduce herself to the Fort Lauderdale police. For one thing, she might need backup later. For another, they probably knew a few forgers.
Twenty-four
OFFICER MARTINA RUDOLFO
was a dark woman with pitted skin and long curly hair that didn’t quite go with her crisp shirt and creased trousers. She probably thought the hair was her best feature.
And a little shorter, it would have been,
Skip thought.
She looked at Skip with evident curiosity. “I’ve heard of you, Langdon.”
“You’ve heard of me?”
Rudolfo nodded. “My sister lives in Louisiana—married a man who works on oil rigs. They’re always sending me clips from the New Orleans paper—about the police department. They’ve sent me two about you, with little notes saying, ‘Why can’t you do stuff like this?’ “
“They’re kidding, of course. No one in their right mind …”
Rudolfo cut her off with a laugh. “You’re right. You’re sure right about that. Now, what can I do for you?”
“Well, I’ve only got today to find this guy—the one I mentioned on the phone. And I’m wondering if he’s got a new name. Could he get papers in Fort Lauderdale?”
“Oh, sure. But my guess is, he’d go to Miami. Has he got any money?”
“He must. He paid cash for a sailboat.”
Rudolfo nodded. “There’s a couple of first-rate forgers down there, but I doubt they’ll reveal the names of their clientele.”
Skip gave her a grin. “You never know till you ask.”
Rudolfo was tapping on her desk. “Let me make a phone call.”
She called someone and spoke in Spanish. Skip was encouraged by much nodding and repetition of “si.”
Rudolfo wrote something down before she hung up. “I called a guy I know in Miami. One of these clowns isn’t too active right now. My friend thinks he left the country for some reason.” She passed the paper over. “This one’s your best bet. Real popular with high rollers. And there’s something else—my friend in Miami says she’s got a kid.”
“She?”
Rudolfo nodded. “Eleanor’s a pioneer in her field—real poster girl for equal opportunity crime. But Stefan, the kid, has been in a lot of trouble a lot of times.”
“Drugs?”
“Yeah. And here’s the good news—they’ve got him in custody right now. His mom may not know about it yet. Maybe you can use that for some kind of leverage.” She shrugged. “It’s about an hour’s drive down there. Plenty of time to dream something up.”
Skip frowned. “How do I find her?”
Rudolfo gave her directions and wished her luck.
It wasn’t far to Miami but Skip had a panicky sense of time racing by too fast. The note must have meant an appointment with the forger—today, probably. But suppose Eleanor Holser wasn’t the right forger?
I wonder,
she thought,
if I should call in sick tomorrow?
She phoned Steve but got no answer—he must have been at the beach. She left a message and started driving. It was that difficult time of day when the sun is sinking and manages to shine in your eyes no matter what you do with your visor. It occurred to Skip that it was going to be dark soon. But traffic was light and she made good time.
Holser lived in what seemed to Skip a fairly upscale, if, to her mind, decidedly tacky, part of town. Her house was some sort of split-level A-frame that managed to look like a cross between a barn and a beach house. It appeared to be built of driftwood, and if Skip had to guess, she’d have put it at late-seventies’ vintage. By now, the evening was only a hair from pitch-dark, and the forger apparently hadn’t turned on her porch lights.
There were also no lights in the front of the house, but the curtains hadn’t been drawn and from somewhere, maybe a den in back, came an orangy glow. Probably someone was watching television. Skip approached gingerly, listening a moment before planning to ring the bell.
Instead of the expected drone of television news, she heard a thump followed quickly by a kind of truncated scream—a short, staccato sound that meant sudden pain, a woman’s pain. She thought later that it was a yelp.
Quickly, she dropped to a crouch and listened more closely. It could, after all, have been the television.
The woman yelled, “Goddamn you!” and there was another thump, far too close, too immediate to be electronic. Grateful there wasn’t much light, Skip dug her gun from her handbag and crab-walked to the corner of the building. Here she straightened and ran to the back, which was glass nearly all the way across, the room, thus enclosed, perfectly illuminated by a single table lamp.
