I’d met the woman years ago when Dewey was still her live-in lover and partner. They would break up, then make up. Happened three times. Between each split, I’d played the role of understudy-pal, and, sometimes, lover.
This time, though, with a child coming, I’d thought Bzantovski was out of the picture.
The phone was still muffled. I heard Dewey say something, then Bets say something, not angry but emotional—the dominant partner—before Dewey said to me, “Okay. You’re right. It’s not like it’s a big deal or anything. She’s here. So what?”
“Tell her I said hello.”
Silence. I waited, seeing Bets in my mind: a woman with tendons and muscles; long arms and longer legs; brown hair brushed back like some old rock singer; lean, European face with dark, aggressive eyes beneath heavy brows.
“Dewey. Are you still there?”
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Last Sunday, I
tried
to tell you. She was doing a clinic in Chicago; called from New York and said she might drop by to say hello. A last-minute deal. But you never gave me the chance.”
I cleared my throat, putting some space between my anger and my intellect. I fought the urge to point out we’d talked several times during the week. She’d had plenty of chances to tell me any damn thing she wanted. That included informing me that her old lover was going to drive a couple hundred miles, Chicago to eastern Iowa, so they could stay together on her isolated farm.
Instead, I said gently, “Good. I’m glad you’re not alone. During the holidays, it’s important for old friends to be together.”
“Are you sure, Doc? I’ve been worried.” Finally, a hint of warmth.
I felt like crawling through the phone. Felt like slamming my fist against the wall—something I’ve never done, never will. I told her, “I’m sure. Winter in Iowa, for Christ’s sake.” I heard myself laugh. “You need company.”
Silence.
“Will she be staying long?”
“I’m not sure. We haven’t talked about it.”
“Sounds like she’ll still be there when I arrive.”
“Stop it! How’m I supposed to know what her schedule is?”
Infuriating.
More silence. Spaced between barrier islands and winter cornfields, satellite towers created a hollow echo.
“Dew ... ? How’s the baby?”
“She’s fine. She’s happy here.”
“She?”
“My last appointment, I decided to ask so we can get the room decorated. A little girl.”
We.
“Doctor says she should arrive right on time.”
“Punctual, huh? She gets that from me.”
Dewey released a subtle, concessional breath. The sound of nostalgia. “I can’t argue that one.”
“If Tomlinson’s surgery goes okay, I could be there Monday, Wednesday at the latest. That’s three days before Christmas—if you still want me to come.”
She thought about it before saying slowly, “I’ve met some friends here. A nurse and an EMT. A couple. They’re taking us pheasant hunting Wednesday. They’ve got the shotguns, a dog. I’m kind of excited”—I again heard Bzantovski’s voice in the background, quickly muffled—“so Wednesday’s not good.”
I said, “You with a shotgun, blasting birds out of the sky. That’s hard to picture.”
Dewey’s tone became severe. “That’s because you don’t know anything about guns, Doc. I knew you’d be pissy if I told you. But my friends have lots of experience. With them, it’s safe.”
I could hardly trust myself to speak. “I’d like to meet them. Maybe they can give me a pointer or two. On shooting.”
“Maybe. If they have time, but they’re kinda fussy about their guns.” Another long pause. “If you still want to fly up, sure. After Wednesday, come if you want. There’s plenty of room. If ... you don’t mind dealing with the snow. And being so far from the ocean.”
Plenty of room? The meaning of that seemed evident.
My phone was beeping—another call. I overcame the perverse urge to hang up; end it with some quick, cutting remark. A couple of years back, Dewey had surprised Bzantovski at a Madrid hotel. Charmed a key from the desk clerk and walked in to find the Romanian in bed with one of the young stars on the circuit, a French girl named Wengo.
A couple of parting shots flashed through my mind: You and Bets will always have Paris. Plus, how many other
European
capitals?
Instead, I said, “I guess this isn’t a good time to talk. Maybe tomorrow’ll be better. If that’s okay.”
“Sure, Doc. If you want.”
I tried to catch the other call but too late.
I checked the number. It was Jason Reynolds.
He’d left a voice message. I listened to it as I returned to the waiting room.
