3 Lies (14 page)

“Ben-Gurion International waiting for my flight. My sister got married last Tuesday. What do you need?”

He considered the note. Avi read and wrote Arabic fluently. Clint knew others fluent in the language but no one he trusted like Avi. Not with Beth’s life.

“I can’t talk about it on the phone. But it’s vital.”

“Listen. I arrive in Boston tomorrow at eleven twenty-two. Why don’t you pick me up at Logan? The connection flight from JFK is—hang on. Delta 5508.”

“What about Ginger?”

“We broke up. She wants to marry me, but first she wants to change all my bad habits. I guess I’m more fond of my bad habits than Ginger. Anyway, it’s over.”

“You went to a Jewish wedding in Tel Aviv. Alone? Brave man.”

“Stupid man. For the entirety of the reception, my aunt Ruthie-the-Widow brandished available women. It was a regatta on Lake Estrogen.”

“Endless women? What fun.”

“Then you go next time. Aunt Ruthie isn’t picky.” Avi huffed into the receiver. “Are you picking me up or not?”

“I’ll be there.” Clint hung up and dialed the next number.

First ring. No answer. He hung on.

It pissed him off to realize the police weren’t looking for Beth. No one reported her missing, at least not to the police. Maybe to the FBI. He couldn’t be sure. But it all came back to the note. If the authorities had searched her place, they would have found it first.

Beth spoke of Arabic friends, but any note to her would still be in English. He knew the worst case, but like the word cancer for someone newly diagnosed, it was a difficult word to say out loud.

Terrorists.

No. Just because she was kidnapped doesn’t mean it was terrorists. Even if the note were in Arabic. Maybe the note was just a coincidence. Maybe it was directions to a souk. Maybe this was all about Abe.

For some reason Abe didn’t want Clint around asking questions, looking for Beth, stirring up trouble. So he made a call. The Abraham Melinger’s of the world, the Honorable Chief Justices of the United States, if they don’t want somebody around, they get to make a call.

Clint just hoped someone would answer his.

On the fourth ring, a woman said, “Clement Police Department. If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 9-1-1.”

“I’d like to speak with the officer in charge of your patrol routes.”

“One minute, please.”

A Chihuahua growled at Louie from the arms of an old man walking into the store. Louie only yawned.

“Sergeant McManus here.”

Sergeant McManus’ voice was decidedly female. His odds shot up to the cloud deck.

“Sergeant McManus. My name is Edwin Samuels. My wife and I own a summer home in Clement. The reason I’m calling, well, it’s about our daughter. You see, she married an abusive man. Brutal and a philanderer. He’s caused no end of pain for her and my granddaughter.”

He waited for it.

“I’m very sorry to hear that, sir. How can we help?”

Hooked.

“She’s finally decided to leave the lying beast.”

He heard a snort of approval on the other end of the line.

“She and my granddaughter are staying in our summer home while she gets back on her feet. My wife and I would feel so much better if a patrol car cruised by more often. You know, make its presence known. Especially at night. It’s a dark street, heavily wooded. She’s getting a restraining order, but he’s threatened her and the child.”

“Unfortunately that’s typical in these cases.” Her tone thickened with contempt. “We would be happy to help, sir. What’s the address?”

With the assurance given by the good officer, he marveled at his day: arrested for telling the truth and given personal surveillance service when he lied. Finding the moral of this story strained even Aesop’s sensibilities. It satisfied him that the police would tend Beth’s house while she was gone.

Clint went inside the convenience store where a forty-ish woman with dyed red hair ran the cash register. He paid for several newspapers, a small notebook, a pack of ink pens, and a box of bacon-shaped treats for Louie.

“May I borrow your phone book?”

The woman looked him over before she answered. “You promise not to rip out the pages.”

The thought hadn’t occurred to him. Did he look like a page ripper? He displayed the three-finger Boy Scout sign.

“On my honor. Hope to die. Stick a needle in my eye.”

Her lipsticked mouth turned into a demi-sneer. “Everybody’s a comedian.” She plopped the four-inch book onto the counter. “Bring it back to me when you’re done, Leno.”

He took the book to the lottery ticket station and found the medical equipment section of the yellow pages. He copied the phone numbers of any that looked promising plus the number and address of Beth’s nephrologist. The cashier winked at him when he put the phonebook back. All was forgiven.

