Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,80

with a gun. I won’t be a part of it.”

Peasants was the translation.

“This isn’t Brazil,” I reminded him, “it’s Sanibel Island, which means the guys I know are probably overtrained, so you can stop worrying.”

Diemer immediately shrugged his acquiescence, which told me I’d just been hand-fed the only concession he was willing to make. I was thinking, He won’t stop there, which the man proved by saying, “There’s something else I want—and it’s not negotiable.”

Flight 19. That was his price. The jet-set assassin wanted to be included in the search. He wanted to be along every step of the way and receive an equal share if there was profit.

“I have partners,” I reminded him.

“Telephone them now,” he said, getting to his feet, “but no mention of why I’m to join you. Then call your policeman friend, if you must—but speak as if you already have the evidence. It’s smarter to document ownership in advance of stealing it.”

I didn’t take his advice; waited until after eleven p.m. to telephone Lt. Kerry Brett and tell him I had photos and video of a stalker.

By then, it was true.

21

THE NEXT MORNING, IN THE GRAY AND SILKEN HEAT of a stormy Thursday, Dean Arturo confirmed a couple of things when he crashed through a glass door he had shattered with a camera tripod, then sprinted across the parking lot of a hotel, my off-duty cop friends in pursuit.

“Crazy as ten loons,” Tomlinson muttered, dazed by what had just happened or the hallucinogenics still in his system.

“That’s him, the one who came to my lab,” I said, meaning that Deano was also Luke Smith. Then added, “Stay where you are. I promised Kerry we wouldn’t get involved.”

“Involved?” Tomlinson said. “Hah! I want to get the hell out of here before the Earth catches fire!”

“Stay calm,” I told him. “Just sit there and let them handle it.”

Easy for me to say, but not so easy to heed as I watched Deano, ponytail swinging with every stride, hurdle a bike rack and disappear around the corner of the hotel. Kerry and his partner, Moonley, followed, Moonley pulling a radio from his pocket, not a firearm, before they, too, vanished behind the building.

“He’s headed for the beach,” I said, unaware I had opened the driver’s-side door and was standing outside my truck.

“This is your idea of nonviolent intervention!” Tomlinson hollered from inside. “I told you bad shit happens when I’m around cops. You and our new partner, the Nazi Brazilian—suddenly, it all makes sense!”

My pal was still brittle from a long night spent dealing with chemical demons and comforting the married mistress. For the past twenty minutes I’d been telling him the truth about how I’d discovered where Deano was staying. Shared it despite the Brazilian’s instructions to remain silent about the burglary. How else could I explain why we were in my truck, watching from a distance, while Kerry and his partner Moonley paid an unofficial call on the crazy brother-in-law? I had gone into detail—but also left out several key bits of information—about how my pact with the Germanic Brazilian had turned out better than expected.

Much better—until seconds ago when Dean Arturo crashed through the sliding glass doors of his hotel room and fled. And much too smoothly, as I was just now realizing, for the odds not to wipe the smug look off my face and remind me of something I knew better than most: in the field, nothing ever goes as planned.

—

UNTIL THAT INSTANT, my plan had gone without a hitch. At a little after eleven p.m., Vargas Diemer exited the side lawn of the Arturo property, wearing a jogging suit and surgical gloves. I had been standing watch near the street, which was where he’d slipped a candy box into my hands. Did it without slowing his breezy stride or saying a word, then disappeared toward the beach: a tourist out for a jog in the moonlight.

Impressive. Same with the Brazilian’s cat burglar skills demonstrated during the twenty-seven minutes it had taken him to override the security system, crack the safe, and reappear. Along with the candy box, Diemer had exited carrying an unfamiliar shoulder pack—a detail I had not shared with Tomlinson.

The bag wasn’t full, but it had looked heavy. Diemer hadn’t offered an explanation. I didn’t ask.

My truck had been parked at the Island Inn, and I waited until I was on the road to glance inside the box. It contained several video memory cards, a copy of a legal document—Crescent