Hostile Waters

by William Nikkel

  To make a run at Corey and Amanda, she needed to learn as much as possible in the short time she had to prepare.

  Her work had taken her into many people’s private lives for a hundred different reasons. In all but a very few of those cases, strangers hadn’t opened up until they felt it was in their best interest to do so. And even then the information needed to be pried out of them. Knowledge had been the pry bar. In each instance, she had to make them believe she possessed facts they needed to disprove.

  Corey and Amanda would be no different.

  She trotted up the stairs and took her turn going through a security bag check. Then, thanks to a fast-moving line, she paid her admission fee and followed the halls to the Mayan exhibit in less than ten minutes.

  The pre-Columbian artifacts were displayed in a glassed-in enclosure in the middle of the room. She walked directly there and scanned the relics for deities similar to those in Sam King’s text. Stone and clay figurines dominated the display, a breastplate, an obsidian knife, intricately decorated clay pots and jugs. Many with effigies of men and women. Royalty, she guessed. Some of dogs. One of a man with a jaguar head. Only a couple in gold.

  “You interested in Pre-Columbian art?” a stranger asked in a pleasant voice a few feet away.

  Cherise looked up from the display. The guy speaking to her was middle-aged and a couple of inches shorter than her. He had dark skin as though he spent a lot of time in the sun, and facial features clearly of Mexican Indian ancestry.

  “I have to admit, I know little about the topic,” she said.

  He smiled. “Put simply, Pre-Columbian relates to the history and cultures of the Americas before the arrival of Columbus in 1492.”

  “I didn’t know that,” she lied and continued to scan the exhibit.

  “My name is Pacal Balam.” He stepped closer and handed her a business card. “Perhaps I can be of further assistance.”

  She figured she had nothing to lose talking to the man. “A friend of mine has three gold idols that are supposed to be Mayan. I came here hoping to find others in the exhibit. Maybe learn a little bit about them.”

  “If you can describe the pieces, it’s possible I can help you.”

  “Better than that, I can show you a photo of them.” She glanced at the man’s card. “You’re an expert in the field?”

  “My ancestors were Mayans of royal blood. I’m a professor of Central American History. The museum’s curator invited me here to authenticate several artifacts that recently came into their possession.”

  She accessed her phone and showed a cropped photo to Pacal.

  “Interesting,” he said. “It’s unusual to find a collection of deities such as this. As you are probably aware, sixteenth-century Spaniards stole most of the gold in my country. Mayan . . . Aztec . . . Incan—melted everything down and poured it into ingots. Shipped the bars back to Spain.”

  “Are they rare?”

  “Rare enough. Most pieces are found in museums and private collections. Many of the new relics that come on the market today were looted from archeological sites across Central and South America, much of it from the Yucatan. Treasures such as these belong in museums in their native country, to reflect the indigenous people’s culture.”

  “Do you know which deity they represent?”

  “May I hold your phone?”

  She handed it to him, and he studied the image. “Cum Hau . . . Cizin, I believe. A god of death and the underworld—The Lords of Death. Many of the Mayan gods dwell in the underworld to rule over the dead. The Lords of Death are often depicted as skeleton people or—as in this case—ugly bloated beings adorned with ornaments taken from the dead.”

  “What would three solid gold idols like this be worth to a collector?”

  His eyes flashed a flinty hardness. “The artifacts in that picture are pieces of Mayan culture. They belong to the Mayan people. My people. I would strongly urge your friend to see that the pieces are returned at once.”

  Something haunting in the tone of his words took her aback.

  A veiled threat?

  A warning of some kind . . . a malediction?

  She didn’t believe in ancient curses.

  “We don’t actually have the idols in our possession. We only know that the relics exist.” She slid the man’s card into her pocket. “If we acquire the pieces, I’ll be sure and keep your suggestion in mind.”

  She left the museum and hailed a taxi. She knew more than she did going in. But not as much as she wanted.

