Night Moves (26 page)

Yes, Diemer knew. He gestured in a way that said
I’m listening
while he removed his wire glasses and cleaned them.

“I’m a biologist, you fly for Swissair. Fine. Doesn’t really matter what we do for a living, but traveling is easier—and a hell of a lot safer—if a person has trusted assets scattered around. That’s what I have to trade—information when and if I can help you out. A month from now, five years from now, all you have to do is call.”

Diemer misinterpreted the offer—intentionally, I guessed. “Intelligence,” he said carefully. “Information provided by contacts from the National Security Agency? I’m confused about what you are asking in return.”

“No,” I said. “Just me. If you’re in a jam, I’ll give you a name or a contact number that might be helpful. I have nothing whatsoever to do with government agencies. Let’s make that clear.”

“Of course,” the Brazilian replied, said it the way it is always said by people in the black ops business. “And what do you want from me?”

I told him, “The man we’re talking about—the guy who offered me ten thousand dollars, then just threatened to kill me?—he’s Cressa’s brother-in-law. I don’t doubt he’s actually interested in Flight 19. Even a novice producer like him, a piece on those missing planes might sell to a cable network. Maybe even get him a deal for a guy’s adventure series. He owes his father a lot of money, apparently, but he’s also mentally unstable—a head injury puts him in and out of institutions. Two days before he made his offer is when my two friends and I were almost killed.”

Say something like that to most people, they will ooh and ahhh, then press for the gruesome details. Not Diemer. He tilted his head as if to declare neutrality, then responded, “An experienced man would handle the matter himself.”

“Do what, invite him outside to fight?” I said. “
Don’t piss in your own pond
—it’s a saying we have. If I did something about this, I’d have to leave the country. That’s why I need an outsider with the right skills to help.”

The Brazilian gave me an indignant look. “If you’re asking me to . . .
eliminate
your threat, the idea is stupid.” He spread his hands to indicate my lab, the stilthouse, everything I owned, and explained, “You couldn’t afford the minimum price that”—he caught himself—“that people say such work requires. From an expert technician, not some ‘Yo, dude’
viciado
, a drug addict from a ghetto.”

The man, getting impatient, sat back in his chair. “This is a dangerous subject. Even to discuss such a thing is . . . well, here, you like old sayings?
Pull the trigger, and you can never stop the bullet.
Understand my meaning? Go to the police, Dr. Ford, that’s my advice. I can’t help you.”

When I replied, “That’s exactly what I plan to do,” I watched his impatience transition into curiosity. “Tonight,” I added. “I want to scare the brother-in-law off this island before someone really gets hurt. To make it happen, I need evidence the guy is making illegal videos of Cressa while she’s with male visitors. She’s been protecting the guy, so it’s better if she doesn’t know what’s up. This is a wealthy little town, and the local cops don’t tolerate the blackmailer types. Approach them in the right way, with the right evidence, there’s a chance they’ll run the guy off without arresting him. Everything nice and quiet and my problem’s solved.”

“He actually is filming her?” Now Diemer was interested, probably because there was a chance his visit had been documented by a camera.

“His name’s Dean Arturo,” I said, “but he also uses ‘Luke Smith.’ He sets up cameras outside her house and the pool area. Three cameras that I’ve seen, all activated by laser trip wires or sensors. With that many sensors, it’s likely that he appears in some of the footage—a shot that proves it’s him,
that’s
what I need.”

“Then he
is
blackmailing the woman.”

“In a way. I think the brother-in-law trades the videos to Cressa in exchange for protecting him, probably gives him money, too. When she doesn’t play by his rules—and it’s happened only once that I know of—the guy punishes her by delivering a DVD anonymously to her husband.”

“If she was filmed in bed with another man,” Diemer countered, “
in flagrante
or just having fun—it depends on the husband, of course—then the damage has been done. Why would the brother-in-law continue such a pointless threat?” The Brazilian, an expert on blackmailers, asked the question in a dismissive way, meaning Dean Arturo’s hold on the woman had already been neutralized.

I said, “I don’t know why. But his reasons won’t matter as far as the island cops are concerned. That’s the important thing. Personally, though, I’d like to find out. Cressa and her husband signed a prenuptial agreement. If we had a copy, it might explain his behavior. Hers, too.”

