Cut and Run (28 page)

Access to the space behind the pins was through a door between two of the lanes. The room was narrow, dirty, and crowded with machinery, illuminated by a bare bulb in a wire cage.

“This is it right here,” said Tripp. “Lane twelve.”

Natalia pulled out a flashlight and shone it on the pin machinery. “I don't really know what I'm looking at here, Frank.”

“I do,” he said. “My cousin owned a bowling alley in El Paso. Worked there summers when I was a kid.” He knelt down and said, “Let me have that flashlight for a second, will you?”

She handed it over, and he shone it at the lip of polished wood where the lane itself ended. “Uhhuh,” he said. “You see that?”

Natalia leaned over and took a closer look. “Is that what I think it is?”

“If you think it's the reason Hi Davey was killed,” said Tripp, “it most definitely is.”

D
ELKO FOUND
J
OVAN
Dragoslav at a restaurant—not surprisingly, one of the most expensive and exclusive dining establishments in Miami. When the maître d' asked him if he had a reservation, Delko showed him his badge. The man glanced at the two uniformed officers behind him and said, “Table for three?”

“We won't be staying,” said Delko. “As a matter of fact, you'll have a table opening up in just a minute.”

Delko made his way through a maze of white-clothed tables, most of them empty—it was too early for the dinner rush and too late for the lunch crowd. Dragoslav was sitting at a table next to the window, looking out over the ocean; the restaurant was on the twentieth floor of a skyscraper, with an impressive seaside view. His companion was blonde, beautiful, young enough to be his daughter but apparently old enough to drink champagne. Delko thought she looked familiar, but that happened a lot in Miami; you saw a stunningly attractive woman who reminded you of someone, and then realized you were thinking of an actress or a singer or a model—not even someone famous, necessarily, just someone you'd seen in a toothpaste ad or a music video. You weren't so much recognizing them as identifying which tribe they belonged to.

“Mister Dragoslav,” said Delko. “Enjoying the cuisine?”

Dragoslav regarded him coldly. “I was, until now. I warned your partner that I would pursue charges against him if he continued to harass me, and that applies to you as well.”

“Oh, this isn't harassment. This is an arrest. Mind if I sit down?” He pulled out a chair and sat in it without waiting for permission.

“Go ahead, do your best to humiliate me,” said Dragoslav. “The greater the spectacle, the more ammunition I have. I look forward to asking for your badge as a souvenir.”

“I wouldn't go reserving a spot in your trophy case just yet. In fact, you'd be better served by enjoying what's left of your meal while I talk. It might be the last good one you're going to have for a while.”

“Truly? That seems unlikely.”

“Yeah, well, this whole case has been unlikely. I have to admit, trying to figure out just what it was you were smuggling drove me about half crazy. I knew it had something to do with that moonfish—or sunfish, or even toppled-car fish—you had in that concealed freezer, but I just couldn't figure out what. And then it hit me—wheelbarrows.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know the story about the guy smuggling wheelbarrows? Border guard so focused on the content of the wheelbarrow he overlooked the thing itself? That's kind of what you were doing, except I didn't look quite hard enough. You weren't smuggling wheelbarrows, you were smuggling wheelbarrow
wheels
.”

“You are not making any sense.”

Delko reached over and plucked a peeled shrimp from Dragoslav's plate. He popped it into his mouth and chewed. “That's really good,” he said approvingly. “You always demand the best, right? I saw the buffet you had laid out on the boat—impressive. But then, you were about to sign a deal with a guy who thought of himself as a gourmet, so you had to step up. Brought in all kinds of goodies: expensive cheeses, foie gras, truffles…and seafood.”

“There is nothing illegal about any of that.” Dragoslav was good; his face gave nothing away.

“You know what I said about wheelbarrow wheels? I'm going to stretch the metaphor just a little bit more and change it to wheelbarrow bearings. You know, the little round things inside the wheel itself?” Delko smiled—a wide, expectant smile.

Dragoslav refused to play. “If you have an accusation to make, Officer, then do so. This is beginning to bore me.”