  She had one more place on her list to visit.

  CHAPTER 19

  Jack stood at the entrance to Mallory Square. Two weathered posts resembling the spars of a long-dead sailing vessel holding a colorful sign with spindles to resemble a ship’s wheel. A cruise ship sat tied to the dock. A flock of eager travelers milled about the shops and square.

  “I figure this is a good place to start,” he said to Robert.

  “I know you want to help. I do, too. But a lot of people go in and out of here every day. And we’re talking a couple of weeks since he went missing.”

  Jack remained positive. This wasn’t all that different than some of the other capers he’d been involved in.

  “I understand what you’re saying. But we can’t let it stop us.”

  “Still, I’m a little confused about what we hope to accomplish showing Sam King’s picture to people. We know he was in town and we know he’d struck up a shipboard romance with this Amanda woman. What does it prove to have a shopkeeper tell us they remember seeing them together?”

  “Maybe nothing. Then again, maybe something that will turn out to be a piece to a larger picture.”

  “That’s a lot of maybes.”

  “So it is.” Jack motioned him to follow. “Come on.”

  The next few minutes passed uneventfully. Jack stopped in front of the Memorial Sculpture Garden and looked at his watch. They had gotten enough sad shakes of the head to discourage them. But that didn’t mean the next person, or the next, wouldn’t recall seeing Lindsey’s father.

  He scanned the monument dedicated to the age of wreck salvaging, and the bronze busts of the thirty-six men and women credited with having the greatest impact on Key West. He’d seen them before and knew which bust was of Hemingway. He asked himself what the writer would have thought had he been in this situation. Man is not made for defeat. A man can be destroyed but not defeated.

  He’d memorized the quote.

  “What’s the plan?” Robert asked.

  “We keep looking.”

  “How about the Shipwreck Museum and the Mel Fisher Museum? We haven’t been to those places yet. I’m almost certain they would be on King’s list of places to check out.”

  “Sounds logical to me. I know I would.”

  “You have been. To both of them.”

  “I meant if I was him.” Jack started walking. “Come on.”

  At the Shipwreck Museum, they listened to the guide portraying wrecker tycoon Asa Tift tell the history of four-hundred years of wreck salvaging and how this unique industry provided for the livelihood of the entire island at a time when Key West had the largest population in Florida. An interesting story. One they’d heard before.

  When the guide finished his talk, Jack made the introductions and showed him the photos, only to receive another shake of the head.

  He wasn’t ready to give up.

  “Are you sure?” He showed the photos to the man a second time and scrolled back to the picture of Sam King. “It’s been a couple of weeks, but it’s important. This man’s missing and we’re afraid something bad has happened to him.”

  “Sorry,” the guide said. “I really do wish I could help. But I honestly don’t recall seeing him, or the friends he was with.”

  Jack took a calming breath. “I understand. Thanks for your time.”

  They stepped away and Robert said, “It’s not looking good, is it?”

  “We haven’t tried the Mel Fisher Museum,
yet.”

  It was mid-day when they stepped through the doorway of the museum. The weather turned into a scorcher with enough humidity from a bank of dark clouds out over the Gulf to make them happy to be inside.

  “Good afternoon,” Jack said to the man collecting admission. “My name is Jack Ferrell and this is my friend Robert Foster. We’re not here to see the exhibits. But if you have a moment, I’d appreciate it if you would look at a couple of pictures and tell me if you recall seeing any of the people in the photographs. It’s really important.”

  “I think most everybody who comes to town wanders through here at one time or another during their stay. My name’s Ned. I’ll be happy to take a look. Doesn’t mean I’ll remember their faces, though.”

  Jack showed him the photo of Lindsey’s father. “This is a man named Sam King. He’s missing. That’s why we’re looking for him.”

  “Missing, huh?”

  “A couple of weeks ago. He was with two passengers from the cruise ship he was on. We fear something bad has happened to him.”