I had taken only a few sips from my beer, but now picked up the bottle and took a drink. The move gave Diemer time to sit in silence until he finally attempted to cloak his curiosity by saying, “I find Mrs. Arturo to be . . .
sensual
. For this reason, I’m interested.”

“An attractive woman,” I agreed. I took another drink and waited.

The man tapped the desk with an impatient finger, then pressed, “I don’t suppose you know where she keeps her valuables? If it is a local bank”—his expression read
Impossible
—“but her home’s another matter. People tend to entrust their cash, their jewels, et cetera, to the same hiding place. The videos and her personal papers might be there as well. But not actual videos, if I am right. She’s an intelligent woman. She would insist on having the original memory cards from the cameras. Not copies. My point is, if I . . . if a
person
found them, he would have no way of knowing in advance if the photographer himself is in a shot—and that’s the proof you need. Understand the problem?”

Diemer loved women and the adrenaline rush he got from stealing, so fretting about details didn’t disguise his willingness.
Good.
I placed my beer on the desk and tried to set the hook. The night I had gone to her house after she was asleep and found the cameras? I’d also done a little stealthy snooping in the house itself. Hadn’t found much, but I had found one thing. “At her beach house, there’s a hidden wall safe in the study. She doesn’t know I found it. A good one, modern, larger than most I’ve seen, and it’s wired into the security system. Even if it wasn’t too close to home, I don’t have the skills to breach something like that.” I gave it a beat before adding, “The son of a locksmith might be able to do it, though.”

For an instant, what might have been a knowing smile appeared on the man’s face but vanished when he said, “How would the locksmith’s son profit?”

“I’ve already told you.”

“Nonsense,” Diemer said. “I already have more contacts in South America than I can use. There is another way, though. Let’s assume there are other items in this safe, valuable items. Her husband is wealthy, you say. How wealthy?”

I looked in the direction of my living quarters, then got up and closed the heavy plank door I seldom use. When I was seated again, I kept my voice low. “She can’t know she’s been robbed. That should be obvious to someone like you.”

“Done properly, she won’t—not for a period of time. It depends, of course, on what’s in the safe. Gold coins and bars are an investment, not something to be fondled. I know women who seldom touch the actual diamonds they’ve had replicated for a ring. A matching necklace and bracelet, it’s common. Months go by, they never look.”

Was he serious? “Not only do you want to get the woman in bed,” I argued, “now you want to steal her jewels, too? That’s coldhearted even for a . . . Swissair pilot. No, you can’t touch her valuables. I’m after leverage, not profit.”

“The risk taker
take
s—it is always part of the deal,” Diemer shot back, then added in a tone that sealed the subject, “If your ethics don’t allow it, the solution’s simple: find someone else.”

I shook my head, frustrated, and tried to regroup by repeating, “She can’t know. You have to understand that or there’s no point in going any further.”

“And here is what you must understand,” Diemer countered. “I’ve been in the woman’s house only twice and I haven’t seen the safe. If I do this and anything looks wrong, or feels wrong, I will leave.
My
rules, not yours. You mentioned your local police—that’s another concern. I think it’s idiotic to involve some uneducated
campesino
with a gun. I won’t be a part of it.”

Peasants
was the translation.

“This isn’t Brazil,” I reminded him, “it’s Sanibel Island, which means the guys I know are probably overtrained, so you can stop worrying.”

Diemer immediately shrugged his acquiescence, which told me I’d just been hand-fed the only concession he was willing to make. I was thinking,
He won’t stop there
, which the man proved by saying, “There’s something else I want—and it’s not negotiable.”

Flight 19.
That was his price. The jet-set assassin wanted to be included in the search. He wanted to be along every step of the way and receive an equal share if there was profit.

“I have partners,” I reminded him.

“Telephone them now,” he said, getting to his feet, “but no mention of why I’m to join you. Then call your policeman friend, if you must—but speak as if you
already
have the evidence. It’s smarter to document ownership in advance of stealing it.”

I didn’t take his advice; waited until after eleven p.m. to telephone Lt. Kerry Brett and tell him I had photos and video of a stalker.

By then, it was true.

