Castro Directive (17 page)

"I guess she only told me whatever would make you look bad. You see, she wanted me to investigate you for her while I'm investigating her for you. That was the gist of it."

"You hear that, K.J.?" The bodyguard took out his notepad, jotted something, and handed it to his boss. Andrews glanced at it, smiled, passed it to Pierce. "Real cute," the message said.

"Let's be frank, Nicholas. You know I've gotten my hands dirty. I was involved in the marijuana trade back in the old days. But hell, I would give away every cent of my fortune before I'd go out and kill anyone for a goddamn chunk of quartz crystal."

Pierce nodded, waited for Andrews to continue.

"I appreciate you coming forward with this. It's good to know how she thinks. I'm curious, though . . . What did you tell her when she asked if you'd work for her?"

Pierce shrugged. "I said I'd think about it."

Andrews clasped his hands behind his head. "What the hell. Go ahead and play with her. Maybe you can find something out about the twin skull. My feeling is that she has a lead on it, and she wants both of them."

"She hasn't said anything to me about it yet, and Redington talks as if he's not sure it even exists."

Andrews spoke with an unexpected fervency. "It does exist, and it will be found."

He reached inside his coat pocket, slipped out an envelope, and passed it to Pierce. "I think you deserve the rest of the money I offered. You've done a terrific job in such a short time."

Pierce hesitated.

"Go ahead, take it. Put it away. I don't want any argument." He motioned with his hand.

Pierce glanced over at K.J., who was pushing his palms together and gritting his teeth. He stuffed the envelope into his pocket. He didn't like what he was doing, didn't like the awkward situation of playing one side against the other, but it seemed the only available option at the moment. The fact was he didn't know which of them to believe, and that just made it all the worse.

"I'm going to be out of town for a few days," Andrews said. "I'll let you know when I get back." He pushed his chair away from the table and shook Pierce's hand, sealing their agreement. "It's good seeing you again. Kind of like old times."

Yeah, old times, Pierce thought as they left the restaurant. That's exactly what worried him. He didn't want to repeat those old times. Not in any form. They walked as far as the elevator and waited. Andrews was going upstairs to his office, and Pierce hoped the elevator would be going in Andrews's direction; he would immediately head for the stairs. But a red arrow above the door was pointing down when the door slid open. "Thanks for lunch, Ray," he said, and stepped aboard, his gut sinking.

The door hissed closed. If I came up in it, he told himself, I can go down. He gazed out through the tinted glass, and suddenly his stomach knotted. It wasn't the elevator, though. Standing below him in the courtyard, staring directly at him, was the hulking figure of Morris Carver. He glanced to his right at the staircase, wishing he'd taken it. But then he spotted Neil Bellinger covering the stairs. They must have been there all along, watching and waiting.

As the elevator door slid open, the hulking black man stepped up to him. "Afternoon, Mr. Pierce." He made the greeting sound menacing.

"What're you doing here?"

"That's good, Pierce. Same thing I was going to ask you. But since you asked first, me and Neil came here for lunch. Funny thing—we couldn't afford the prices on the menu of that fancy place upstairs." He turned as Bellinger walked up. "Didn't you think that restaurant was sort of expensive?"

Bellinger smiled at Pierce. "Yeah, I guess, Mo. So what's new today, Nick?" Bellinger sounded as affable as ever.

"Lunch with his old buddy Ray, and a little shopping," Carver answered.

Bellinger adjusted his tie, pointed over his shoulder. "You see that shop over there, Nick? You can get a tie for a $139.95." He grinned playfully at Pierce. "A damn nice tie, too, and check out their sport coats.

Pierce noticed Carver eyeing the envelope that protruded from the corner of his pocket.

"Hell, you can afford it," Carver chimed in. "You're working for Mr. Big Money."

"Maybe I am," Pierce snapped. "If that's against the law, I want to hear about it."