The cops couldn’t find Frieda’s phone, he said. Maybe I should return to the canal and help the search ...
I looked at my watch: 7:23 P.M. I pictured crime scene lights mounted on tripods; water recovery jocks in wet suits, arms locked, wading a search grid.
If what Reynolds had said was true—which I doubted.
I’d find out soon enough.
28
serpiente
An hour after she had pushed Dr. Frieda Matthews into the path of the SUV rental, Dasha padlocked the door of the storage garage, then removed the surgical gloves she was wearing.
Aleski’s cousin, Broz, had been waiting for them when they arrived. He’d raised his eyebrows when he saw the SUV’s bumper and windshield. Said in Russian, “What a fat cow you must have hit!”
A clever joke for that slow-witted fool.
Broz was driving one of the numbered Tropicane trucks, which infuriated Dasha, though she said nothing.
Sloppy. Unprofessional. He’s even stupider than Aleski!
Amazing that he’d learned to operate a plane.
The time would come, she suspected, when she would have to kill them both. With Broz, she would make it last. If he wasn’t so damn ugly, maybe even find a way to get some pleasure out of it.
Aleski, though, he’d die quickly, painlessly. The man was her partner, after all. A fellow professional. He deserved respect.
It would happen. Maybe sooner than later.
Dasha had reviewed her mental checklist: wiped the rental vehicle clean of prints, dumped a bottle of Clorox over the interior and exterior. Used Clorox-soaked towels to clog the garage’s vents and airspaces.
Vultures sitting outside a storage garage invite attention. The car would soon begin to stink.
Dasha had decided the woman’s body was too badly damaged to load into the back of the SUV. It would’ve been too time-consuming, searching through the weeds next to the canal, collecting all that needed to be collected. What a mess. A car, she decided, was an interesting way of killing, but not a good way, because it was impossible to manipulate the crime scene afterward.
Unprofessional, like Broz.
Should’ve used the hypodermic loaded with Versed. To hell with Aleski and his recreational games.
Still ... Dasha had to admit to herself that her last moments with Frieda Matthews had been stimulating in an unexpected way. She replayed it in her mind, as she slid in behind the wheel of the Tropicane vehicle, started the engine, and accelerated away....
She could see herself helping the confused woman to her feet after she had tumbled at speed from the back of the SUV. Knew from an Army medic’s course that Matthews had compound fractures, right femur, right wrist, nearly one side of her body skinned raw, blouse torn off.
Sickening if you weren’t hardened to that sort of thing. In shock. A concussion, too.
“What’s happening?
Help
me. Will you help me?” Adults in shock sometimes revert to the speech patterns of childhood.
“Of course. Put your arm over my shoulder. We will take you to hospital.”
... Then the two of them, waiting in weeds at the side of the road where Aleski had dropped them—a straight-away where she could see vehicles approaching from a mile in either direction. Matthews babbling, and crying about some child she missed so badly, starting to feel pain for the first time, the adrenaline mask fading.
Supporting the woman’s body, Dasha had let her hands explore around. Done it unthinkingly, at first, then with specific interest, finding Matthews to be bustier than she looked, skin soft to the touch, her abdomen firm, silky. A woman who used clothes to cover herself, not reveal.
It was arousing, Dasha had to admit it. Standing, holding the warmth of damaged flesh, aware of another human’s absolute vulnerability, hands cupping a woman’s breasts for the first time in her life, Dasha watched the SUV bearing down on them, Aleski going way too fast because he was furious.
Frieda Matthews had nearly gouged out the man’s right eye; used her teeth to mangle his ear. Aleski was bleeding from the groin—he wouldn’t explain why.
Another middle-aged woman who refused to be humiliated by life, by a man, by anything.
In that instant, Dasha had felt something resembling fondness for Matthews. Pulled her closer, watching the SUV growing huge as it flew toward them, wanting to time it right and cause this strong woman the least amount of pain. Touched her lips tenderly to Frieda’s cheek ... then pushed her away gently—a steering sort of push—and watched Matthews wobble groggily out onto the road.