Clint spent the next forty-two minutes calling medical supply houses from the pay phone. Most of the sixty-four vendors he’d reached didn’t carry home dialysis equipment though several told him who did. After all the calls, he whittled the list down to six. Business hours were over, so he’d visit them tomorrow. Along with Beth’s doctor.

He took Louie to the truck and drove home the long way. By the coast. He rolled down all the windows. He and the dog turned their noses into the scented wind.

The blue skies brought out the boaters even mid-week. Not really expecting to find it, he idled through the parking lot looking for the white van. Maybe Beth was still inside.

Abe. Clint needed to talk to him—even at the risk of his freedom—and find out what they were doing. Abe knew. The Honorable Chief Justice Bastard.

He checked the chandlery for messages. Two. One from a member of the CatSat board. And Paige. His mood left no room for her. Then he felt himself gasp. Last time he’d found her on the boat. But her red BMW wasn’t in the lot.

He forced himself to let out the air. Home. Still safe.

On board the
No Moor
he tapped into an icy beer to quell his stirring hunger. He didn’t want to eat. Maybe Beth couldn’t eat. He regretted doubting her. Hunger became penance.

Pages worth of notes accumulated from his calls to the medical supply stores. He wanted to keep them, in case. In case of what, he didn’t know, but he had nothing else. He dropped these into a folder and tossed it onto the counter. He landed on the sofa with the newspapers.

On the front page, the Supreme Court released a flurry of decisions. At least the wheel of justice continued to roll over the peasantry. Too bad Hizzoner wasn’t elected. Clint would have enjoyed voting for the opposition.

A clang from above deck signaled someone’s arrival and sent him upright. Paige wouldn’t understand the civil subtlety of a boat bell. He calmed down and looked out the window. Merlin waited dockside.

In spite of himself, a little company sounded like a balm. Merlin left him alone without actually having to be alone. He wouldn’t have to recount the pathetic details of his day.

“Permission to come aboard.” Clint yelled out the window.

“Aye, Captain.”

Feet shuffling overhead culminated in an open companionway.

“C’mon down. Care for a beer?”

“That’s what I was bringing you.” Merlin lifted his hand to show off the six-pack. “A man’s got to carry his own weight, so to speak.”

Merlin ambled down the stairs and dropped the remaining five into the refrigerator. He found a spot at the table and sat. Louie padded over for a head rubbing.

“Thanks again for the outing, mate. It’s a sad thing to see all these bonny boats spend their lives as marina queens. It’s not right.” Merlin spied a newspaper. “Do you mind?”

“Help yourself.”

Clint needed to think, to find some logical explanation for the events of this day. Not top-of-the head thinking but deep background, sub-routine processing that didn’t operate on a conscious level. He reached for the
New York Times
and got out a pen for the crossword puzzle. Real men used ink. They read and puzzled in silence until Clint got to fifty-one down.

“What’s a six-letter British term for ‘nerd’?”

Merlin closed his paper and leaned in. “What letters have you got?”

“None.”

He looked up to the right. “Let’s see. There’s ‘boffin’. Or ‘anorak’. Each of those has six letters.”

Clint noted these to the side of his puzzle. “Thanks.”

Merlin went back to his reading, but the break in silence rendered him chatty. “Here’s a fifteen year-old kid busted for computer hacking. Can you believe it?”

Clint said nothing.

“What a shame. Another little girl’s gone missing. Her great uncle was critically injured and left for dead. Blimey, four years old and they can’t locate her.”

Clint politely studied fifty-two down.

“That Amber Alert system seems to help find them though.”

Maybe Merlin was done. Maybe Clint could get back to his puzzle. Maybe his important thinking program was still running, and there wouldn’t be any more interr—

“You know the U.K. now has something similar. Oh my. It says the girl’s great uncle is brother to Justice Beatrice Cohen of the Supreme Court. I’ll bet—”

Clint snatched the paper from Merlin. “Where? Where did you see this?”

Merlin’s finger quivered as he pointed out the blurb under “Other News.”

Clint’s chest pounded like hooves on asphalt. He struggled to focus on the article.

