Digging Up the Dead (18 page)

“Thatch,” she said into her phone after dialing his number. “I wonder if you’d mind calling in a favor to that nice spy you know?”

“You mean Dan at the FBI? You’re not off on one of your harebrained theories again, are you?”

“Of course not! What an idea. I merely wish to ascertain a fact.”

“Tosca, whenever you use those kinds of words and that tone of voice, I know you’re up to something wacky. If you’re at home, I’ll come over.”

She assured him she was home and would put the kettle on.

“You mean plug it in,” he corrected before hanging up.

“Yes, yes, plug it in,” she muttered to herself, “but there’s nothing like a kettle you can boil on a gas stove. I am positive water tastes better that way.”

Fifteen minutes later she heard Thatch’s steps on the stairs and went out to greet him, telling him that she’d just returned from a visit to Blair and tea was ready.

“And?” said Thatch.

“I will make yours iced.”

“No, I mean, what’s this theory?”

She indicated the sofa and brought over a cup of tea for herself and a glass of iced tea for her visitor. As he was about to take a drink, she said, “Graydon Blair is a murderer and a thief.”

Thatch set the glass back down on the coffee table, shaking his head and suppressing a snort.

“Jumping to conclusions again. Tosca, you really have to stop hoping to find a corpse or unmask a murderer so you can go back to England. It sounds almost comical.”

“This is no joke. I just knew there was something googly about that man when I met him at Karma’s party. I could feel it in my bones.

“Googly.”

“Yes, of course. A cricket term for when the bowler is a wrist spinner and turns the ball the opposite way than the batter expects. On top of that, didn’t you notice how Blair twirled his cigar holder but never smoked all evening? ”

“Lots of people are giving up smoking. Could be his way of quitting, like still clinging to his holder but not using it.”

Asking for proof of her accusation against Blair as a thief, Thatch, seeming bemused, listened as Tosca related her conclusion by showing him the magazine article about the stolen rebec she’d printed out. She drew his attention to the scratch on the side and gave him the details of her time on Blair’s boat and seeing his collection of musical instruments.

“So you see,
keresik,
all I need is for you to ask your spy chap if he can check out Blair’s whereabouts on the date that the rebec was stolen.”

She sat back on the sofa, satisfied she’d stated her case succinctly and had justified her plea for Thatch’s help. All he had to do, she repeated, was find out where the literary agent had been eleven years ago. She’d already searched his web site, but there was little information aside from the fact that he was the agent of record for Fuller Sanderson’s works. In fact, there was more space given to his father, Tinky, than to the son.

“And what will that prove?” said Thatch.

“That Blair was in New York and could have stabbed the owner of the rebec and stolen it. It’s the same instrument. Bet he’s got the dagger, too.”

After Thatch left Tosca’s house he put in a call to the FBI’s small satellite office in Anaheim that was an adjunct to the much larger Los Angeles bureau. He had kept in contact with two or three agents after retirement, and one in particular, Dan Delano, FBI Assistant Director in Charge, was a close friend.

“How about a few Stiegls?” said Thatch. “A six pack is cooling right now in my fridge.”

“Hey, man, in exchange for what? Let me think. Finding the Holy Grail, locating Captain Kidd’s treasure or discovering the lost city of Atlantis. Wait a minute, you’re looking for Montezuma’s gold. You still on that geology kick?”

Thatch laughed. “It’s not a kick, Dan, you know I’m a serious hobbyist. Just got back from a rained-out trip to Idaho. No, come on over, and I’ll fill you in.”

He waited until Delano arrived before putting out tortilla chips, salsa and two beers. The FBI agent was still dressed in his office clothes: a dark suit, white shirt and striped tie. He followed Thatch outside to the patio that overlooked the Newport Beach Upper Back Bay and sank into one of the two wooden-slatted Adirondack chairs, sighing loudly.

“Rough day?” asked Thatch.

“Kind of intense. A lot on our plate at the moment. Aside from keeping track of potential local terrorist lone wolf types, of which we’ve ID’d three in Orange County, cyberspace hackers are proliferating, and then there’re the usual number of pedophiles and bank robbers.” Delano leaned forward. “What was in Idaho?”

“Fishing in Bear Lake.”

