Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,89

box, milk in the minibar. Sounds crazy, I know, because it is crazy.”

Futch sat forward and pushed his ball cap back. “You mean someone tried to kill us because of a goddamn cat?”

I shook my head and said, “Down there in the Glades, if Tomlinson hadn’t been so gallant about his married girlfriend’s name, you might have put it together right away. Does the name Arturo mean anything?”

“The Arturo family? You’re shitting me.”

“Robert Arturo Senior,” I said. “He’s supposedly got a lot of money.”

“Yeah. Big-timer from New Jersey, the family charters Frank Davis’s boat sometimes. Live bait, not jigging, okay? So a couple seasons back, I fished them because Frank had engine trouble. I remember because of the name—Deano, like the singer?—plus, one of them’s married to a blonde who would stop traffic.” A light blinked on behind the pilot’s sunglasses. “Geezus . . . you’re not telling me Tomlinson’s screwing her?”

I shrugged. “You’d have to ask him. Point is, our problems are over.” Then explained the probable linkage: Dan discussing Flight 19 with clients, Tomlinson leaking info to Cressa Arturo about the Avenger wreckage, Dean Arturo’s failed TV series, Tarpon Slayers, and his fixation on us—the three men who, in his mind, had destroyed his career but could also save it.

“Deano crashed a plane a few years back,” I said. “He hasn’t been right in the head since. But he’d know how to wire a tail rudder. Maybe he met his buddy in a psych ward, I don’t know, but the other guy’s no better.” Then held out my left hand, which was banded with a bruise, red and purple, my pinky finger black and bent like a can opener.

“Jesus Christ, Doc. You can’t leave for the islands tomorrow with a hand like that.”

I asked, “You still plan to meet us Saturday morning, right?”

“Yeah—and I might have something new on our Avenger, that’s why I came. But I’m not even going to talk about it unless you agree to get that hand X-rayed first, okay?”

“In naval crash records,” I said, “you found the plane, didn’t you?”

The pilot wanted to tell me, couldn’t wait, but he set his jaw and said, “Uh-uh. First the hand. If I didn’t have a trip in the morning, I’d fly you to see a doctor friend in Boca Grande right now.”

Futch, a stubborn man. Now that Deano was in jail, I didn’t mind postponing a day or two, but I wasn’t going to wait for news on the Avenger wreckage. “A splint, which I don’t need, and they’ll tell me to use ice,” I replied. “It just looks bad—and could’ve been worse. The two of them got interested in spear hunting on a trip to Africa. Cressa didn’t say it, but I’m guessing it was some kind of therapy retreat—sweat lodges, the primal roots deal. The guy—his name really is Luke Smith, the film shyster I told you about—he swung a piece of bamboo at me and took off. Bamboo as in spear, but no point on the shaft, luckily.”

I flexed my left hand without wincing much. “See? Works just fine.” Then pointed at the briefcase and said, “Now, damn it, tell me what you found out about the Avenger.”

Futch gave me a confused look, then rolled his eyes to put the details behind us. “Where’s Tomlinson? He should hear this, too.” The pilot reached for the briefcase, something important inside. Should I murk the subject even more with talk of acid-laced grass and a malicious drug dealer?

No . . . so I told him, “He’s either at the party, or he’s”—I didn’t want to bring Cressa Arturo into it—“he’s taking care of a friend. She, this friend, they both have what you’d call really bad hangovers. Or they might have gone to Lighthouse Point to watch the sunset.”

It was a possibility. Tomlinson had returned from No Más, binoculars around his neck, maybe hoping to catch a glimpse of the witch doctor as he drifted out to sea. Only a guess.

Futch, shaking his head again, was opening the briefcase. “You think that guy will ever grow up? Quirko . . . I don’t know, Doc.”

“Actually,” I said, “Quirko has made real strides in the last couple of days. Our new partner, he’s here, though, so maybe it’s time you two met. Or tell me what you found first and then—” A galloping vibration on the lower deck stopped me. It was the retriever coming up the steps, moving almost as fast as he did