Carver poked a finger toward Pierce's pocket. "I bet you got a nice cash payment in that envelope."

"Lay off him, Mo," Bellinger snapped.

Carver crossed his arms and sidled up to Pierce like a baseball manager arguing with an umpire. "Maybe you're not working for Andrews. I could accept that. Maybe you've done the job already."

"What are you talking about? You actually think I had something to do with Loften's murder?"

"Here's what I think. Your part was to get Loften to take the skull out of the safe. Then you signaled the killer somehow, and the rest is history."

"Afraid that doesn't hold water, Carver. If that's the case, what am I doing hanging around Andrews in public, trying to implicate both of us?"

"Hey, who said anything about Andrews being involved? Did you, Neil?"

"Not me."

"Let's just say Andrews is behind it, since you brought it up. If that's the case, he must've wanted that skull real bad."

"Think about it," Pierce said. "If he were paying me off today for my part in a murder, don't you think he'd do it a little more discreetly?"

"People do weird shit all the time. One guy in our fine city killed his girlfriend, cut off her head, walked outside naked, and threw the head at a cop. How's that for subtle?"

"Listen, guys. I'd like to stand around the courtyard here and bullshit with you all day, but I'm busy. You mind if I go about my business?"

"Have a real nice day, Mr. Pierce," Carver said dryly.

Bellinger took a step closer. "No offense, Nick, but you ought to take those pants to a dry cleaner's. They'd look a lot nicer with firm creases. If you hang around with guys like Andrews, you want to look a little more polished."

"Thanks for the advice." Pierce walked away,, feeling the eyes of the detectives burning into his back.

I
ntense purple thunderheads were building to the west over the Everglades like an army of other-worldly warriors riding their dark mounts. Even though the sun still shone, there was an ominous tint to the afternoon air. Mid-August was approaching, the heart of the sub-tropical wet season, featuring relentless heat and humidity,
 
intervals of torrential downpours, afternoon boomers, and hurricane threats.

Pierce's windows were rolled up against the sultry atmosphere and his air conditioner blew cool air against his face. By the time he reached the Edison and pulled into his parking spot in the alley, large drops splattered his windshield. He hustled around the side of the building, glancing once toward ink-colored ocean, and ducked into the hotel lobby. He took the stairs two at a time to the mezzanine.

The travel agency was deserted, as if the approaching storm had chased everyone away. But then he remembered it was also Saturday. Pierce heard his phone ringing and quickly unlocked the door. By the time he reached his desk, he heard his recorded voice saying he wasn't in the office. He snapped up the phone, shutting off the recorder. "Pierce."

"There you are. You should just say hello or Mr. Pierce. You sound like you are spitting when you answer that way."

"Hi, Tina."

"When are you getting a secretary?"

"I don't know. What do you want?"

"Why do you not return my calls?"

He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, resisting the urge to hang up and reenter his office. "Tina, I just walked in the door."

"I found two articles in psychology journals by William Redington, and also a book on mythology he edited."

"Good. Can you send the articles?"

"This is not a mail house," she said indignantly. "You come and get it."

Pierce paced back and forth, twisting the telephone cord around his hand. "I'm kind of busy."

"I talked to Fuego this morning," she said, ignoring his comment. "He said he is working for you."

"He's helping on a case," Pierce said, knowing that Fuego wouldn't tell Tina any details.

"You pay him; you never pay me."

"Tina, the library pays you," Pierce said evenly.

"Yes, and I have to work all weekend."

"I'll meet you downtown for lunch tomorrow," he said, making an effort to appease her.

"That is better. Make it brunch at eleven at Paco's."

"Sunday brunch, it is. Don't forget the articles."

"Do you want me to look up anything else?"

He wanted to wean himself of his dependence on Tina. Yet, he was also curious about Noster Mundus, and anyhow he was already planning to see her. "Well, if you're not busy . . ."