“What did you catch, machinaws or cutthroat?”

“We jigged for trout, and I caught a sixteen-pound cutthroat, which I threw back in. I did catch a whitefish, though. Then we planned to go to the nearby rift volcano, but the rain was relentless, so I came back early.”

“When I retire I might just settle up there along with a bunch of other FBI guys who already have. Seems to attract former law enforcers who are tired of the rat race down here.”

Thatch bent down to open the cooler at his feet and handed his friend another beer.

“Dan, I need a favor. You can say no, of course, but I don’t come to you with frivolous requests, you know that.”

“No problem, buddy.”

“As a matter of fact, it could mean just one phone call. I’m looking for a killer who murdered a Jordanian diplomat in New York eleven years ago and stole a rare rebec from his house.”

“Uh, rebec?

“I know, I never knew what it was either. It’s a kind of guitar. The murderer was never caught. Think you can help? I’m sure the FBI was on the case. The victim was a diplomat.”

“Any other details?”

“Here’s the diplomat’s name and the name of the possible killer who calls himself Graydon Blair. We’d like to know if he was in New York at the time and anything else you can tell me about him. Oh, here’s an article about the case that Tosca downloaded from the Internet.”

“Ah, Tosca. Is she still cussing in Cornish?”

“All I’ll say is that my vocabulary is improving. So, Dan, will you do it?”

“Sure, Thatch.”

Graydon Blair spoke into the phone, “Of course our meeting is still on, Oliver, although Karma won’t be able to make it. An irate customer needs her to drive down to San Clemente immediately. No problem that Karma won’t be here. You and I are the main players.”

He heard Swenson mumble something about waiting until Karma was free.

“No, no, Oliver. Come down to the boat as planned. I’m polishing the handrails. Is this something aside from what the three of us are going to discuss? Okay, okay. Calm down. When will you be here? Right, see you in half an hour.”

He kept on working till he reached the end of the stainless steel bow rail, then took the polish and rags into the cabin. In the small bathroom mirror he made sure his hair was in place. After putting the cleaning materials away and slipping the dirty rags into a bag to take home to launder, Blair remained in the cabin, sitting on the white leather bench seat at the small dining table where the Kinnor harp rested, two of its strings missing. Why are my strings snapping all at once? he wondered. From a large, thick envelope that bore several stamps from Denmark and two blue
Par Avion
stickers, he removed a plastic bag holding new strings. He took them out of the bag and placed them next to his musical instrument, pleased they were exactly as ordered.

Deciding to make the replacements after Swenson left, when he’d be able to focus on the tuning process more accurately, Blair lit a cigar and thought about the visitor he was expecting. Swenson had done a damned fine job, considering what an effort it required. He and Sally had been lucky he stayed on after Sanderson died. Now what could he want? The writer had almost fulfilled his side of the bargain just before Sally kicked the bucket, and his bank balance would explode in several months. Surely Swenson wasn’t asking for more money?

Blair looked at his watch, saw it was ten o’clock and stubbed out his cigar. He went on deck to see the writer trudging toward the boat.

“Hello, Oliver,” said Blair. “Come aboard.”

Swenson was sweating as he mounted the small portable steps Blair had placed on the dock next to the boat for easier access. In the cabin Swenson could barely squeeze himself onto the bench seat opposite the agent and apologized for knocking the ashtray off the table.

“Not an issue,” said Blair. “I’m glad to see you after that terrible tragedy at Karma’s house the other night. So tell me. What’s up? Are you concerned about your job at the publishing house? Karma and I are extremely satisfied with your work, and once we get the ball rolling you’ll be a rich man.”

“No,” Swenson said, “I’m not worried about being fired. I know you are confident that the work I did is exactly what you asked for. In fact, that’s why I am here. I wasn’t sure who I should talk to about my plans. Do you know who is taking over at Hirsch House?”

“Haven’t a clue. It’s in chaos right now because Sally had run out of money, although I know you’ve been paid to date. My guess is it will simply go out of business. So no more Hirsch House. As I told you and Karma, we’re going after the big international publishers.”

He offered Swenson a drink, which was declined.

