The Dragon Delasangre

by Alan F. Troop

  “Why are you smiling?” Elizabeth asks. “The man wants you dead. He may already have tried.”

  “If he did, he failed,” I say, thinking how angry Santos would be if he knew how little I fear him. “Read the report again. This man wants to look me in the eyes before he kills me. I doubt he was on the boat. I hope he wasn’t. I want to see how it plays out with him . . . how he chooses to confront me. But”—I shrug—“if he was the shooter, he’ll die. Remember, with one word, I can have him and his girlfriend destroyed any time I want.”

  “If it wasn’t him, who was it?”

  “In due time we’ll find out,” I say. “In due time, whoever it was will die.”

  I return to the clippings, study Santos’s face and wonder what he’ll say to me Friday morning. I find myself looking forward to meeting this man.

  As comfortable as power and wealth are to possess, I’ve found they make life far too easy and far too predictable. Most humans can either be bought or intimidated, but not Santos, I think. Leaning back in my chair, I continue to study his pictures and luxuriate in the pleasure of not knowing what to expect of him.

  18

  Though I suggest otherwise, Elizabeth insists on accompanying me to my meeting with Santos. She promises to wake early, to be ready to leave whenever I wish. The night before, after we hunt across the Gulfstream over the back roads of Bimini, she emphasizes her intent by changing to her human form and lying beside me in my king-size bed.

  I welcome her company. Each night since we’ve arrived, we’ve retired to our separate beds after lovemaking, my dragoness remaining in her natural state, preferring to sprawl and doze in her bed of hay while, across the room, I choose to sleep under sheets, on a mattress, in my human form. I’ve missed the intimacy of the slumbers we shared on our voyage home but I must confess, I’ve been as unwilling as she to give up my preferences.

  When I wake in the morning to the heat of her breath on the back of my neck and the weight of her legs tangled with mine, I smile. When Father lived I still spent many hours each day alone, time enough to know the bleak despair of loneliness. Elizabeth’s presence on the island has changed all that. Even when she remains asleep in our chambers as I go about my chores elsewhere in the house, I feel her presence and the knowledge of her nearness warms me, keeps me content. As irritating as she can be, as headstrong as she is, she makes my life complete and I love her for that.

  But I care little for the small struggles our relationship brings each day. Elizabeth never wakens easily before the afternoon. Promise or not, this day is no different. When I turn, take her in my arms and whisper, “Elizabeth, it’s time to get up,” she shrugs my arms off and turns away.

  “Later,” she mumbles.

  “The appointment is at ten.” I spit my words as I disengage from her and scowl as I get up. “I plan to be early, with you or without you.”

  Elizabeth doesn’t answer until I give up waiting for her. Only then, after I’ve turned my back on her, laid out my clothes for the day and begun to put on my pants, does she sit up. “Of course it will be with me,” she says, hurls her pillow at me and laughs when it hits her mark. “And I expect you to show me around Miami after the meeting ends.”

  While Elizabeth dresses, I search my drawers for Derek Blood’s slip of paper with Claypool and Son’s address on it. She comes to the dresser just as I find it. I show it to her. “I promised your father a gift of gold. As long as we’re going to the office anyway, I thought I’d bring it along, have Arturo send it out to your family’s agents. If you want to write to Chloe or any of your family, this would be a good time to do it. I could send it in the same shipment.”

  My bride shakes her head, reaches for the gold necklace she left the night before on top of the dresser. “I’m no good at it,” she says putting on the necklace. “Why don’t you write something for me?”

  I shrug, say, “Sure.”

  Elizabeth flashes a smile, pirouettes in front of me so I can admire her new yellow silk dress. I make a show of examining her, but, as much as I want to smile, I can’t keep from frowning at the gold, four-leaf clover charm dangling from her necklace, the emerald inset in its center.

  “What?” Elizabeth says.

  “I’d prefer you didn’t wear that today,” I say pointing to her necklace.

  She touches it with her hand. “But I always wear it. You gave it to me.”

  “Santos will notice it. I took it from his sister.”