“Have it your way.” Delko leaned back in his chair. “I knew the fish was important, but I didn't know why. It's an unusual creature, and for a while that threw me—I wasn't sure which odd feature made you choose it. Was it the number of parasites it hosts? The fact that its flesh can produce tetrodotoxin poisoning? Or was it maybe something as simple as its sheer size?”

Delko shook his head. “No. It was because the ocean sunfish is the most fecund animal on the planet, capable of producing more than three hundred million eggs at a time. Eggs that you scooped out and replaced…with more fish eggs.”

Dragoslav finally returned Delko's smile. It was the look of a man who has just been beaten at chess but still considers himself the superior player.

“Beluga caviar,” said Delko. “The sturgeon that produces it has become so rare that in 2006 its eggs actually became an illegal substance in the U.S. The ban was lifted the next year, but even then only a very small amount was allowed to be imported into the country. That was good news to black marketeers; the legal caviar trade generates around a hundred million dollars annually, but the illegal version makes five times that. At a street value of over seven thousand dollars a kilo, I figure the shipment you brought in was probably worth around one point two million. And once you had your distribution network in place—the Luccinis' trucks and Wolchkowski's supermarkets—you could count on a nice, steady stream of income.”

“And how do you propose to prove this? Considering that no such caviar was found on my ship.”

“Because you dumped it overboard when the shooting started? Sorry, Jovan. There were more than enough eggs left on the inside of the sunfish's ovary for me to collect a sample, and DNA testing established exactly which species they came from. You're under arrest for the illegal importation of a restricted substance.”

“For which I will receive a fine, no doubt,” said Dragoslav. He yawned theatrically.

“Oh, it's not the fine you'll care about. It's the fact that now that I've figured your method out, you can't use it anymore. That's going to cost you a lot of money. Not to mention losing face with the Luccinis—they don't like dealing with failures. So all in all, I figure I just gave your organization a big, nasty black eye.”

Delko motioned to the officers waiting behind him. “Hook him up.”

After Dragoslav had been handcuffed and taken away, his dining companion—who had watched the entire conversation with wide, disbelieving eyes—waved at Delko as he was about to leave. “Excuse me,” she said. “Umm—who's going to pay for this?” She indicated the half-eaten meal on the table in front of her.

Delko shrugged. “I guess he will,” he said. “One way or another.”

 

“Does this mean I finally get my bowling alley back?” Gordon Dettweiler asked. He smiled genially, as if the Miami-Dade Police Department were doing him a favor he greatly appreciated.

“Not just yet,” said Natalia. She motioned Dettweiler inside the On a Roll Bowl, then closed and locked the door behind him. “We've got a little experiment we'd like you to see.”

Frank Tripp was waiting in the booth in front of lane eleven. “Hey there, Gord. Glad you could make it.”

“I hope you folks are about done,” said Dettweiler. “I'd like to get back to business—lot of people need to get their practice in before the tournament, you know.”

“Is that so?” said Natalia. “Well, bowling was never my game. How about you, Frank?”

“Never had much interest, myself,” said Tripp.

Dettweiler chuckled. “Well, I suppose it's not everyone's slice of pie—”

“Know what I always liked?” asked Natalia. “Marbles.”

“Sure,” said Frank. “Played it all the time as a kid. Best in my neighborhood.”

“Oh, I think I could have taken you.”

“Doubt it.”

“Matter of fact, I could
still
take you.”

“Think so, huh? Care to make a little wager on it?”

“Absolutely.” Natalia turned to Dettweiler, whose friendly smile was starting to look a little confused. “You a gambling man, Gord?”

“I don't really see what this has to do—”

“Tell you what, Frank,” said Natalia. She walked up to the edge of lane eleven and pulled a short cardboard tube from her purse—the core of a roll of toilet paper. “I'll bet you a steak dinner I can put a marble through this roll from the length of an alley away. One shot. What do you say?”

“You're on.”

