They found a small playground a block away. From the northern edge of the park, Thorn could see the front gates of the Sampson estate, and he could also monitor the one road leading past the guard house off the island to the causeway.
The playground had two teeter-totters and a curved slide and a swing set. No one seemed to use the park except a couple of black poodles whose owner, a white-haired woman in a Madras golf skirt and a garish red top, came around suppertime and steered her dogs to the deep sand beneath the swing set where they deposited their delicacies. Normally Thorn might've made a joke about the lady, her dogs, the size of their turds, something to force a chuckle out of Sugarman. But he didn't feel much like conversation. Breathing was labor enough.
On the Rolls' TV, they watched the evening news. Brandy Wong's interview with Morton Sampson, her worldwide exclusive. Morton giving his own sanitized version of the frightful events on the
Eclipse.
He reduced the body count by five and Brandy didn't contradict him. Morton said he considered Dale Jenkins' untimely death a national tragedy. Under Brandy's rapid-fire questions, Morton was brave and appropriately angry and humble. He swore he would do whatever he could to assist the FBI in their investigation. This was an appalling act, a terrorist attack on one of America's finest family-owned companies, and it only went to show that no one was safe anywhere these days. If you couldn't go away on a cruise ship vacation and expect absolute safety, then where could you go?
"When I die," Sugarman said, "I damn well want my death to be timely."
Sugarman used the car phone to call the Coast Guard office downtown. It was after hours, but everyone was still working. He asked to speak to the lead investigator on the
Eclipse
case. When the person came on the line, Sugarman deepened his voice, sped up his delivery, and gave his name as one of their fishing friends from Key Largo, saying he was a field agent with the FBI and was doing an ancillary background check on this Mr. Butler Jack. Did they perhaps have Mr. Jack's Coast Guard service record available?
Sugarman covered the receiver.
"She's going to check," he said.
"Ancillary?" Thorn said.
Sugarman shrugged. "A good vocabulary opens doors."
"So they say."
Sugarman ducked his head and focused on the voice in his ear.
"Yes, good," he said. "What I need to know, Lizzie, did Mr. Jack receive any kind of flight training while he served with the Coast Guard?"
Sugarman made some noises in his throat, nodded, and told Lizzie she'd been a great help and he hoped she had a wonderful turkey day. He hung up the phone and crossed his arms over his chest and sat back in the seat.
"Well? Did he?"
"No, he didn't," Sugar said. "He didn't need the Coast Guard's help. He entered the service with a goddamn pilot's license already. For most of the two years he was with them, he flew a Bell Jet Ranger chopper, plucking refugees out of the Gulf Stream."
"Good."
"Good but insufficient," Sugarman said.
Sugar went through long-distance information, tracked down the number to the New York office of
Lola Live.
He asked to speak to a woman called Kyra, had to bullshit a couple of people on the way, using his FBI alias again, but finally he got her home number.
He spoke to Kyra like they were old pals. Been through the wars. Apparently she was thrilled with the surge in the program's ratings. Even though they'd had to cancel the rest of the week's shows, they expected next Monday, when Lola returned to the air, to be their all-time best day. Sugarman repeating it for Thorn's benefit.
"So, Kyra. Reason I called was to ask you about the chopper pilot for the show. Yeah, yeah, the helicopter pilot. Danny Bond, yeah, that's right. You heard anything from old Danny?"
Thorn could hear Kyra's voice peeping from the headpiece. Sugar registered it all impassively, thanked her immensely for her help and hoped he'd see her next time he ventured up to the Shiny Red Apple. Sugar cradled the phone, turned to Thorn, smiled seriously, and said, "Voila."
"The
Lola Live
chopper pilot is nowhere to be found," Thorn said.
"Exactly. The last anybody saw him, Danny was racing off to the airport to fly the money out to the
Eclipse
."
"And the chopper?"
"Landed late last night in Miami, down the road from here at Chalk's Field. So they think Danny flew his mission, landed in Miami, went off on a bender or something."
"Bet me. A week or two from now, old Danny boy will come washing up onto the beach in Nassau. Spine here, jawbone there."