  Ned gave the photo a long look. “Nothing rings a bell. Course he looks like a lot of the Hemingway wannabes in town. And it has been a while. You have pictures of the people he was with, I suppose?”

  Jack scrolled ahead. “We know he was with this woman. We’re not sure about the guy.”

  Ned began to nod, almost imperceptibly at first. “I remember her. A real beauty. Stuck with me because of how she was dressed. Didn’t hide much, I’ll tell you that. She was hanging on to an older gentleman that could have been the man you’re looking for. To be honest, I paid more attention to her than I did him.”

  “What about this guy?” Jack showed him Corey’s picture.

  “There was a big man with them. Tall. Looked like a body builder. Could be this guy. Like I said, I was looking at the woman.”

  “Anything special about them other than their looks?”

  Ned shook his head. “I just remember they didn’t stay long.”

  “I appreciate your time. You’ve been a big help.” Jack laid a twenty on the counter. “A donation for the cause.”

  He stepped into the heat of the day. The weather hadn’t cooled in the last fifteen minutes. He bought him and Robert a bottle of water from a vender and said, “This is good. We placed the three of them here together. Let’s see what else we can dig up.”

  CHAPTER 20

  The answers Cherise wanted weren’t going to come from a hotel concierge or a professor of Central American History. They would come from a dealer in rare and unusual antiquities. Special items. A shop owner not concerned with how the relic was acquired, and no compunction about breaking up a collection to sell off each piece to someone rich enough to pay the money to acquire the artifact. With no troublesome morals to hinder cash flow.

  Anything for a profit.

  The driver of the taxi she’d ridden in on her way to the museum, suggested she pay a visit to Bristol Gallery in lower Manhattan. Purveyors of fine and unusual collectables.

  Where she was headed now.

  The driver of the taxi she climbed into seemed to know where he was going.

  Several times during the ride, he attempted to engage her in conversation. And each time she avoided his questions, preferring to keep her business at Bristol Gallery private. The man was persistent if nothing else.

  That annoyed her.

  At one fifteen she left the taxi driver and the July heat behind and stepped into the air-conditioned comfort of Bristol Gallery located at Mercer and Bleecker. A subtle bing, bong announced her arrival.

  The shop did not appear large at first. On closer examination, she realized how far back the room went. Porcelain figurines, colorful vases, primitive wood and stone carvings, tapestries and rugs, a suit of armor, and several small pieces of oiled wood furniture—probably colonial—were everywhere. Three large, glassed-in display cases loomed in back. Swords and antique guns hung on the walls.

  A plump, spectacled, middle-aged man, well dressed with a large bald spot in the middle of a mat of graying brown hair, appeared from a dimly lit back room and walked toward her. A dab of mustard clung to the corner of his mouth.

  “May I help you?” He talked in a quiet voice.

  His tone implied this was a hushed place. She spoke just as softly. “Are you the owner?”

  He gave a curt nod. “Harvey Bristol. Is there something in particular that you’re looking for?”

  “I understand you deal in items of archeological significance?”

  He perked up. “That’s my specialty.”

  She smiled and touched her fingertip to the corner of her mouth. “It looks like I interrupted your lunch.”

  He produced a handkerchief and dabbed at his lips. “I apologize for that. With my wife out ill, I rarely get time to actually sit down and eat.”

  “That’s quite all right. I hope your wife feels better soon. Items of archeological significance are your specialty? How about solid gold idols—Pre-Columbian gods, devils, pieces like that? Mayan . . . or possibly Aztec or Incan.”

  His eyes locked on hers and held a moment before he made an appraisal—subtle but head to toe. Apparently satisfied with his assessment of her, he motioned with his head. “I have a couple that might interest you. This way, please.”

  She followed him to the display case at the rear of the shop and waited while he slipped from view in the back room. If he had to remove the items from a safe it could take him a few minutes. She spent the time perusing the gold and silver coins beneath the glass.

