Black Swan (20 page)

    His face darkened.

    "I heard that. Damn awful thing."

    "This happened right after a man was murdered at the Swan."

    "I heard that, too."

    "You hear a lot. That's why I want to talk to you."

    "What are you, a cop?" he asked.

    "Engineer. No official standing, just happened to get mixed up in this."

    He flicked his hand in the air and the dogs moved away from the car. He backed away and they trotted over to him and lay down with haunches up in response to a second hand signal. He told me I could get out, but to keep at least ten feet between us.

    "Not a problem," I said. "I've got a mutt of my own, though the only hand signal he knows is when I reach for his bowl."

    "You can ask me what you want, but it doesn't mean I'm going to answer."

    The Arness place lived up to the designation "estate." In addition to the big house, the grounds featured a salad bowl of luxurious green growth—giant flowering bushes, viney wooden arches and moss-covered brick patios. At the center of the circle was a huge stone urn, looted I guessed from some ancient city by one of Desi's ancestors. It was filled with an assortment of unidentifiable plants continually freshened by a central fountain.

    "I heard you tried to buy the Black Swan. I was curious how the deal ended up with Christian Fey."

    "What's your name again?"

    "Sam Acquillo. A boat I was delivering was docked at the Swan while I made some repairs. I sent her on with the crew and now I'm staying at the hotel."

    I filled in some more detail, including news of the missing Axel.

    "So I was also wondering if one of the private security outfits around here could check on the houses in the club. The human kind," I added, looking down at Sacco and Vanzetti. "Though I don't want him frightened or hurt in any way."

    "If that's a requirement, it's a good thing you asked me first. Some of my neighbors have a taste for thuggery. The security guys would be the last people you'd want involved in this."

    I thanked him.

    "As far as the Swan goes," he said, "the previous owners are distant cousins of mine. Though not exactly the Hatfields and McCoys, our families have never gotten along. It didn't help that I had to break their bartender's arm when he tried to bounce me from the place. I was in Special Forces during the first Gulf War and I don't like people touching me without my permission."

"So that's what killed the deal?" I said.

    "Hardly. The greedy bastards would never let principle stand between them and a U.S. dollar."

    "So what happened?"

    "Outbid. The other side offered twice as much as I did, and I offered twice as much as the place was worth. I didn't want it that badly."

    "Obviously Fey did."

    "If by Fey you mean Christian Fey, that's not who we dealt with," said Desi, reaching down to scratch one of the Great Danes between the ears.

    "His lawyers?"

    Desi shook his head.

    "It was the girl. Anika. Can't call it a bidding war since it was over after the first skirmish. What the hell, her money."

    "Literally hers?" I asked.

    "According to my dopey cousins, though who knows with a family like that. Whose boat are you delivering, if you don't mind me asking."

    "Burton Lewis. I owe him a lot of favors, and there're worse ways to pay down the debt."

    He made another subtle hand signal and the dogs jumped up and galloped away. He walked over to me and offered his hand.

    "Luther Arness. I've known Burt since the regatta days," he said, proving the suspicion that all old money rich guys belonged to the same fraternity. "Good sailor, poof or not."

    "A good man, poofness and all," I said.

    He held up both hands.

    "Sorry. You're right. No offence intended."

    "None taken. I asked him if he could pull a string or two and get some cops over here. Maybe you could do the same. I'm told you're the king of the island."

    He chuckled.

    "Only when they're looking for something from me. Doesn't matter. Somebody's got to preserve this place."

    "That meatball who runs your fuel dock thinks it's his job."

    "Track? He is a meatball. He was part of the deal when I bought the place."

    "If you want him healthy enough to keep running it, tell him to back off," I said.

    "You ex-military?" he asked me.

    "Ex-juvenile delinquent."

    He let me go after I described Burton's boat as well as I could in the face of daunting technical questions.

    "Marine architecture's a hobby of mine," he said, as a form of apology. "I'm thinking of building myself a boat in the garage over there. Once I find a place for all the cars. Or maybe I should just build a workshop somewhere else," he said, looking around the vast property, his voice falling off as the thought circulated around his mind.

    "Good thing I'm not married," he added. "Workshops are the kind of things wives hate."

    I almost suggested he get to know Anika Fey as more than a reckless spendthrift, but didn't know how to frame the concept. Instead, I just thanked him again and drove off in the Mercedes. Sacco and Vanzetti came out of nowhere and followed me to the curve in the drive, then peeled off and loped back out of sight.

to withstand the kind of boring crap that would kill an ordinary person."

    At the end of those two hours I'd gotten nowhere, but the boredom came to an end when a little blue and white car plastered with insignias and flashing a roof-mounted yellow light careened around me and put on its brakes. I slowed as the car slowed and stopped when it pulled to the side of the road. I waited until a guy got out, then went around him and continued on my way. In my rear view mirror I saw him scramble back into his car, which quickly sped up behind me again, its headlights blinking along with the yellow bubble-gum machine. I ignored him.