It was quite astonishing. The place was like a ruin lit for a son et lumière—so magnificently displayed a mouse couldn’t have hidden in it. As she had surmised, it was a den, low-ceilinged and lined with bookshelves that held as many tchotchkes as books. The furniture was Naugahyde, all placed for optimum viewing of a television screen so large it destroyed any pretense of proportion. On the sofa sat—or rather huddled—a woman with her hands behind her, as if tied, and in front of the woman, obscuring her partially, was a man in jeans and a black T-shirt. He held a gun loosely, by its barrel.
He’s pistol-whipping her
, Skip thought, and the woman gasped, coming to attention. She had seen Skip. The man couldn’t miss the fact that there was something outside. Skip dropped to the ground as he whirled, shooting through the glass, wildly. The glass made a horrible noise, but the shot didn’t.
Silencer
, she realized—and it had already been on the gun.
She couldn’t return fire for fear of hitting the woman, but the gunman evidently saw she had a gun. He disappeared into the other room.
Skip struggled to her feet, looking wildly around her in a moment of indecision, and then ran back around the side of the house. Gaining the front, she saw a car pulling out across the street, its lights off, no way to see its plates, or even its make. But she was pretty sure at least two people were in it.
She looked back toward the house and saw that the door was open. Thankfully, no curious neighbors lined the sidewalk.
She wished she could call for backup, but she was on her own here. Gingerly, she peeked in the house, and then, cautiously, she entered. It was quite dark, except in the back of the house.
She saw movement, low, toward the back. It was the woman who’d been on the sofa, wriggling like a snake. Her feet were tied as well as her hands. “Who the fuck are you?” she said.
“Police. Who else is here?”
“Nobody. The asshole’s gone.” She sighed, and Skip had the impression she was keeping back tears. Skip came in, shut the door behind her, and searched the house quickly. It had an odd smell to it, like new wood, though it was probably at least twenty years old.
The woman was crying when she came back. “Eleanor Holser?”
“Yes.”
Skip untied her. “I’m Skip Langdon. New Orleans Police.”
“New Orleans! Shithead Favret’s from New Orleans. I hope the fuck the river floods the Superdome.”
She rubbed her ankles and stood up. Skip saw that she was very short, scarcely over five feet, with an hourglass figure poured into a tight red dress. An odd outfit for a forger, but this was Florida.
Skip said, “Can you walk? “
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Let me help you.”
But Holser pulled away. “What the fuck do you want? “
Skip took a step away from her. “Did you see the silencer on that man’s gun? He was going to kill you, are you aware of that?”
Holser only gaped.
“I just saved your life, Ms. Holser. You mean, what do I want as a reward? Five minutes of your time—would that be too much to ask?”
Holser stared at her. “I’ve got things to do.”
Skip was getting angry. “Eleanor, you’ve got problems you don’t even know about, and I don’t mean your little cottage industry here.”
“What you talking about?”
“What you think—your kid.”
For the first time, Holser showed an emotion other than anger. Her face turned a whole-wheat color. “What you mean, my kid?”
“Get nice and I’ll tell you.”
“I don’t got to—”
“Stop being stupid, Eleanor. Make your life easier.”
Holser looked at her out of eyes like quarters—big, but glittery and hard as metal. Finally, she said, “My kid okay?”
“Why should I tell you?”
The forger let some of the belligerence go out of her stance. “Okay, all right. Tell me what you want.”
Uninvited, Skip sat on the sofa, and Holser followed suit. “For openers, who was that man and what did he want?”
“A hired thug. I don’ know who hired him.” She shrugged.
“Why do you say that?”
“He had a silencer, he wasn’t bright, and he was looking for a client of mine. Looking for Edward Favret.” She gave Skip a shrewd look. “Popular guy, Edward Favret. You want him, too?”
“You got it. Where is he?”
“I did a little job for him, he didn’t pick it up.”
“When was he supposed to?”
“Today.”
“What do you mean, today? When today?”
“Just today, okay? He said he’d come; he didn’t.”
“Don’t give me that shit. All the hired gun had to do was wait for him.”
“I told him Favret’d already been here.”
“Why’d you do that? It just about cost you your life.”
“Well, I didn’t know that, did I? I didn’t want the creep hanging around.”
“And you wanted the money—in case Favret did show up.”
“He’s not gonna show.” She looked at her watch. “I told him I was going out at seven. It’s seven-thirty now.”