  Five minutes later, he returned. “These are the only objects I have. They are completely documented and authenticated. Fourteenth-century Peru. Lovely craftsmanship.”

  She waited while he unwrapped the artifacts and placed them on a swatch of purple velvet. The first piece—maybe three inches tall—depicted a pregnant woman. The second looked male, also about three inches tall.

  “What does something like this go for?”

  “For you, forty-eight thousand each.”

  “And if the idol was an inch or two taller and more finely crafted than either of these two?”

  His head tilted in a quizzical look. “A piece like what you describe could go for perhaps twice that. Of course I would need to see it. Are you saying you have the idol you’re describing?”

  “A friend does,” she said. “Suppose my friend walked in here wanting to sell it on a cash basis, no fuss or questions asked on your part. What would you pay for something like that?”

  His eyes shifted back and forth. Somewhere in the shop a clock ticked. “I assure you, madam, I do not receive or deal in stolen antiquities. If that is what this is about, I must ask you to leave the store.”

  Faked indignation.

  Expected.

  “I suppose my friend could always melt the idols down for the gold content.”

  The shop owner sucked in a breath, the flat of his hand pasted against his chest. “Idols?”

  She had his attention. “Three of them, Mr. Bristol. All practically identical. And all over four inches tall. Solid gold.”

  He shook his head. “Surely your friend would never destroy an art treasure such as that?”

  She shrugged. “My friend, of course, realizes they’d be taking a loss. But that might be the only way.”

  The little man leaned close. “You are obviously a careful person.”

  “When the situation calls for it.”

  “I would have to see the pieces, of course. But if they are what you claim them to be, a mutually agreeable arrangement could be made. Say, twenty-five percent over gold value. I’ll give you my card. Have your friend call me.”

  She smiled at the shop owner’s greedy little offer, slid his card in her pocket, and walked out of Bristol Gallery. Even if she had the idols, she’d never sell them to him. But she did have a better understanding of how much the relics were worth and how easily they could be disposed of.

  Her phone chimed with an incoming
email.

  Susan.

  There would be a lot to talk over with Lindsey at dinner.

  CHAPTER 21

  Jack stood next to Robert at the corner of Fleming and Duval Street. Directly behind them, Margaritaville blasted parrot music in full swing with the afternoon crowd. He looked back the way they had come and watched the busy street activity. Too early in the day to start drinking . . . except in Key West—especially with the Hemingway Days celebration right around the corner. An ice cold beer would do a lot to soothe his disappointment.

  He’d held off long enough.

  “Frustrating, isn’t it.” A statement not a question. “Unless you have a better idea, I suggest we walk back to Sloppy Joe’s, get us a cold beer and something to eat, and talk this over.”

  Robert gave him a sideways look. “You do realize how lucky we were to stumble onto Ned, don’t you?”

  Jack huffed. “Sure I do. But I had my hopes up that we’d have something more substantial to tell Cherise.”

  “I think the optimum word there is we. And giving her something is better than zip. Makes me cringe to think of the disappointment Mel Fisher suffered.”

  “Be nice to have some of that gold about now.”

  “A little buyer’s remorse?”

  “Over buying the boat? Not even.” Jack clapped Robert on the back. “Come on. We haven’t had fun together like this in a while.”

  “Not your kind of fun.”

  “My kind of fun? All we’re doing is showing the man’s face to a few people. What can happen?”

  “With you, plenty.”

  “Quit whining. Let’s get that beer while we’re still young.”

  “All the way back to Sloppy Joe’s?”

  “Hemingway drank there. I drink there.”

  “I keep forgetting. But you do know Sloppy Joe’s was originally located on Greene Street where Captain Tony’s Saloon now stands. Hemingway’s close friend ‘Sloppy Joe’ Russell moved his bar a half-block to Duval Street in 1937 in order to get cheaper rent. So technically, Hemingway drank in both locations.”