Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,81

Arturo’s prenuptial agreement, I correctly assumed—along with an envelope and a Post-it note, something written on it in pencil.

The parking lot at Lilly’s Jewelry, on Tarpon Bay Road, was empty, so I pulled in and took a closer look: eight memory cards, which was promising. In a week of surveillance, Dean Arturo, hopefully, would appear in at least a few pieces of accidental footage. Finding the shot might take hours of scanning but worth the effort if it got him off the island.

My laptop and a card reader were in a computer bag next to me, but I had decided to wait. Wise choice, it turned out. The envelope, when I opened it, contained photos that spared me all that scanning. The Brazilian cat burglar had found a packet of photos that showed Deano in action. In one, he was peering through the curtains into Cressa’s home—the patio railing was wood on chrome and as distinctive as Deano’s own facial features: a good-looking guy, but for the scar on his forehead, and blazing pale eyes. There were two shots of him looking up from the lighted pool deck. Several more of Deano in a hoodie, setting up his surveillance cameras: shadowy images that wouldn’t hold up in court but good enough for my purposes. The photos were taken by Cressa, presumably, and probably shot as insurance against a denial from Deano that he was spying.

The photos alone, I’d hoped, would be enough to convince my cop pals that Deano was stalking his own sister-in-law—a woman who wanted to protect the family name and was too frightened to file a formal complaint. Lt. Kerry Brett was a rational man and a total pro. Same with his partner Moonley. Show the cops the photos and suggest they give Deano the option of leaving the island or face charges. No rough stuff, no intimidation, just an honest warning that videoing unsuspecting citizens wouldn’t be tolerated on our happy little island.

Convincing Kerry Brett had been key—and not just the key to scaring off Deano. At first Dan Futch had refused to honor my agreement with Diemer. No surprise. So I’d spent ten minutes on the phone arguing the wisdom of banishing an enemy quietly but without admitting my plan required breaking and entering and theft. “No headlines, no harm, no FAA,” I had assured him. Then even Tomlinson had balked at sharing the Bone Field with an outsider until my nonviolent approach finally won him over.

The success or failure of the plan all came down to a fifteen-minute meeting that took place around midnight in the jewelry store parking lot. Brett and his partner Moonley were on duty and had some time on what they’d said was a “very quiet night”—good news in itself after I’d just helped burgle a house.

The two cops had listened to my story, and they’d studied the photos while their squad car’s computer turned up something I didn’t know: Dean Arturo had a police record—misdemeanor assault and resisting arrest—that added weight to my claim the man was mentally unstable.

Friends of mine or not, though, cops are rightfully guarded when dealing with civilians who try to tell them how to do their jobs. Sanibel is among the most desirable billets in law enforcement, and I was dealing with top hands, not affable good old boys who were easily manipulated.

The Post-it note Diemer provided had made finding Deano almost too easy for them to refuse. On it, written in a woman’s hand, were initials and an address: DA West Wind, Rm 243-244.

The obsessive Cressa Arturo had done the last of the drone work for me. DA was Dean Arturo, and he was staying at a beachfront hotel, rooms 243–244. To me, booking two rooms suggested Deano’s affair with Cressa hadn’t ended. I could think of no other reason, so it didn’t strike me as odd—although it should have. A dangerous man books two adjoining rooms? But I was too preoccupied . . . no, too self-satisfied with what I’d accomplished to bother exploring the implications.

Which is why on this gray and stormy morning in the West Wind parking lot, while watching my nonviolent brain child come unraveled, I stepped away from my truck and whispered, “You bumbling dumbass. You idiot!”

Meaning me, Marion Ford.

—

WHY DOES A DANGEROUS MAN, operating alone, book an adjoining room?

The bumbling dumbass got his answer less than a minute after Deano sprinted toward the beach: because he wasn’t operating alone. A second man had appeared in the shattered