The woman’s back was to the vehicle when it hit her. An explosion touched Dasha’s own cheek as a vaporous sprinkle. Warm, like soft rain.
The Russian dabbed at the moisture with fingertips. Red.
Yes, fondness. That’s what Dasha had felt. Arousal, too.
Both unexpected.
She wondered if she’d get the chance to experience those confusing feelings again one day.
Mr. Earl was waiting for them at the Tropicane Ranch. Sat on the porch of the plush, two-story minimansion that was reserved for major stockholders and dignitaries, but used almost exclusively by the tall Lincoln-looking man with the big white teeth.
Mr. Earl the Black Pearl was king shit around the Tropicane staff. Most didn’t know Mr. Sweet existed.
Mr. Earl was showing his teeth now, a huge smile. He was dressed very stylishly in a white linen suit, with a white cane and panama strawhat within easy reach, as Dasha approached carrying the laptop computer in both hands, like an offering.
“Is it Applebee’s?”
Ten feet away, Dasha could smell the lavender lotion he used. Saw that his red bow tie was crooked—which might mean Mr. Earl was already a little drunk. He drank
mojitos
in public, vodka in private.
“This is his computer. But you told me not to open it, that you wanted to get the first look. So I can’t confirm it.”
Mr. Earl stood, took the computer as he fitted spectacles on his nose—the lenses were dime-sized.
“Go! Get food, drink, go for a swim, whatever you want.” The man was excited. He might have been accepting gold, not a laptop. “I’ll meet you here later for cocktails. Eightish is cool.”
Dasha had hoped to fly back to the island that night with Aleski and Broz, but she answered, “As you wish.”
At her staff apartment, Dasha shaved her legs. Chose white satin slacks, no underwear, a gauzy blue blouse, no bra, just in case the tall man wanted something special in trade for closing the deal. Her read, though she had nothing to prove it: Mr. Earl dressed like a homosexual but wasn’t. Not full-time, anyway.
Disgusting, if he insisted, but necessary.
That was Dasha’s impression. The two of them were about to agree on a way of leveraging Mr. Sweet. Wealthy people sometimes have accidents; disappear—there’s nothing suspicious about that if their assets are undisturbed. Creating an independent cash flow after a wealthy person vanishes, though, required unusual opportunity, plus planning.
She had her theory about how Stokes hoped to profit from introducing exotic parasites into Florida. Mr. Earl maybe knew. Or had a theory of his own.
An important meeting. It required giving thought to appropriate dress.
When Dasha returned to the little mansion, minus Aleski and his idiot cousin, she got a surprise. Mr. Earl was no longer smiling. He was on the porch, pacing beneath the yellow light, smoking a cigarette in an ivory holder.
Mr. Sweet didn’t allow tobacco on his islands. Smoking was a Florida indulgence.
“The good news?” Mr. Earl told her before she got seated, even before asking her if she wanted a drink. “You got the right computer. There’s no doubt about who the software’s licensed to. I also checked the applications system, and you told me the truth. You didn’t take a secret little peek at his files. Like I would have bet you would.”
Dasha stood comfortably, pleased with her own professionalism, but curious about where he was going with this. She hadn’t opened the computer because she’d guessed the man had a way to check. He was shrewd, always a step ahead of everyone. The first time she’d realized for certain how smart Mr. Earl was was the first time Dasha suspected she might have an ally. Someone to help her displace Mr. Sweet.
“The bad news?” Mr. Earl’s tone was a mix of irritation and amusement. “The bad news is, that lil’ fool who went and hung himself, wasn’t a retard like our boss man claims. Applebee was a damn genius, far as I can tell. Let’s go sit inside, have a look at the computer. I’ll show you what I’m saying.”
There was only one folder on the computer’s desktop. Labeled EPOC/TROPICANE.
Mr. Earl said, “Watch this.” He opened the folder. One by one, he opened the files within.
“Numbers,” he said. “The little man didn’t write with letters. He wrote with numbers. Jesus Christ, it had to take him forever to learn how to write this way. His own language.”
During intelligence training evolutions in the Russian Army, Dasha had gone through a three-week school on encryption and secret writing. It had mostly dealt with computers, how to hide and recover data.