“Oliver,” Blair continued, “what plans are you referring to? Are you joining another publisher? Your editing has been first class, and Sally had said that your other work is brilliant, more than Karma and I could hope for. We might even pay you a bonus.”

Blair wondered if he was piling it on too thick. Like most of the ghostwriters he knew who were in the same line of business as Swenson, they weren’t the type to suddenly produce an ego. Their contracts forbade them to go public. Everything they found out from tape recordings of a client and his family and colleagues was to be kept confidential, and when the book was finished, all materials that the client had supplied, such as tapes, photos, documents and letters, were returned. Have we misjudged Swenson?

To calm down the agitated writer, Blair hastened to describe the inquiries he’d been making to offer Sanderson’s books to other publishers when he’d told them that the contracts he had with Hirsch House to represent Sanderson were now moot, given the bankruptcy situation.

“Here’s the list of my contacts,” Blair said, producing two pages of names. “I’m sure we’ll get into a bidding war. This is really exciting news for you, Oliver, in light of what we are about to do. By the way, I need the flash drive. It wasn’t in Sally’s office.”

“Yes, yes,” Swenson stammered, “but that’s the thing, you see. I’m not going to participate. I’m out. I never did like the idea to begin with.”

He pulled a linen handkerchief from his trouser pocket and dabbed at the perspiration on his brow.

“What? You can’t quit. There’s no possibility of your quitting. The third book is only half finished.”

Blair got up and went out to the deck, shaking his head.

Swenson followed him, saying, “Gray, my mind’s made up. I’m getting married, and I am going to start with a clean slate. In fact, I am writing another book for my fiancée, a tell-all about the Sanderson dynasty. Your plan has bothered me ever since you came up with it two years ago. It’s a sleazy way to honor Fuller. Honor! Ha! That’s a laugh.”

“You’re wrong,” said Blair. “The two and a half books you have ghostwritten are exactly the way he would have written them. In fact, they are even more dramatic than anything he’s written. You’ve given the characters more depth and turned Johnny DiLeo into a much more complex and interesting guy. Come on, Oliver, tell me you’re going to finish the third manuscript.”

“I won’t. I’m quitting.”

“Now look, Karma and I have it all scheduled to be announced over the next two weeks. We’re going to bring the media in and tell them we’ve found not only Sanderson’s lost manuscript but a couple of others he left and that you’ve already edited them. So you see, we need you. No one will ever suspect you ghostwrote all three. What do you think of the titles? Very Sanderson, don’t you think?”

Blair flicked the stub of his cigar into the bay as the two men stood in the stern of the boat. He continued, “We haven’t quite come up with a story on how we found them. Karma joked we could say they were buried on the land Fuller left her, but then we decided to keep it a mystery for now. We’ll string it out as long as we can. The media will eat it up. Two unpublished books we knew nothing about and the lost partial manuscript. This will go international, no doubt about it. Imagine the sales!” He turned to Swenson. “Come on, man, you’re going to make a ton of money, too, plus what we’ve already given you. Let’s go in the cabin and have a drink.” He grabbed Swenson’s arm, but he pulled away.

“You don’t understand, Graydon. When I said I’m going to make a clean slate of it, that means I’m going public. My fiancée already knows what I did.”

Blair stood still, as if turned to stone.

Swenson walked over to the rail and leaned against it, his thick arms dangling loosely, his head hanging down. He turned toward Blair.

“Sorry, I hate to disappoint you, but my mind’s made up,” he mumbled.

“All right, all right. Come on inside and have a drink. We need to talk this out some more.”

“Nothing you say can change anything, but okay, I could use a brandy. I was so nervous about telling you.”

The two went inside. Blair opened a door to one of the cabinets in the small galley kitchen where he kept several bottles of liquor. He came back to the table with two half-full glasses.

“Let’s toast,” he said, holding up his glass. “Skol!”

Swenson took a large gulp and set down the glass. “Wow, great stuff. What is it?”

“A Borderies 1914 Cognac Hermitage.”

“Vintage, then. Must be pretty rare.” Swenson took another large swallow, draining the glass.

“Yes, it is,” said Blair. “I came across it in France three years ago. Notice the roast walnut and toffee aroma and taste? No, I guess not. The way you’re wolfing it down, you’re missing the entire experience of this marvelous old brandy.”