Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,63

just left with,” Tomlinson said, looking at me. “Good-looking foreign dude, he owns that monster.”

“Twenty minutes tops,” I said, then repeated, “It’s a business matter, so, I’m serious, the less you know, the better.”

A slow smile signaled that Tomlinson had sorted through the data but had misread my motives. He said, “Torpedo the rich bastard—how else you gonna compete with a dude like that? Sure, I’ll do it. Just tell me one little thing: are you going to steal his shit or plant some dope? Either way, I know the drill, so float on, man.”

17

I WAS IN THE AFT SECTION OF THE BRAZILIAN’S YACHT using a flashlight to search his stateroom when my cell buzzed: Hannah was finally returning my call. I told myself it was idiotic to attempt a conversation while trespassing on a million-dollar yacht, but I answered anyway. Lucky me for trusting bad judgment.

Sounding formal, I heard Hannah’s voice say, “My client forgot something, so I’ve got about five minutes to talk if it’s that important.”

I stiffened and asked, “You’re at the marina . . . now?” As I said it, I heard Tomlinson’s warning whistle—my pal’s criminal skills obviously rusty. I rushed to a starboard porthole and brightened the room by pushing the curtains aside.

On the phone, Hannah replied, “I don’t know why I’m not surprised you didn’t notice my skiff come back—you’re such a busy man.”

I was too rattled by what I saw through the window to respond to the barb. Vargas Diemer was already on the yacht’s boarding ramp, his knees visible only for a second before I heard the sound of his shoes on the upper deck. Two . . . three . . . four graceful paces, and I knew the Germanic Brazilian had stopped to deactivate his security system—no need to bother, but, hopefully, the man wouldn’t realize it.

Tomlinson whistled again. Three sharp blasts, fingers to his lips.

Whispering into the phone, I demanded, “What’s he looking for?” The door to the master stateroom was open, I realized. It had been closed when I arrived, so I had to make a decision fast.

“Who?” Hannah said. “You mean Tomlinson? I guess he’s whistling for your dog.” Then asked, “Where are you? Don’t tell me you’re whispering because of that woman.”

I replied, “No, what’s your client looking for?” while my brain wrestled with two options: I could either run for it or sneak the door closed and hope the Brazilian had returned for something he’d forgotten in the main cabin.

Hannah asked, “Are you drunk or just nosy?”

I came very close to replying, Neither, I’m on your client’s boat, which would have required the woman to take action—possibly attempt to help me even though the right thing to do was call 911 on behalf of her paying customer. I couldn’t put her in that position, so said, “Call you back,” and jammed the phone in my pocket, the Brazilian’s footsteps above me now, crossing the cabin toward the stairs.

Click-click. The bedroom door made a pistol hammer sound when I closed it, the brass latch sliding home, then I turned and used the flashlight, looking for a place to hide. The room consumed most of the stern area and seemed roomier for the mirrors above a bed that was framed in mahogany and joined to the wall. A dresser, two vanity mirrors, the closets and the entrance to the master bath were done in teak and brass, the curtains gold, the bedspread blue on green—the colors of Brazil’s national soccer team, I remembered. Lots of closet space, but none big enough to hold a man my size. On the bed, I also noted, was a tiny hip pack, SAGE RODS embroidered on khaki canvas. It was a fly case—probably the reason Diemer had come back.

Damn it.

No doubt about it, he’d come back for his newly tied flies. I heard the gangway door open, then Diemer’s feet on the stairs, so I crossed the room into the master bath. It smelled of aftershave and diesel. There was sink space, an antique tub bolted to the deck, a cylindrical shower beside it, the floor still wet. The shower was ringed with a privacy curtain, but it wasn’t drawn. I thought, Like I’ve got another option, and stepped into the shower, then swiped the curtain closed. Blue with green stripes again—the assassin loved his soccer.

I switched off the flashlight and waited.

Diemer wasn’t a man to whistle and hum. He came down the steps on rubber-soled shoes at a gallop