Night Moves (20 page)

“If I’d thought a clause about screwing around was necessary, I wouldn’t have gotten married,” Cressa cut in, then surprised me by taking the disc from my hand. I watched her grimace, struggling to bend the thing until it broke—
CRACK!
—then she sealed the subject, saying, “There. Like it never happened,” and handed me the pieces. “Can we please change the subject? I’ve had a terrible night.”

I was thinking,
Any second, Tomlinson
will be here,
as the woman stood and told me, “All I want to do is pretend like it’s a month from now. That I’m here to relax and behave like a normal woman. Like I haven’t wasted ten years of my life in a platonic marriage—or should I feel guilty about that, too?”

I shrugged, meaning
Whatever you say
, which gave her permission, apparently, to unbuckle the trench coat and remove it one slow arm at a time. “It’s warm in here, but I love fires.” Cressa held the coat out for me to take. “Where should I hang this?”

Eye contact: rainforest eyes still glistening, but nothing broken behind those two sharp lenses, and curious about how I would react. It was because of what she wore beneath the coat: a pale lemon chemise that hung to her thighs, spaghetti straps that allowed her body to move cleanly beneath the satin sheen.

“I went running out of the house,” she explained while I turned toward the hat rack. “I was lying there in bed listening to all the sounds, then suddenly just panicked. Threw a few things in a bag and ran. You know how that happens sometimes?”

“It’s important to feel safe,” I agreed as I hung the coat, then immediately headed to the galley to check the window again.

“Don’t get the wrong idea about the nightgown.”

“Why would I?” I replied.

“I’m an emotional wreck, so it’s not the way it might look to your neighbors—but no one saw me.”

“It happens,” I said.

She used the handkerchief to wipe something invisible off a chair, then sat at the table. “I knew you’d understand. I hate Tomlinson’s damn little wet boat . . . Plus, I feel safer with you.” Cressa hesitated, then decided to risk asking, “You’re supposed to be the dangerous one, right?” In her tone was fascination.

Outside, I heard the clank of a plastic paddle, then a wet little rubber boat went
THUMP!
against the house.

“Who could that be?” I said, breaking the beam of the dog’s eyes. When I got to the door, I added, “Geezus . . . you’re not going to believe this.”

The woman stood. “Oh, no . . . you’ve got to be kidding!
Doc?
” The married mistress’s voice could also command, so I turned. “Let me ask you something.
Honestly.
Are you afraid to be alone with me?”

I focused on her almost Grace Kelly face and answered, “Yes . . . yes, I am.” Which was true—but not in the same way that Hannah Smith scared me.

“You shouldn’t be!”

“It’s a rule I have about breaking up marriages. I try not to rationalize what I personally wouldn’t tolerate.”

The woman was miffed. “But you’re wrong. Rob and I, our marriage is so
over—
Tomlinson understands that, and we’re still friends.”

Opening the door, I replied, “Tomlinson is a more spiritually advanced person than me. He’ll be up here in a second—just ask him.”

16

THE NEXT MORNING, I AWOKE BEFORE SUNRISE IN A
hammock I’d brought back from Nicaragua and strung between two hooks outside on my porch. It’s a double-wide, woven from fine heavy cotton in a mountain village where hammocks are made for sleeping, not decoration. Plenty of room and lift for two, but I awoke alone.

I threw off a blanket and sat up. Dew was heavy, dripping off the tin roof, the morning gray and still in the silver predawn light. But not too early for a boat to be idling down the channel toward my house. One of the fishing guides, I guessed, who’d spent the night aground. Or had fallen into the Budweiser trap at ’Tween Waters or Temptation Bar on Boca Grande. The boat was returning, not leaving, that was obvious, so I untangled myself from the hammock, found my glasses, and went to the railing to have a look.

It wasn’t Jeth, or Neville, or any of the other guides. The boat was a twenty-one-foot flats skiff, a custom-built Maverick with an oversized outboard. Even through fogged glasses, I had no trouble recognizing the lines because the skiff had been mine up until a few months ago when I’d sold it. Standing at the wheel, wearing a dark foul-weather jacket, black hair spilling from beneath a visor, was the new owner—a fishing guide . . .
Hannah Smith
.

Yep, it was Hannah . . . no mistaking those long legs, the lazy country-girl way she moved, or the angularity of her face. Coming to pay me a visit, apparently.