Sugar nodded. He stared out at the teeter-totters.
They slept in shifts; the front seat of the Rolls was every bit as comfortable as Thorn's bed at home. When he woke in the half-light Wednesday morning, the poodle lady was back. In her housecoat this time, once more guiding her dogs to the sandy pit below the swings.
Thorn had been Sugarman's friend for almost four decades, but in all those years, he'd never known what a great tolerance Sugar had for radio. He could listen to it all day. News and talk shows. By nine that morning he'd settled on a station with a hate-mongering host who insulted his callers, most of whom seemed to have no idea they were being mocked. All morning they listened to endless dissections of the Dolphins' upcoming game and hours of blather about the never-ending invasion of Cubans and Canadians and Haitians and all the other English-deficient idiots. The irritating guy was interrupted only by news, weather, and sports every fifteen minutes. By noon Thorn was so caught up on national events, politics and wars, the NFL, the Hollywood scene, the most recent twists in the latest national murder trial, he wouldn't need to check in again for another five years.
From the security guard, they got the name of an Italian restaurant that delivered. Ate subs with big kosher dills. When it grew dark, Thorn drove past the estate, and they saw lights on throughout the house. On another pass they caught Morton standing on a balcony holding a phone to his ear, staring out at the glittering water. Later they saw Lola walk out to the front gate to retrieve yesterday's newspaper.
"They're hunkered down in there."
"Their own little five-million-dollar bunker."
At eight they had a pizza delivered to their car, extra Cokes, extra ice. Thorn started to feel the chauffeur's suit pinching at his waist. They took turns using the meticulously clean men's room on the north perimeter of the playground. That night they stayed awake in shifts. Though Thorn had little interest in sleep. Sugarman turned the radio low, tuned to the syndicated preachers and the political philosophers who spewed their gibberish to insomniacs nationwide.
Thursday was the same. Thorn doing some stretches and leg lifts and sit-ups in the grass beside the car. Lying out in the sun, as stiff and empty as a month-old corpse. Both of them took sponge baths in the men's room using the rough brown paper towels and pink squirt soap. The weather was in the sixties, the sky clear. A steady breeze rattled the royal palms that lined the main thoroughfare. People in the neighborhood came and went, scrupulously ignoring the Rolls parked beside the playground. The Sampsons stayed at home.
On the radio news there was no further mention of the
Eclipse
and her troubles. Dale Jenkins was laid to rest in Evansville, Indiana. Most of the stars of the American media made the ceremony. Notably absent were Lola and Morton Sampson. But the really big story was the upcoming game. The local university football team was to play its upstate rival on Saturday afternoon. Fans calling in on both sides to say loathsome things about the other team, the other city.
The poodles came and went.
Early on Friday morning, a convoy of catering trucks passed by and were admitted to the Sampson estate. A while later Thorn took a stroll down that way and watched the crews erecting long tables and a canopied field kitchen. Just after noon, cars began to arrive by the dozen. Old Fords and Chevies and pickups and vans parked up and down the street outside the Sampson estate. Thorn walked down to the guard house and asked the young man what was going on.
It was Fiesta's annual employee picnic. A last-minute switch, according to the cop. The company vice president had been scheduled to host the event because the
Eclipse
was supposed to be at sea, but Morton apparently thought it important to put on his best public face. Run the show himself. In fact, the guard said, even Wally Bergson was attending. Did he know Wally Bergson?
"What? Do I look like I live on the moon?" Thorn said.
Later on that Saturday afternoon, Thorn drove the Rolls by Sampson's front gates. Out on the wide lawn the dozen long tables were covered with food. Frisbees were flying, a couple of kites fluttered high over the bay. Kids and parents lounging around in the sun. On the center of every table were large ice sculptures melting on silver trays.
"This isn't getting us anywhere," Thorn said. "Maybe we should just crash the party, take Morton and Lola for a ride somewhere, have a serious talk."
"Relax, this is a stakeout. This is what happens. Nothing."
"Maybe we got this all wrong. You ever think about that?"
"Every minute for the last three days."