  Elizabeth scowls. “It’s mine now. Who cares what he notices?”

  “I do,” I say. “We’re having this meeting with him to see if we can ease his suspicions, not raise them. You can wear something else for one day.”

  “No,” she says. “Not for a human . . .”

  “Elizabeth . . .” I sigh.

  “I’ll tuck it in for you,” she says, lifting the chain, dropping the charm inside her bodice so all that shows of the necklace is a glint of the gold chain. “But I won’t take it off for him.”

  “Fine,” I say. “Just as long as he doesn’t see it.” I turn my attention from her, take a moment to write a quick note to her family telling them that all is well and then go downstairs to the treasure room.

  It takes a few minutes for me to decide between the gold coins in the treasure chests or the heavy gold bars stacked near the wall. Deciding Charles Blood would be most pleased to receive some of Father’s ancient gold ingots, I heft one and grin at its weight. Just four bars would be far more than twice my bride’s weight. Five, I think, wrapping the bars in burlap, should keep the old monster happy.

  But not Elizabeth. She frowns when I carry the bars to the boat, and asks, “Why so much?”

  “We can afford it, Elizabeth. It’s for your family.”

  “It’s for my father,” she says. “Trust me, none of the rest of my family will benefit from it at all.”

  A uniformed guard, armed, one hand on his holstered pistol, opens the door to the Monroe building’s lobby when we approach. Inside, three other armed-and-uniformed guards—each one anxiously examining the burlap bundle in my arms, cautiously touching his pistol grip—watch us enter. I grin at the increased security, look toward the video cameras located near the ceiling in each corner of the room and nod, sure that Arturo is watching.

  One of the armed men escorts us to the private elevator that will take us to LaMar Associates’ executive offices. After we enter it, he stands guard in front of the open doors and waits for them to close. Arturo meets us when we arrive, yet another security guard standing behind him.

  Clean-shaven once again, clothed in one of his tailored suits, clearly anxious to look in command of the situation, Arturo motions for us to leave the elevator as if the concept of stepping off wouldn’t occur to us.

  “Don’t you think you’re overdoing this?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Didn’t someone shoot at you the other day?”

  I nod and turn to Elizabeth. “Arturo’s worried about our being assassinated.”

  Arturo frowns when she opens her eyes wide in mock alarm. “They may very well be armed,” he says to my bride. “You read the report, didn’t you? This Santos fellow is no friend of your husband’s.”

  “Welcoming him into an armed camp will hardly make him less hostile,” I say. “I would prefer you have the guards position themselves in a less conspicuous way. The man is coming to have a conversation with me. I doubt he’ll start our meeting by unloading his pistol into me.”

  “And if you’re wrong?”

  I grin at him. “Then Elizabeth will become a very young and very rich widow.”

  The Latin turns his attention to the burlap package in my arms. “And that is?” he asks.

  “A gift for my father-in-law. I need you to send it to his agents in Kingston. I have their address in my pocket.”

  Arturo nods, pulls back a corner of the fabric, enough to catch the dull shine of a gold ingot, and whistles. Perfectly aware of the weight of what I’m carrying, he ma
kes no attempt to relieve me of my burden. “You better put this in the back of my office closet. I’ll take care of it after the meeting with Santos,” he says.

  Jeremy Tindall comes in to greet us once we arrive at my office. He scowls as he pumps my hand, and growls, “Ever since the fire and Tyler’s death, my wife can’t stop crying; my other two sons are scared of every shadow. . . .”

  I shrug. “Shadows don’t kill people, mistakes do. Just like someone made a mistake shooting at me.”

  Tindall blushes scarlet. His voice turns shrill. “And my boat’s a mess! You could have been more careful. Stains on the deck, on the flybridge—I’ve scrubbed everything, everywhere . . . four times already and still I keep finding spots I’ve missed. I had to tear out the damned carpeting in the salon and order it replaced. What in God’s name did you two do on my boat?” Then, before I can answer, he shakes his head, says, “No, don’t tell me.”

  He turns to Elizabeth, offers his hand, frowns as he says, “Congratulations. You’ve married a real piece of work.”