“Okay, here’s what you do. You give me the papers you made for him, and when you see him, you tell him I need him.”
“Fuck, no. How’m I gonna get paid?”
“You just told me he’s not gonna show. Which is it?”
She sighed. “You got it. He ain’t gonna show. I don’t care—take the fuckin’ papers. Just tell me where my goddamn kid is.” A note of desperation had crept into her voice.
Skip had what she wanted, she gave something back. “Look, your kid’s okay. He’s in custody in Miami. I’ve got to call an officer in Fort Lauderdale—she’ll give you the particulars.”
She called Rudolfo and outlined what had happened, leaning heavily on the gun with the silencer.
“I think,” said Rudolfo, “I’d better send somebody to check on the boat.”
“I’d appreciate it.” Skip turned the officer over to the forger, and when she had collected the tools of Edward Favret’s new identity, headed back north. She stopped at a gas station, and while she was there, she gave Steve a call. “Hey. Good,” he said. “An Officer Rudolfo just called. Hung up no more than ten seconds ago.”
Wings fluttered in Skip’s stomach.
“She said to tell you the boat’s gone.”
***
The forger had said seven sharp, no earlier, no later, and Russell had arrived on the minute, this time having been allowed to drive himself to her house.
Some friends Dina had. Life with Bebe was never like this, he thought on the way down the coast. Thought it uneasily.
He still hadn’t the least idea how Dina came to know someone who wasn’t her brother and knew where to find a forger—someone who probably wasn’t a probation officer, either. But then when he thought about it, the bar where Russell met her didn’t seem out of the question. Ex-boyfriend, maybe. But the curious part was how protective the man had been—Dina was unquestionably a very unusual, very special person, one he had truly come to cherish.
He’d called her right away after her mysterious departure, to make sure they were still on track, whatever that might mean. They were, but he still didn’t know what it meant.
He thought it would be relaxing to be with a nice, if extremely busy woman who didn’t know any forgers. On the other hand, Dina was so intoxicating he didn’t know if he could live without the excitement. Not that it mattered—he was going to have to get out of the country, and he’d probably never see either Dina or Bebe again.
It was a thought that had the potential to depress him deeply, but at the moment, driving to Eleanor Holser’s, he was in a great mood, about to make the second payment on his ticket to a new life and a new world.
And that night, he and Dina were going to cook on the boat and go for a midnight sail, maybe anchor somewhere peaceful, where the water would rock them to sleep. It was Dina’s idea, and Russell couldn’t imagine Bebe agreeing to such a thing, much less suggesting it.
He had told her there might be a lot of wind, making the sail the wet, vigorous sort, and she had said, “
All right
!” It was over the phone, but in his mind’s eye he could see the playfulness in her face, the way her eyes would brighten as she thought about it.
Were women that way before you got married, even got close to them, and then they changed? It wasn’t a question the Gallup Poll was likely to tackle. Too bad, because lots of men needed to know.
He got off the expressway and threaded his way through quiet streets where every lawn was mowed, American-dream streets, the yards of which were planted with hedges of ficus, beds of hibiscus and crotons and cycads, poinciana trees and palms and fragrant ginger. Criminals had to live somewhere, he mused as he turned the corner onto Eleanor Holser’s block.
A woman as big as a biker was standing at the front door. The woman had a gun.
What the fuck was this?
He nearly drove up on the curb trying to double-check his first glance, but it was the same information the second time around. Nothing to do, he concluded, but drive on by.
It must be some kind of setup, he thought—the two women were going to kill him for his twelve-and-a-half grand.
But he couldn’t make that make sense. Holser was a forger, not a shanghai-er of sailors. Then there was the deeper problem of why the biker woman had her gun drawn outside the house. All his corporate and Uptown instincts told him to get the hell out without a backward glance, but he wasn’t about to, not without his papers. He had a lot of money invested and little time to lose.
When he had circled the block, the woman was gone. He parked down the street, as a neighbor might, or a neighbor’s guest, perhaps, got out of the car, and walked toward the forger’s house, thinking to mount a discreet investigation.
He heard the gentle clicking of a car door, and then the authoritative male voice: “Freeze or I’ll blow your head off.”
Fuck. The law. The woman must be a cop and this guy was her partner—he hadn’t even noticed another occupied vehicle.