When he finally rang off, he sat down at his desk, slipped on his wire-framed glasses, and flipped through his mail. He spent a few minutes calling Stephen Simms and S. Simms – two of the first, six of the other - all listed in the Miami phone book. But none of them were Elise's ex-husband. Of course, the Florida Bar Association
Duh.
He called the number, but got a recording. He would call again Monday and get his number.

"Nick, I didn't hear you come in. I was about to leave you a message."

He looked up to see Gibby, seated in his wheelchair in the doorway. "What's up, Gibby?"

"I hope you're planning on getting a new secretary pretty soon."

"Don't tell me I'm suddenly getting heavy walk-in traffic."

"No, but Tina called me a couple of times."

"I just talked to her a few minutes ago. Why'd she call you?"

Gibby wheeled into the office. "She didn't want me to tell you, but she was asking a lot of questions about you."

"What kind of questions?"

"You know. . . Whether you've been in the office much lately, when you came in, how long you stayed. She even wanted to know if I thought you were seeing anyone else."

"Oh, Christ." Pierce shook his head. He didn't know what irked him more, Tina's nosiness or Gibby's gossipy tone. "Thanks. I'll set her straight when I see her tomorrow. No reason she should be bothering you."

"I just thought you should know. Oh, guess what? There's going to be a hearing on my case in a couple of weeks. This might be it. My ship's finally coming in."

"Great. Good luck. Hope it works out."

When Gibby made no effort to leave, Pierce asked what else was new.

"Oh, God. Let me tell you." Gibby wheeled closer, and Pierce knew that Gibby was going to chatter nonstop until he either interrupted him or he ran out of gossip.

"This group we sent to Paris last week just got back, and Lorraine—she led the tour—had a ton of horror stories. We had the group at a wonderful Parisian hotel, and then this couple and their two kids insisted they stay at a hotel where they had a view of the Eiffel Tower. So she moved them to this two-star hovel with a view, for about the same price. Then a few of the others heard about it and they wanted to change. You know how that goes. It's like the flu. And she said everyone complained about the prices as if we were the ones who set the exchange rate. I mean, my God . . ."

Gibby rambled on. Pierce nodded when he was supposed to, smiled, interjected a word here and there, but stopped listening. His thoughts were still on Tina and her questions to Gibby, and now his anger was turning to depression. Something had to give. And soon.

Pierce interrupted. "I need a drink, Gibby."

Gibby stopped in midsentence and looked up at him. "Oh. Okay."

"You want to go over to the Jack with me?"

Gibby made a face. "No way. That place sucks. You feeling down about something?"

Pierce stood up and shrugged as Gibby backed out the door. "Yeah, maybe I am. But I don't want to talk about it now."

Gibby looked worried. "Take care of yourself, Nick."

The street was damp, and the clouds hung low and heavy. Lightning flashed, followed a few seconds later by a crash of thunder. He could feel the tension of the impending storm as he hurried to his car.

The happy-hour crowd at the Jack of Clubs was not a happy bunch this afternoon. Some looked as if they'd been drinking since morning; others as if they'd just gotten out of bed and this was their first stop. But as long as no one bothered him, Pierce didn't care. He just wanted a couple of beers and some time to think.

He settled on the same stool where he'd met Elise, or rather Monica, and gazed into the mirror, remembering how he'd watched her glide across the room. He ordered a beer from Leni when she walked over. "Twice in the same week," she said, sliding the beer over to him. "Life treating you rough or something?"

"Or something."

She must have sensed he wasn't in any mood to talk, because she nodded and moved on. He tipped the beer, gulped until nearly half of it was gone, then set the bottle down and stared at it.

He'd never had a case like this one. He was conspiring with his client to deceive the subject of his investigation into thinking he was conspiring with her. And still he wasn't even sure what he thought about the case. When he talked to Elise, he sympathized with her. It seemed to him that she actually believed Andrews was behind not only the theft and murder, but the break-in. Andrews told another side, negating her story. But what if he was lying? Then what?