  My bride nods, briefly accepts his grasp, then turns away and walks to the window. She stares out at the parking lot across the street and the bay beyond, the morning light coming through the glass, enveloping her, turning her yellow silk dress almost diaphanous—silhouetting her trim body beneath the translucent cloth.

  For the first time I notice the slight curve of her normally flat, lower abdomen, the new, barely perceptible, increased swell to her breasts. I go to her, hug her from behind, put my hands on her stomach. “Our son’s beginning to let his presence be known,” I mindspeak.

  She turns, faces me. “If it displeases you, I can change my shape. . . .”

  “No.” I kiss her forehead. “It pleases me very much.”

  Jeremy clears his throat and says, “Arturo and I think we should sit in on your meeting. We may be able to be of help.”

  “Whatever,” I say.

  “Is there anything you need us to do?” he asks.

  “No.” I shake my head. “I just plan to answer his questions. Then, afterward, I think I’ll take Elizabeth around town. Buy her a few things.”

  Elizabeth notices Santos first. “Look.” She points out the window toward Monty’s parking lot across the street. I follow the direction of her gesture, watch as an old green MGB sports car, its top down, pulls into a spot. A dark-haired man and a thin, blond woman get out. “He looks like the man in the clippings,” she says.

  “I think you’re right.”

  Arturo calls downstairs, makes sure that one of the guards will escort the couple up. Then he begins to rearrange the chairs in my office. “Of course you’ll sit behind your desk and Elizabeth can sit to your right,” he says, placing a chair for her on that side of my desk. “Jeremy can sit on your left. We’ll have Santos and his woman sit in front of your desk. I’ll sit across the room behind them. Just in case . . .” He reaches into his jacket’s right front pocket, pulls out a small, chrome, automatic pistol, cocks it and replaces it.

  I frown at him and he shrugs, saying, “If it’s needed.”

  Our receptionist, Emily, obviously nervous, her face flushed, her hands fluttering, leads Jorge Santos and Casey Morton into my office, stays just long enough to announce them, then rushes off.

  Seated behind my desk, everyone else in their chairs as Arturo indicated, I let Jorge Santos and his woman stand by the doorway for a few moments while I examine him. Santos makes my rudeness more acceptable by taking the same opportunity to stare at me.

  He seems a bit thicker, a little older than his pictures. As I expected he would, he’s come to the meeting dressed informally, in jeans and a yellow T-shirt. But Casey Morton surprises me by wearing an austere, navy-blue business dress, carrying an equally plain, small, round, blue leather purse. Even in her flat shoes she stands at least three inches taller than Santos. With her blond hair chopped into an almost boyish cut, her figure trim and athletic, verging on bony, she hardly looks like the type of woman I’d expect him to choose. I had imagined her shorter, more curvaceous, less severe.

  “She’d have to put on some weight before I’d consider making a meal of her,” Elizabeth mindspeaks.

  I grin and nod. Then I stand and motion the couple to their seats, introducing them to Arturo, Jeremy and my bride. Once Santos has taken his seat, I sit facing him, the sunlight streaming through the window behind me so he has to squint when he looks at me. I make no offer to lower the shades, knowing Arturo would be scandalized if I did anything to lessen the man’s discomfort.

  “Well, Mr. Santos, I gather you’ve been anxious to speak with me,” I say.

  He looks from me to Elizabeth, to Jeremy, swivels around to glance at Arturo behind him. “With you, yes. But I didn’t expect your whole office.”

  I smile at his bluntness. “Mr. Tindall is my attorney. Mr. Gomez is my close business associate. They’ve expressed concern that you don’t wish me well and have requested they be allowed to sit in to make sure my statements aren’t misrepresented. As for Elizabeth”—I nod my head toward Casey Morton—“surely if I have no objection to your girlfriend being in attendance, you’ll have no objection to my wife doing the same.”

  “I just thought we would talk, you and me . . .” Santos looks at Elizabeth. “Of course, I don’t mind if she’s here. But them . . .”