21

THE NEXT MORNING, IN THE GRAY AND SILKEN HEAT
of a stormy Thursday, Dean Arturo confirmed a couple of things when he crashed through a glass door he had shattered with a camera tripod, then sprinted across the parking lot of a hotel, my off-duty cop friends in pursuit.

“Crazy as ten loons,” Tomlinson muttered, dazed by what had just happened or the hallucinogenics still in his system.

“That’s him, the one who came to my lab,” I said, meaning that Deano was also Luke Smith. Then added, “Stay where you are. I promised Kerry we wouldn’t get involved.”

“Involved?”
Tomlinson said. “Hah! I want to get the hell out of here before the Earth catches fire!”

“Stay calm,” I told him. “Just sit there and let them handle it.”

Easy for me to say, but not so easy to heed as I watched Deano, ponytail swinging with every stride, hurdle a bike rack and disappear around the corner of the hotel. Kerry and his partner, Moonley, followed, Moonley pulling a radio from his pocket, not a firearm, before they, too, vanished behind the building.

“He’s headed for the beach,” I said, unaware I had opened the driver’s-side door and was standing outside my truck.

“This is your idea of nonviolent intervention!” Tomlinson hollered from inside. “I told you bad shit happens when I’m around cops. You and our new partner, the Nazi Brazilian—suddenly, it all makes sense!”

My pal was still brittle from a long night spent dealing with chemical demons and comforting the married mistress. For the past twenty minutes I’d been telling him the truth about how I’d discovered where Deano was staying. Shared it despite the Brazilian’s instructions to remain silent about the burglary. How else could I explain why we were in my truck, watching from a distance, while Kerry and his partner Moonley paid an unofficial call on the crazy brother-in-law? I had gone into detail—but also left out several key bits of information—about how my pact with the Germanic Brazilian had turned out better than expected.

Much better—until seconds ago when Dean Arturo crashed through the sliding glass doors of his hotel room and fled. And much too smoothly, as I was just now realizing, for the odds not to wipe the smug look off my face and remind me of something I knew better than most: in the field, nothing
ever
goes as planned.

—

U
NTIL
THAT
INSTANT,
my plan had gone without a hitch. At a little after eleven p.m., Vargas Diemer exited the side lawn of the Arturo property, wearing a jogging suit and surgical gloves. I had been standing watch near the street, which was where he’d slipped a candy box into my hands. Did it without slowing his breezy stride or saying a word, then disappeared toward the beach: a tourist out for a jog in the moonlight.

Impressive. Same with the Brazilian’s cat burglar skills demonstrated during the twenty-seven minutes it had taken him to override the security system, crack the safe, and reappear. Along with the candy box, Diemer had exited carrying an unfamiliar shoulder pack—a detail I had not shared with Tomlinson.

The bag wasn’t full, but it had looked heavy. Diemer hadn’t offered an explanation. I didn’t ask.

My truck had been parked at the Island Inn, and I waited until I was on the road to glance inside the box. It contained several video memory cards, a copy of a legal document—Crescent Arturo’s prenuptial agreement, I correctly assumed—along with an envelope and a Post-it note, something written on it in pencil.

The parking lot at Lilly’s Jewelry, on Tarpon Bay Road, was empty, so I pulled in and took a closer look: eight memory cards, which was promising. In a week of surveillance, Dean Arturo, hopefully, would appear in at least a
few
pieces of accidental footage. Finding the shot might take hours of scanning but worth the effort if it got him off the island.

My laptop and a card reader were in a computer bag next to me, but I had decided to wait. Wise choice, it turned out. The envelope, when I opened it, contained photos that spared me all that scanning. The Brazilian cat burglar had found a packet of photos that showed Deano in action. In one, he was peering through the curtains into Cressa’s home—the patio railing was wood on chrome and as distinctive as Deano’s own facial features: a good-looking guy, but for the scar on his forehead, and blazing pale eyes. There were two shots of him looking up from the lighted pool deck. Several more of Deano in a hoodie, setting up his surveillance cameras: shadowy images that wouldn’t hold up in court but good enough for my purposes. The photos were taken by Cressa, presumably, and probably shot as insurance against a denial from Deano that he was spying.