Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,91

sent weren’t taken at Westminster or a field trial—not that he would have made the mistake—and the only thing remarkable about the animal was his oddities. Some kind of rare barkless breed, perhaps, known for its willingness to stay for hours on command before savaging the neighborhood boats and pool cleaners.

The only way to learn the truth was to sign the forms, which I had already done—but had yet to hit the Send button. No particular reason why. Even if I’d wanted to keep the retriever—which I didn’t—the man I see in the mirror, although flawed, had yet to sink to something as reprehensible as stealing a family’s dog.

Thinking that reminded me I was supposed to call Vargas Diemer. I did.

“Is this Alberto?” I asked tentatively.

“Alberto Sabino, Rio World Exports,” the Brazilian replied, meaning we would stick with his alias.

“Dan Futch is here,” I said. “I was thinking you two ought to meet.”

“That explains the seaplane tied to your dock,” Diemer replied—an attempt at humor, possibly. Then he offered further instructions, saying, “I hope you’ve told him I have a commercial license. So we can discuss airplanes sensibly?”

“He’ll know it by the time you get here,” I said.

Diemer ended that. “Your dog, I don’t care to have him show me his teeth again. I’ll open a Malbec and have cheese out. Your friend with the long hair, will he be—”

“Tomlinson has other plans,” I interrupted.

“I see. Too drunk last night? Or was it drugs?” A judgmental tone that disapproved.

I responded, “You hear the music outside your door . . . Alberto? It’s called a party. He’s around here somewhere and he’s doing just fine.”

If I’d told the truth, Diemer’s little trap wouldn’t have worked, but I had stepped right into it. “Really. On the phone this morning, Cressa told me your friend gave her LSD. She sounded frightened, said he was in bad shape, too.”

“Dan and I will be there in a little bit,” I told him. “Anything else?”

“Ring the bell before coming aboard. And Dr. Ford? After the pilot leaves, I would like ten minutes alone to discuss something.”

Back on a formal basis again. Which is why I tried a preemptive strike. “I had to tell Tomlinson about breaking into the house. I never said I wouldn’t.”

“That’s not what I want to discuss,” the Brazilian said and hung up.

25

WE WERE SITTING ON THE YACHT, CHEESE, WINE, AND a NA beer for Dan within reach—three wealthy dudes as we might have appeared to any stranger who had stumbled upon the party going on ashore. The fishing guides were done for the day, and some clients had stuck around to watch them cast-net mullet, then gut them for the grill, where hot dogs and oyster were already roasting. Several slips down, on Tiger Lilly, JoAnn or Rhonda had hit the outdoor speakers, and Buffett was doing “Havana Day Dreaming,” recorded live, the volume just right so we could talk.

Dan was talking now.

“There’s an old gentleman in Naples I’ve been after for years. He wouldn’t talk to me, though. But this morning—I’d just cleared customs, coming back from Nassau—and, out of the blue, I get a call. It’s from the gentleman’s granddaughter. Get this”—Futch, excited, put down his bottle—“he’d heard about the tail section we found. Suddenly, he wants to meet me. See, these old guys, they have their own network—”

Diemer interrupted, “He was a pilot during the war?”

Futch said, “Doc knows all this, but I should back up. The last ten, twelve years, I’ve been tracking down the Avenger pilots, a lot of them retired to Florida. Good guys, everyone I’ve met. After the war, they did their forty-year hitch at some job, you know, shoveling snow, raising kids, the regular crap, then came back where they trained as young guys. Palm Beach, Lauderdale, Key West—the military built more than fifty air bases in Florida within two years after Pearl Harbor—which makes it easy for me, ’cause I hit all those places on my charters.”

“You have contact information for these men?” Diemer asked. “How many? They must be in their eighties or older.”

From his briefcase Futch had taken out what looked like a scrapbook sheathed in plastic—“All family stuff. Don’t even bother. Here’s what’s interesting”—then produced an envelope of old photos, some of them framed, others still Brownie-sized, with scalloped edges, and began sorting through them, his patient expression telling Diemer I’m getting to it.

He and the Swissair pilot had already gotten their sparring out of the way, each proving to