Vail, CO — Vail police are investigating an attack on Boulder jeweler, Myron Walters. Walters, 63, was found unconscious yesterday from a severe blow to the throat. Walters was staying at the Mountain Dust ski resort, allegedly with his grandniece, Emily Watters, 4, also from Boulder. Emily Watters was not on the scene when paramedics arrived. An Amber Alert was issued after police were contacted by the child’s parents. Police have no witnesses and no suspects. Mr. Walters remains in critical condition. Police said the attack and the alleged abduction remain under investigation. Walters is the brother of Supreme Court Justice Beatrice Cohen.

Two justices out of nine. What were the freakin’ odds of that?

Flat panel monitors brightened the grey walls of the control room on the lower deck where Amir observed the prisoners. Three slept, two read magazines, and three conversed in a huddle. A black woman kneeled on the floor as if in prayer.

A thud from the deck above his head flexed the ceiling followed by voices muted solely from travel through the thick decking. He climbed the ladder to check on the situation.

Amir’s appearance in the salon stopped Binard in mid-rant. His pocked cheeks hollowed as he seemed to bite back his words.

“Is there a problem?” Amir said.

Binard tucked his black ski mask into his pocket. “None that concerns you.”

“Salif went off to his cabin. He told this one—” Jaman swept a hand toward Binard. “—to prepare the mid-day meal by twelve-thirty. It is now one p.m., and he has done nothing.”

Amir’s lip crimped. “No one is going anywhere.”

“Exactly.” Binard said, and he left for the galley.

Jaman’s stare fixed on Amir, and he spoke in a stiff whisper. “Poor discipline seeps like sewer filth. We have a mission schedule.”

“Lunch time is not exactly mission-critical. You just do not like him.”

“It does not matter if I like him.” He sat quite close to Amir. “I do not trust him. What he does elsewhere is of no matter, but when my ass is on the line, I care. Deeply.”

The ceiling fan clapped at the air.

“Why tell me? Tell Salif.”

“Have you tried reasoning with him? He is too busy basking in Binard’s obeisance. He acts as if this is his first mission command.” Jaman hunched in his seat. “Binard is loose and unprofessional. He plies his oily charm on the pretty one.”

“You want her?”

Jaman seemed to consider the question. “Yes, I do. But that is not an option. He acts as if he were on holiday, instead of—”

Amir turned and saw Salif approach from the galley side where he conferred with Binard.

“This mission is most unusual.” Jaman finished before Salif joined them.

“What have you found out about the girl?” Salif pinched a cigarette with his lips.

“The girl’s name is Emmy Watters. There is an Amber Alert out for her. She is listed as the grandniece of Myron Walters. He is unconscious and in critical condition.”

Salif flicked his ash and checked the wall clock. “So she is a lever after all.”

Amir let the comment ride.

“We must discuss the young woman, Beth Sutton.” Jaman said. “She is ill and requires medical attention.”

“What is wrong with her?”

He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Salif. “She needs a dialysis machine to clean her blood. These are the specifications.”

“Dialysis? She looks healthy enough to me.” Salif’s smile lingered.

“She says she must do this within the next forty-eight hours.”

“What else is listed? Crayons. Coloring books. A doll. You’re joking, right?”

“It is for the child.”

Amir blew o-rings. “If the woman does require dialysis her symptoms will escalate quickly.”

“Watch her for now. We do not need complications.”

Jaman’s uni-brow shifted. “Procuring this machine may take some time. If we—”

“I said watch her.”

He pushed off from his chair. “The list contains some local dialysis suppliers. When you are ready.” With a parting glance at Amir, he left them alone.

Salif and Amir smoked in silence. The gentle roll of the ship massaged away some of the leftover tension. Amir thought it made sense to get the woman her equipment mostly because she was too beautiful to waste. Salif did not ask for his opinion. Neither did he think it productive to suggest anything.

Cathedral bells clamored from the cell phone on Salif’s hip. Amir figured him to be more of a fandango kind of guy. Salif snuffed out the butt and answered.

“Yes, sir. They’re all here.” His demeanor tensed. “But, I need to—” He lit another smoke, his hand slightly less steady.

Apparently, the one on the other end wielded all the power. Amir leaned back to enjoy the show.