Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,51

Tiger Lilly, where I would have stopped but just in time heard the fragments of an argument that froze my fingers inches from the visitor’s bell.

JoAnn accusing, “. . . might as well just admit you’re seeing someone!”

Rhonda firing back, “As if you’d notice . . . and so damn self-righteous—”

“I’ve never done that to you! Who is it? Tell me!”

“So now you own me, too, is that it—”

“An appointment with a doctor, that’s all I’m asking! Honey, your hormones are all screwed up!”

Turning a blind eye to the small, inevitable indignities that befall us all is one of the duties of friendship, so I hurried away doing my version of a tiptoe jog. By sparing the ladies aboard Tiger Lilly, I was of course also sparing myself the role of mediator, but I chose to believe I was being courteous, not cowardly.

Mack and Jeth were still in the office, so I waved good-bye, but Jeth had already unlocked the door. “Tom . . . tah-tah-Tomlinson was looking for you,” he stammered, “’bout fifteen minutes ago. Said you two were doing somethin’ tonight—I forget the word he used. But he was gonna be late, so I should tell you.”

Surveillance? If that was the word, it was true. We planned to visit the Arturo property before joining Cressa for dinner, although no telling why Tomlinson would share the information. Jeth seldom stutters these days, but still avoids problematic syllables so I didn’t press the issue.

“He’ll be late,” I said. “What a shock.” Jeth was still smiling as I stepped inside and spoke to Mack. “Did you find anything else on that Stiletto and the Lamberti?”

“Already have it out for you,” he replied, then looked at Jeth. “This is just between us. Understood?”

I spent a few minutes going through documents while Jeth and Mack went back and forth, having fun rehashing details of our encounter with the bobcat, then the limb breaking.

“Bloody drongos!” Mack roared. “Had to be like trying to catch a damn refrigerator—surprised either one of you can still walk.”

Jeth agreed by rolling his sore shoulder, and they were both still laughing when I left to jog home, where instead of showering I filled the dog’s water bucket, then lugged the heavy Soviet binoculars outside to the porch.

To the east, the moon was huge, a blaze of smoky orange, and sunset clouds were still streaked with tangerine. A wooden courtesy screen shields my outdoor shower from the marina, so I moved the screen to the railing to create a hidden viewing station. When I had the tripod positioned the way I wanted it, I swung the binoculars toward A-Dock and took a look.

The Lamberti Custom, sixty yards away, was partially blocked by other boats, but I could see enough. It was a beautiful yacht, white-hulled, with a white upper deck that was trimmed with mahogany, teak, and stainless steel, Palm Beach registration below the name SEDUCI in luminous gold script. Translation: “seduction,” or the masculine spelling for “seductress”—several possible meanings, in Portuguese, I guessed. The Brazilian had taken his bottle of white wine and cigar to the flybridge, where, I realized, he had a clear view of my stilthouse. But his attention wasn’t on me. He was sipping wine and talking on a cell phone, his expression blank, movements relaxed and fluid.

According to Mack and the paperwork I’d seen, now and earlier, Alberto Sabino was CEO of an import-export company that had offices in Rio, Luxembourg, and Dubai. His real name, though, was Vargas Diemer, originally from São Pedro, Brazil—information provided by my aging pal Bernie Yeager.

Bernie had some other interesting tidbits. The area around São Pedro was settled by Germans in the 1940s and known for the freakish number of twins born there—the result of experiments done by Dr. Josef Mengele, some geneticists believe. The Nazi physician had posed as a veterinarian during the years he’d lived in São Pedro. It wasn’t until long after 1979, when Mengele was drowned by a SEAL-trained Mossad agent, that researchers made the connection between the reclusive veterinarian and a small village where for three generations more than half of the infants born are fraternal or identical twins.

“They are very, very German,” Bernie had told me, then informed me of something unexpected and disturbing. Vargas Diemer was the son of a locksmith and now a pilot for Swissair. It was ideal cover for an elite thief and sometime assassin—which he was, according to Yeager, although his avocation was known only to a few