Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,54

maybe that’s what the cameras are about. Maybe even the sabotage of our plane, too, to get to you. Depends on how crazy the husband and the in-laws are. Or how crazy she is.”

“Prenuptial agreements,” Tomlinson mused. “Never even crossed my mind before I married the Dragon Lady. There’s your answer to the one thing that me, the Beatles, John Lennon, and the battleship Arizona all have in common. A genuine ball breaker sent from the East. Female variety of the Asian flu.”

He was referring to a tiny little Ph.D. he had once lovingly called Moontree, although her name was Musashi. Their daughter—whom Tomlinson has had to retain a lawyer to even visit—is Nicky. The wife’s Anglomaniac choice, not his. He had lobbied for the names Coquina or Junonia, but had been overruled. At the time, Tomlinson had been heavily into animism and also inhaling some kind of surgical gas, halothane I think, which he had balanced (I’m guessing) with amphetamines. “My synthetic period,” as he calls it.

I said to him, “Don’t get fixated on your ex-wife. You need to pay attention, buster. I just told you something important and it went right over your head.”

“If some little yellow succubus had stuck your Zamboni in a light socket, you’d understand,” he replied.

“Let’s stick with your new girlfriend. If the prenup has a fidelity clause, Cressa loses money and you might end up in court when she fights it. If it doesn’t, then she wants her husband to know she’s screwing around. Cressa is throwing it right in his face to force a divorce and you’re her costar. So if the husband or one of her in-laws is nuts, guess what? You’re the one they’re trying to kill, not me or Dan, so think about your buddies if nothing else.”

Unruffled, Tomlinson replied, “From what I remember, you were here last night, too, Doc. You could end up on the big screen. You know, best supporting actor? I think it’s safe to say we are officially Eskimo brothers.”

“Eskimo?” I asked, then waved it away. “Forget it, I don’t even want to know. Tonight, just pay attention, okay? We could level with Cressa about why the seaplane almost crashed—put it out there and see how she reacts—but, personally, I don’t trust her. Or try to finesse the truth out of her about the prenup. I’ll follow your lead, you’re the gabby one—unless you drop the ball.”

“Baseball metaphors,” Tomlinson smiled, getting into my truck. “You really don’t know what it means?”

Eskimo brothers again.

“Get your seat belt on,” I told him, then drove to the beach house and parked in the drive, indifferent to the invisible laser that recorded our arrival.

15

CRESSA ARTURO LOOKED FROM ME TO TOMLINSON, then back to me and smiled, “Why is it I feel like a kid in an ice-cream store?” which was her way of proving she could relax and have fun with the subject, a soon-to-be divorcée whose new life was already on a roll.

Tonight, her outfit matched the meticulously casual décor: a white linen dress that caught the patio breeze, with straps more like two scarves that lifted her breasts in suspension and framed cleavage. Beige sandals, silver bracelet, and a white ceramic watch, but it was the beach dress that added a bounce to her step as she exited the kitchen carrying drinks.

I could sense Tomlinson about to reference ice cream—Eskimo Bars, possibly—and was silencing him with a look when Cressa stiffened. “Was that a car? I think someone just pulled into the drive.” She put the tray down and tilted her head to listen.

“Cress, sweetie, your whole breathing rhythm changes when you’re nervous. Realize that?” Tomlinson, eager to help, was already relighting the joint he and the woman had started. I scooted my chair back to avoid the smoke.

The married mistress was still attuned to sounds outside: tree frogs, the wash of waves . . . then the BANG! of a heavy car door.

I thought, Uh-oh, wondered if I’d been unwise to trip the laser-beam camera sensor.

“Can’t imagine who it could be,” the woman muttered, then hurried inside the house to have a look, her sandals clicking on tile. After a few seconds, she called to us from across the house, “My god, it’s him! It’s Rob! What the hell is he doing here?”

Tomlinson was looking at me, smiling through a cannabis haze as if he’d been surprised by jealous husbands a thousand times, and was now pleased to share the experience with me, his ol’