    This continued until we came to a relatively straight patch of road, which he used to race past me and then skid to a stop, the rear end of the car swinging around until it effectively blocked my passage. I considered ramming him, but I wasn't driving my own car. I watched the guy leap out and stalk over to my door, which he rapped with his knuckles.

    He was a young guy, with a pale, blotchy and almost hairless face. He wore a generic security guard's uniform, including a military hat, out from which sprang sprigs of thin red hair.

    "What the hell are you doing?" he said, when I rolled down the window.

    "Driving down the street. What the hell are you doing?"

    "This is private property."

    I looked around.

    "Looks like a street to me," I said.

    "It's a private street."

    "So what?"

    "What are you doing here?" he asked.

    "Joy riding."

    He looked into the back seat where the Feys had left some plastic bags filled with who-knows-what.

"What's in the bags?" the guy asked.

"None of your business."

"I need to examine those bags," he said.

"Not a chance."

"Get out of the car," he said.

"No."

He reached in the window and grabbed my shirt collar.

"Get out."

    I shoved the door open with my shoulder, crashing it into his knees. He let go of my shirt and staggered back a few feet.

    "Touch me again and I'll break your face," I said.

    I saw him reach for his belt where a nasty-looking nightstick hung in a holster.

    "You can't do that," he said.

    "I just did," I said, and putting the Mercedes in reverse, backed up into a three-point turn and drove off in the opposite direction. A moment later he was behind me again flashing all his lights, but this time I didn't let him get ahead of me. Using Gwyneth's map, I took a few turns and found my way back to the gatehouse. By then another little blue and white car had joined the parade. I assumed they'd turn off when I left the club, but they kept at it. So I drove another hundred feet, slowed and pulled off to the side of the road.

    The young guy jumped out of his car, yelled fuck and slammed the door. As he came toward me he pulled the nightstick out of its holster. I left the Mercedes and moved toward him at the same pace, so when he raised the stick we had some combined momentum. I grabbed his wrist with one hand and midway up the stick with the other. Then I snapped it into his face, cracking him on the forehead. He stayed on his feet, but lost his grip on the nightstick. I pulled it free and continued on to the next car, out of which came a much bigger guy, meaty around the shoulders and bloated

at the waist. He was older, with a Pancho Villa moustache and a greasy, florid face.

    He also had a nightstick on his belt. And a gun.

    Before he had a chance to figure out which one to draw, I got my foot behind his heels and bashed him on the chest with my elbow. The air woofed out of his lungs when he slammed to the ground. As he tried to catch his breath, I dropped down and stuck a knee in his sternum, giving him something else to grapple with while I dug his gun out of the holster. It was an old-fashioned police revolver, I guessed a thirty-eight caliber Smith & Wesson. I stuck it in the rear waistband of my pants. Then I stood up and looked behind me for the other guy, but he was flat on his ass, holding his head with both hands.

    I walked back to the Mercedes, tossing the nightstick on the ground in front of him as I passed by.

    "Try to be more patient with people," I told him. "It'll serve you better."

    In my rear view, I could see the flashing lights reflected in the trees, dwindling with each curve of the road, eagerness for further pursuit apparently spent.

J
ackie Swaitkowski called my cell as I was pulling back into the Swan's parking lot. This time I answered.

    "Did you get my email?" I asked.

    "I did. I can't believe it."

    "You don't have to believe anything if you understand the instructions."

    "I'll need help on the legalities, assuming I can't talk you out of it," she said.

    "Burton will help."

    "Help you come to your senses, I hope."

    "Just see what you can do," I said. "We can discuss my senses another day."

    When I walked into the foyer of the Swan, Christian Fey was on a ladder holding a wall sconce with one hand and using a pair of needle-nose pliers to dig around its internal regions with the other.

    "Hope you turned off the circuit breaker," I said.

    He looked down at me, expectantly.

    "No sign of Axel," I said. "You haven't heard from him?"

    He frowned and shook his head.

    "Nothing. Very frustrating." He went back to the sconce. "The wiring in this place is an electrical fire waiting to happen."

    "What made you decide to buy the place?" I asked. "Not much of an investment when you consider the costs."

    He looked down at me.

    "With all due respect, Mr. Acquillo," he said. "I've had a far smoother transition from the corporate world than yourself."

    "You can say that again. Though you might not know all the facts."

    "I'm sure I don't," he said. "And neither do you."

    "Where're your other guests?"

    "Out doing what you were doing. Looking for Axel."

    "You sure that's a good idea?" I asked. "What if they find him?"

    He gently let go of the sconce, letting it hang from the wall by its wiring. He climbed down the ladder and went into the bar. He took out two bottles of water and handed me one.

    "What did you mean by that?" he asked, in a low voice.