I was wearing running shorts, nothing else, so I walked back to the hammock to get my clothes, wondering,
Why the hell didn’t she call?
You don’t just drop in at a friend’s house before sunrise on a Tuesday morning. I hadn’t heard a word from Hannah since our phone conversation, so the thought that something was wrong crossed my mind. Privately, though, I was pleased that her hardheaded ego had been softened by a sudden need to see me.

My shirt was dew-sopped, so I was wearing only jeans when I returned to the railing and motioned Hannah toward my dock. She replied with a vague salute, then focused on the marina, which, I soon realized, was her way of communicating her actual destination. Not just the marina basin, either. I stood there feeling dumb, then confused as I watched her swing the Maverick expertly toward A-Dock and throttle into reverse when she was abeam the swim platform of the largest vessel. It was the Lamberti,
SEDUCI
in gold letters on the stern.

What the hell was she doing?

It was a question soon answered when a smiling Vargas Diemer, the Brazilian thief and hit man, appeared in the cabin doorway. He waved and called, “
Es
precisely timed, captain! I have tied several new flies for today!” Sound carries over water, the man’s words and accent—
Pre-zicely timed cap-a-tan!
—were clear.

Un-damn-believable.
Diemer, the jet-set assassin, had booked Hannah as his fishing guide! No other way to explain it. And nothing I could do but stand there feeling even dumber as I watched him duck into the cabin, then exit carrying a fly rod case and an equipment bag, which he handed down to Hannah, who was waiting on eager tiptoes.

The man—Alberto Sabino, I had to remind myself—looked ready for a day of gentleman’s sport: loose pleated khaki slacks and a long-sleeved shirt that would have looked baggy on any guy who didn’t move with the same prissy, catlike grace. I watched as Diemer and Hannah shook hands, standing eye to eye. Then the man stepped aboard, saying what sounded like, “I have
un
nice
char-DON-ay
on ice . . . and
sand-weeches
for our lunch.”

I couldn’t hear Hannah’s reply over the noise of the engine as my former skiff pirouetted smartly, then started for the channel, the bow of the skiff—and Hannah Smith’s eyes—pointed directly at my stilthouse.

That’s when, from behind, the voice of another woman intruded, asking, “My god, what are you doing up so early? Your whole house shakes when you walk. I thought we were having an earthquake.”

I said, “Huh?” too dazed to grasp a situation that was deteriorating fast. Crescent Arturo had slipped up beside me, a beach towel around her shoulders for warmth but wearing nothing else but sandals and her pale lemon chemise.

Cressa said, “Like in a dream, you know? A bad dream about earthquakes.” Then she yawned, “You didn’t happen to start coffee, did you?”

“Go back inside,” I said, but kept my voice down. “And put some clothes on.”

“Well, excuse me all to hell,” the woman shot back in a way that guaranteed she wasn’t budging.

I remained focused on Hannah, watching as her expression showed surprise, then tightened and became grim. Shaking my head, smiling and holding my hands up to declare innocence didn’t help. Hannah only turned away and said to the jet-set assassin, “Pay no attention to those two on the stilthouse, Mr. Sabino. Most folks on the islands wear clothes and they’re sober by sunrise—but that’s for God to judge, not me.”

Diemer, who had his nose buried in his equipment bag, was confused for a moment but figured it out when he looked up. Even with a towel around her shoulders, Cressa Arturo’s physical assets were obvious, and the Brazilian’s eyes latched onto her body, a feral expression on his face. “Ahhh . . . yes, I see. Perhaps you can introduce me to that lady sometime.
Es
possible?”

Hannah, the fishing guide, knew damn well sound carries over water, but it didn’t stop her from replying in a sturdy voice, “
Her?
I wouldn’t advise it. That woman’s married and she’s already rich—not that it seems to matter much.”

Cressa stepped to the railing and asked, “Hey . . . is that bitch talking about me?”

Hannah put her hand on the throttle and warned, “Hang on, Mr. Sabino, those fish aren’t going to hook themselves.” Hannah gunned the engine, and my custom-built skiff launched itself onto a bay that was a gray mirror, mangroves to the west now golden with the light of a new day.