"They aren't that stupid. They aren't going to get in their red Jaguars, drive off and meet him somewhere. It won't happen like that. This is a waste."
Thorn drove back to the park and found some shade under a black olive tree. Sugarman let his seat back, closed his eyes. He heaved out a major groan.
"Now what's wrong?"
"I'm just disappointed. I guess I was hoping Lola was the bad guy."
"She is."
"Yeah, but I wanted it to be her alone. It would feel better."
"You mean you could hate her better."
Sugarman was silent.
"But we know Sampson's in on it," Thorn said. "We saw him look in the footlocker, pretend there was money in there. By then the money's already flying back to the U.S., but he's acting like it's sitting out on the Sun Deck. Acting for our benefit, I might add. And all that bullshit about not wanting outside help, that was part of the blueprint. If we'd had a couple of electronics wizards on board, somebody smarter than Murphy, they would've found the autopilot, ripped it out, the whole thing's over in a second. Even the way he dealt with Gavini. His little compromise to stop in Nassau. He knew that was where everything would begin. It wasn't any compromise."
"I don't know, Thorn. I'm beginning to get doubts."
"You see something I don't?"
"We know Fiesta's in trouble. Sampson told me that much. Cash flow problems. But if he wanted fifty million dollars, why the hell wouldn't he just sell the damn company, cash out, walk away? You heard that radio report, Wally was offering him somewhere around fifty as it was. Papers all drawn up, ready to go. Sampson could've taken that money and gone. He didn't need to pull a stunt like that. All those risks, people getting killed, all that."
"Maybe he wanted fifty-eight times two."
"Times two? How's that work?"
"Insurance," Thorn said.
"What? You think he took out extortion insurance?"
"There's umbrella policies."
Sugarman sat up, turned down the radio. This morning Thorn had finally talked him into a jazz station. He'd heard so much radio chatter and recycled news it'd probably cut his IQ in half.
"He steals the fifty-eight from himself," Sugar said. "Then gets reimbursed?"
Thorn rolled down his window. The breeze off the bay was scented w7ith roast turkey. The happy cries of children at play came floating down from Sampson's.
"He doubles his money. Gets the fifty-eight from Wally. Right away, it's stolen in a big-time terrorist assault. Lola is hurt. Dale Jenkins is murdered. The ship is hijacked by some kind of remote-control autopilot bullshit. All very high profile, makes the number-one slot on the evening news, all that.
"The insurance people don't even need to send an investigator out to look things over. Everything's been on TV already. Everybody in America knows all the details. The insurance people fork out the fifty-eight. They want to keep Fiesta's business. Hell, they're going to get to raise premiums big time now with all this mess. So now he's got a hundred and sixteen million. That ought to be enough to retire on, or start a new company if that's what he wants. A year from now he turns to Wally and sells him the rest of his shares. That should cushion his old age."
"Then why the
Juggernaut?
What's that all about?"
"It could be for the exposure," Thorn said, "make sure the TV people had it all. If there's a big splash, Sampson's and Lola's lives at risk, nobody's going to be suspicious of them."
"I don't buy it. They could've died out there. All of us could have."
Thorn watched a small snowy egret pecking in the sand below the swings.
"Gotta be a double-cross," Sugar said. "Butler takes the money and runs. Leaves them behind to die. They think the autopilot's going to shut down, but he's programmed it to keep going."
"Then all this is a waste, sitting out here. There isn't going to be any meeting. Butler disappears with his cash. Story's over."
Sugar leaned forward, thrust his head through the sliding partition. "Unless Butler still wants them dead. And that's why they're hunkered down in there, because they're afraid."
"We thwarted his plan," said Thorn, "turning the
Eclipse
like that. Gave him some unfinished business."
"We should lay all this out for the cops," Sugar said. "This lone-wolf bullshit, I don't like it. We can't protect them."
"Look, it's still the same thing. If there's a chance in hell of finding Monica, then Sampson has to be walking around, free to move, contact Butler, get his money. Even if it's the other way, and Sampson's a target, then we have to stay put, keep him in sight. We find Butler, we find Monica."