  “They are in my confidence. I’m afraid I must insist on their presence.”

  Santos shrugs. “They don’t matter very much,” he says, almost to himself and Morton.

  She nods agreement, and says, “Go ahead.”

  He looks at Elizabeth again, knits his eyebrows and asks, “Did Maria know you were married?”

  “Mr. Santos, your sister waited on me just once—at Detardo’s Steakhouse. I wasn’t married at the time, but had I been, I doubt it would have been discussed. Whatever conversation we had couldn’t have encompassed more than fifty words. We certainly didn’t address anything of a personal nature. After my meal, she did give me her phone number and she did ask me to call her. But I never bothered to.”

  “You have to understand my sister is . . . was very important to me,” Santos says, lowering his voice, looking down as he speaks. “After my father died—when my mother was too busy grieving, we took care of each other. We never stopped. I could always tell her anything. I could always count on her support. She could always count on me too. When she disappeared, it was like somebody stole a part of my heart. . . .”

  Casey Morton leans forward, stares at me, her pale blue eyes hard. “Two men said they saw a tall, blond man meet Maria on the dock. She left in his boat. No one has seen her since.”

  “And how many tall, blond men are there in South Florida? How many more vacation here?” I ask, then turn my attention to Santos. “I understand your grief. From the small interaction I had with your sister, she seemed to be a sweet person. But I have to tell you I resent the implication of your questions.”

  “Mr. DelaSangre, where were you on the night of March eighteenth?” Casey Morton asks.

  “At home, on my island.”

  She glares at me. “Do you have any proof?”

  I feel a flush rise on my face, and wonder why her questioning bothers me. It’s not her place, I decide. The matter of Maria belongs between Jorge and me. “First,” I say, returning her cold stare, “I agreed to meet with Mr. Santos and answer his questions. I agreed to nothing with you. You are here as a guest and an observer. I suggest you let Mr. Santos handle his own questions from now on. Otherwise, this meeting will be at its end.

  “Second”—I look at Santos, lock eyes with him—“I’m under the impression you’ve been quite active in investigating me. If you have and if you’ve been in the slightest bit competent, then you know I prefer to live a fairly secluded lifestyle. I spent almost all my nights at home last year, alone. And no, I can’t prove that.”

  Santos nods, ignores Morton’s stiff posture, her red face and tight lips, and leans toward me as if we have a game
of chess going and he’s about to move another piece. “Have you ever owned a classic wood runabout? A Chris Craft or one like it?”

  I lean forward too, smile at him. He forces a grin in return, both of us acting like old friends, deep in discussion. “Once again, I have to refer you to your own investigation. Haven’t you checked what boats I have registered?”

  Santos nods.

  “And what did you find?” I ask.

  “A Grady White,” Santos says.

  I lean back in my chair, swivel so I can look out the window to the bay. “Mr. Santos, do you boat?”

  “I sail.”

  “Do you know where my island is out there? How far offshore it is?”

  He nods.

  “Have you ever been caught out there in a storm?”

  “Of course I have,” Santos says.

  “Then you know how wicked it can get. Do you think I would care to use anything as unseaworthy as a runabout when I own a wide-beamed, deep-V hulled boat with twin, two hundred Yamahas that was built to handle the worst the ocean can throw at it?”

  “Some people use different boats for different purposes.”

  I turn back. “And I use mine for transportation.”

  Santos shrugs. “You could still have more boats than you’ve registered.”

  “I could, but I don’t. Mr. Santos, your sister may have been abducted by a tall, blond man in a wooden runabout, but she wasn’t taken by me.”

  Shaking her head, Casey Morton shoots up from her chair, her small blue bag spilling from her lap, the purse landing by Elizabeth’s feet. The blonde slaps both hands, palms down, on the desk, and spits out, “Then why the hell have you been so tough to get hold of?” She glares at me. “Where the hell have you been for all these months?”

  Jeremy Tindall cuts into the conversation. “Miss, who do you think you are? Sit down. The man told you to stay quiet. Do you have a hearing problem or comprehension difficulties?”