The towel dropped from Cressa’s shoulders while she gripped the railing and watched the boat. “That oversized Amazon
was
talking about me. What a catty bitch she is!” But then saw the look I was giving her and amended, “Although I suppose she could have gotten the wrong idea. Are you sure you two aren’t more than jogging buddies?”

I took a breath and let it out slowly, my eyes still on the skiff, watching a silver rooster tail appear behind the engine as Hannah jumped the sandbar off Green Point, no need to run the channel because she knew the water so well.

From inside the house, I heard Tomlinson call, “Who wants coffee? We’ve only got two beers left!”

The screen door opened, banged shut, and I heard the claw clatter of a dog trotting toward us. When the retriever came around the corner, he sat and made the grunting sound, his request to go ashore.

“That horrible dog,” Cressa said. “I’m going to have to wash all my clothes when I get back.”

I turned and signaled the dog—
Heel—
as I replied, “When Tomlinson comes out, tell him we’re not leaving for the Everglades today. I’ll be in the mangroves if he wants an explanation.”

—

I
TRIED
H
ANNAH’S CELL
and left a message: “When you cool down, give me a call. It’s important.”

When I hung up, I thought,
Bonehead. Too dramatic—how are you going to explain yourself?
But then thought,
A Brazilian killer shows up at Dinkin’s Bay and hires my running partner? Not likely.

I was standing at the edge of the mangroves, waiting for the dog to finish, when Tomlinson appeared on the walkway. He wore a towel knotted around his boney hips, yawning while he rubbed a fist at his eye like some six-year-old who’s miffed about his missing Cheerios. When he was close enough, he cupped his hands and hissed, “What the hell did you say to make her so mad?” then motioned toward the porch.

“If you want to talk, get your feet wet,” I replied, which motivated him to drop down off the boardwalk and wade the sand perimeter. When he was closer, I told him, “We’ll go to the Bone Field tomorrow or Thursday. Something came up.”

“Tell me about it!” Tomlinson replied, which apparently meant something from the way he glared at the house before facing the bushes, then parted the towel. “A long piss on a cool morning has put a smile on more than one man’s face—but this one won’t be easy. Not after the night I had.”

Down the shoreline, my eyes found a pod of nervous water to inspect; behind me, the dog was breaking mangrove branches with his weight, or maybe his teeth, while Tomlinson added, “Medusa has nothing on Crescent Arturo, by god.”

A blue-hued fin breached the water’s surface—a fish rooting for crabs in the shallows. I watched a second tail fin appear, then a third, before I suggested, “Pretend you’re in an airplane. Maybe it’ll help.”

“
Hey
 . . . that’s cruel, man.”

“Just an idea.”

“I’m trying to relax. Priapism is no laughing matter—check the medical journals.”

I said, “There’s a school of redfish over here.”

Tomlinson lifted his head. “Cool.”

“Feeding in a foot of water. Nice-sized, too. I’m tempted to get a fly rod.”

“Fish for breakfast, that would brighten up my day. Fried in a slick of peanut oil. Or poached in coconut water and lime. I’ve got fresh grapefruits on the boat—” After a long pause, Tomlinson made a victorious
Awww
sound, then continued. “And some nice mild jalapeños with a cold beer. I doubt if she’ll stay and eat, but we should at least ask.”

“Nope,” I said.

“You seem undecided.”

“I’m not.”

Now there were a dozen blue-hued tails teeter-tottering in the shallows, each dotted with one or more eyespots that, over eons, had evolved to flummox predators by mimicking a two-headed fish. I watched for what seemed like minutes before I heard Tomlinson sigh, “
That’s
better,” then return to the subject of the married mistress as he joined me at the edge of the mangroves.

“I think it’s okay to push our no-talk rule about women by saying it’s not easy to sleep in the same bed with the Crescent Arturos of the world—not if she won’t even let you spoon in a friendly sort of way.”

I said, “I’m surprised.”

“That was
after
I promised to keep my hands out of the goodie basket. True . . . I did try to sneak across the foul lines a few times, but it was strictly reflexive behavior. Like a guitar—Jimi Hendrix picks up a guitar, his fingers automatically go for the strings, right?”

I said, “You wouldn’t believe that, why should she?”

“No, but I’d be willing to pretend just to keep the peace. Or, you know, help a treasured friend deal with an obvious problem—it’s a matter of hydraulics, for christ’s sake, not morality. You’re the scientist.”