Ocean Prey (A Prey Novel #31) - John Sandford Page 0,48

No cowboy boots, of course, that takes it too far. If you buy a bolo, get a good one. Antique Navajo, that’s what you’re looking for. There’s a place in Santa Fe called Shiprock Gallery. They got the real stuff.”

* * *

On the way back to their rooms, Bob said, “You look troubled.”

“What do you know about bolo ties?” Lucas asked.

“Not a fuckin’ thing,” Bob said. “Not only that, I plan to keep it that way.”

“Jesus . . . I mean, what if they’re coming back?” Lucas was appalled.

“Raiding a Mafia nest doesn’t bother you, but you’re troubled by a bolo tie?”

“When you put it like that, I sound stupid,” Lucas said.

“There you go,” Bob said.

CHAPTER

TWELVE

Jack Cattaneo walked over to the ice cream stand, got a strawberry cone, and sat on a bench next to Behan, who said, “The marshals took the bait, but they’re not going straight in. They got rooms at a motel across the street from Romano’s place. It looks like they’re planning to watch him for a while.”

“Why?”

Behan ran his free hand through his hair; he was dressed all in white, white golf slacks and a loose, long-sleeved white linen shirt. “I talked to Jimmy and he thinks they probably want to spot Romano doing something flaky, so they can kick the door. Anyway, they’re in there and the brothers got an eye on them.”

“An eye on them? From where?”

Behan chuckled. “They checked into the same fuckin’ hotel. They’ll be watching twenty-four-seven, and when the marshals make their move, they’ll be right behind them. We want to catch them right at Romano’s door, or inside, if they kick it.”

“Hope it’s not getting too complicated,” Cattaneo said. He sniffed once: something fishy in the air, beyond the usual salt from the ocean; somebody frying up a salmon somewhere. Whatever it was, it didn’t go with the ice cream. “Too many moving parts. A straight ambush would be more certain, make it look like a fucked-up robbery.”

“Nobody would believe that. And we’d lose Romano—the misdirection and the benefits up north.”

“I’m still nervous.”

“That’s what we pay you for—but this doesn’t have anything to do with us,” Behan said. “If the brothers fuck it up, they can’t put a finger on us. Jimmy hired them by remote control, and we don’t know nuttin’ about nuttin’.”

“What about the pipe?”

“Jimmy got one back from where we dumped them, cleaned it up, and put it in a dumpster out back behind Romano’s shop. The garbage pickup was yesterday, so we got a week,” Behan said. “The question is, how long do we have to wait? I don’t think it’ll be long . . . If Romano doesn’t give them a reason, the marshals’ll think of some way they can mess with him. The way these two guys operate, they’ll frame something up if they have to.”

“You trust this Elliot guy?” Cattaneo asked.

“No. He’ll go away,” Behan said. He took a lick from his cone, a rum-raisin, and said, “Which brings me to an uncomfortable subject. Your friend Alicia.”

“Ah, shit.” Cattaneo took a lick of ice cream. “She’s a nice girl. I was afraid you’d want her to go away.”

“Jack, c’mon,” Behan said. “You know the score. She could have put a finger on all of us.”

Cattaneo stopped licking: “What do you mean, ‘Could have’? Is she . . .”

“She’s gone. We didn’t feel like we could wait. I sent Jimmy over there. Gotta say, though, she had a convenient apartment, right across from the ’glades.”

“Ah, Jesus. Really? I feel terrible now.”

“You’ll get over it. You must’ve had some idea that something would have to happen after she called you.”

“Yeah, but . . . I woulda liked to’ve got a last piece of ass.”

“I know, but . . .” Their cones had paper wrappers at the bottom and Behan peeled his off, popped the remnant of the cone into his mouth, chewed a few times, said, “Good,” and, “The real problem’s gonna be the pipes. When the marshals go away, there’s gonna be a lot more attention down here. I’m told the pipes are good forever, but Jaquell told us that the ones she recovered were already getting silted over. Another six months, we might not be able to find them, even with the lights.”

“I’ve been thinking about that. I’ve got a partial solution if Jaquell is up for it.”

“What is it?”

“Slow boats,” Cattaneo said. “Sailboats, two of them. Small, maybe thirty-six-footers, something like that. Under sail in the night. Two, three knots, Jaquell