Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,98
the effects of the LSD would cause some kind of screwup. I’d refused, of course, and was now wondering if he had enlisted Cressa to put additional pressure on Tomlinson to stay.
Why would the Brazilian be so insistent? And devious? If Diemer wasn’t leaving for the Bone Field until tomorrow night, a Friday, what did it matter if I arrived alone tomorrow morning? My suspicions struck me as nonsensical until I’d sorted through potential motives.
I came up with three possible explanations. In two, Tomlinson wouldn’t be able to deal with the fallout in his current state, so the Brazilian was right in a way. He was better off staying here an extra day. In the third, though, Sanibel was the more dangerous place because, in that scenario, Robert Arturo Sr. played the role of Diemer’s target. And if Tomlinson happened to be at the beach house, and if he happened to get in the way . . . ?
But as I pictured it, the threads came unraveled. Why would the jet-set assassin court the mistress of a man he’d been hired to kill? Why would he risk robbing Cressa’s safe? Why the hell would he moor his yacht less than a mile from her beach house?
As I poured rum over ice, I forged several decrepit explanations, then discarded them. No . . . The father-in-law might be worthy of an enemy’s bullet, but he wasn’t Diemer’s target. The Brazilian was too good at what he did. He was here for a reason, I no longer doubted, but he was too skilled a technician to drag his spore over an X spot—a killing zone—more than once.
Convinced of it, I placed Tomlinson’s glass on the desk next to him, saying, “I think an extra day on Sanibel’s a good idea. Fly down with Dan. But do me a favor—stay off Diemer’s boat, okay?”
My pal had given up on tug-of-war and was sitting in front of the computer. “Whose?” he asked, not turning.
I’d slipped again. “I mean the Brazilian,” I said. “He’s got a weird vibe about him.”
“The Nazi dude, yeah, no kidding. I don’t think he gives a damn about the Bone Field or the wreckage. What’s he really up to, you think?”
“He’s not a Nazi,” I replied, “and he knows almost as much about Flight 19 as Dan. It was a hobby long before he came to Dinkin’s Bay, so you’re wrong. Thing is, he’s got his eye on Cressa. Which means he sees you as competition. That’s why I want you to stay away. You two alone on a boat is just asking for trouble.”
The letter from the dog’s Atlanta owner was on the computer screen, I realized, so Tomlinson only bobbed his head a couple times to agree with me. Then said in an offhand way, “Cressa, she actually is a good person, you know.”
He expected a response. Instead, I poured a dab of rum into my iced tea and stirred it with the closest thing handy, a scalpel.
“Women who aren’t allowed to follow their own paths,” he mused, “either fake it until their spirit shrivels up and dies or they fight for their lives by going underground. Cressa was forced underground. I can’t blame her for that.”
Before I could tell him he was misguided, Tomlinson shifted the subject to the letter. “This has gotta be a joke, right? You rescue the family dog, now this guy wants you to jump through his legal hoops? Screw him, that’s what I say.”
“Some of my e-mails are in Spanish,” I replied. “If you need help translating, let me know.”
Right over his head. “Not a problem, usually, but this one really burns my butt, man.”
“Because you’re so sensitive,” I countered, then gave up by reminding him the woman was waiting in the car, and also offered a warning: “Keep an eye out for the Haitian tomorrow. Sooner or later, someone’ll tow his boat in. And he’s going to be pissed! Straight for No Más, that’s what I think. He’ll try to catch you alone. So stay at Cressa’s place . . . no, that’s no good either. Whether she admits it or not, Kondo might have sold Deano drugs through her. So it’s better if you both stay here.” I waited a moment. “You hear me?”
“Atlanta!” Tomlinson exclaimed, noticing the letterhead. “They’re saying the dog ran away and survived all that insane traffic? Even if he did, this dog’s a stud with brains—he would’ve stopped in Central Florida, not gone clear to