Natalia walked the length of the alley and placed the tube where the headpin usually was, then walked back. “Lucky for us, I even have a marble with me.” She produced a cat's-eye from her pocket and held it up. “See?”

The look on Dettweiler's face was now a carefully composed smile.

Natalia knelt and placed the marble carefully at the toe line. She lined up her shot, then flicked the marble with her forefinger. It made it about three-quarters of the way down the lane before rolling into the gutter.

“Tough luck,” said Tripp. “I prefer a nice sirloin. Medium rare.”

“Oh, come on, Frank.” Natalia got to her feet. “I was just getting warmed up. How about giving me another chance?”

“I'll take a second steak dinner if you want to risk it.”

“I was thinking of more interesting terms this time. Say, for instance—Mister Dettweiler's freedom?”

“Now hold on a sec—” Dettweiler began.

“Fine with me,” Tripp interrupted. “Same conditions?”

“No, I think this time we'll change things around a bit. First, let's use a different location.” She walked back toward the pins, picked up the tube, and moved it over to lane twelve before returning to where Tripp and Dettweiler waited.

“Don't see as how that should make a difference,” said Tripp.

“Now, I'm afraid that was my last marble—and I don't think the ball return is going to cough it up. But I've got something just as good.” She pulled a small plastic baggie full of ball bearings out of her purse. “That okay with you, Frank?”

“I don't know, Natalia. Doesn't seem quite right to me.”

“Oh? Tell you what, Frank—how about if I put
ten
of these through that tube? That satisfy you?”

“Yeah, that seems fair. What do you think, Gord?”

Dettweiler didn't answer. He looked like a cruise ship novice who'd spent all his time at the buffet just before the sea turned rough.

Natalia grabbed a handful of ball bearings. She rolled one after another in quick succession down the lane, not even pausing to aim. Every single one shot straight down the center and through the tube at the end.

“Well,” said Tripp. He turned his head and stared at Dettweiler. “How about that. You're one hell of a marble player, Natalia.”

“Well, it helps when there's an electromagnetic strip right down the center of the alley,” said Natalia. She smiled at Dettweiler like a cat considering an extremely plump mouse. “And if you were the one who assigns lanes during a tournament, you could even make sure that your buddy with the custom-made ball—a ball with a layer of iron close to the surface—always got that particular lane when it mattered the most.”

Dettweiler's grin had returned, though it didn't look nearly as confident as it had before. “Oh, this is all just a misunderstanding. That's not an electromagnetic strip, it's a
static
electric strip; all alleys have 'em; it's to prevent dust buildup on the lanes.” Shaking his head, he walked behind the lunch counter and reached for a drawer. “This'll explain everything—”

“If you're looking for the gun,” said Tripp, “It's not there anymore. Though I was tempted to have Natalia leave it where it was; I'd love an excuse to put a few holes in you.”

“Static electric strip?” said Natalia. “Please. You're talking to a scientist, not one of your marks.”

Dettweiler sighed. “Look, that's a very fancy theory and all, but I don't
have
a custom-made ball full of iron—”

“No,” said Natalia, “but your friend Leroy does. I know, because that ball is sitting in my lab right now, right beside an X-ray machine that told me exactly what was inside. Frank got suspicious when he noticed Leroy resting between turns—but he wasn't resting. He was just waiting for his ball to come back, because it's the only one he practices with.”

Dettweiler nodded. “Leroy. Of course. You know, I never did trust him—”

Tripp cut him off. “You can save the finger-pointing for the trial. And I'm not talking about intent to defraud, either; you're going down for the murder of Hiram Davey.”

“Murder? How the hell do you get murder from a trick bowling ball?”

“You didn't murder Davey with a bowling ball,” said Natalia. “You used a knife. You were careful about getting rid of the murder weapon and Davey's laptop, but you didn't eliminate the one witness to the crime—because you needed him to win the tournament.”

Natalia crossed her arms. “Leroy's in custody right now. He's already given us a statement describing how you killed Davey because you were worried his book would reveal your scam.”