by Ron Base
“Any destroying that’s going on, you’re responsible for it.”
“It’s not just Key West. She followed us to Paris, too, and she was probably watching our apartment and tailed me the night I went to the Closerie. We had dinner and then I drove her back to her hotel. That’s when she came on to me.”
“You’re lying!”
“Nothing happened. I left. The next thing, she’s on Sanibel, and now she’s even sent Freddie a letter claiming we are having an affair.”
Chris’s face had gone flat. “Susan wouldn’t do that.”
“Call Freddie, she’ll confirm what I said.”
“Lie for you, you mean.”
“Yeah, right, nothing Freddie would like better than to protect me if she really thought I was having an affair. She’s got the letter. She’ll show it to you, if that’s what you want.”
Chris stood silently, not moving. Tree put his hand on his son’s arm. He angrily shook it off. “Don’t touch me!”
Stone-faced, Chris shouldered Tree out of the way and escaped out the door. Tree looked at his hand. It was shaking. Rex Baxter poked his head in. “Everything all right?”
Tree looked at him. “Why shouldn’t it be?”
Rex shrugged. “It’s just that there seems to have been a lot of yelling and screaming going on, tourists downstairs scattering for Naples.”
“Sorry,” Tree said.
“So everything’s not all right,” Rex said.
His son was sleeping with the woman who claimed to be having an affair with his father. Tree’s wife was grappling with the notion that her husband was fooling around, determined to believe him but nagged by suspicions fueled by her husband’s lack of communication skills.
What could possibly be wrong?
Aloud, Tree said, “Do me a favor will you? I need to find out if there is a woman named Susan Troy staying on the island. She may be using the name Cailie Fisk.”
“This is the gal with Chris I met the other night at the Lighthouse.”
“That’s the one.”
“Are you doing some sort of background check on her? Make sure she’s suitable for your son?”
“Could you phone around for me?”
“Does this make me an official associate private detective?”
Tree smiled. “You’re in charge of our fleet of boats.”
21
Tree parked the Beetle in the Island Inn parking lot, and then went through the walkway onto a white sand beach where a series of white-painted clapboard cottages faced the gulf.
Just as he was deciding whether to check with reception before proceeding, Elizabeth Traven, wearing dark glasses and an electric blue one-piece bathing suit that made her shimmer in the sunlight, appeared in the open doorway of the nearest cottage—a goddess waiting on the doorstep.
She waved when she saw him and then stood waiting, one hand on her hip, until he came over. She did not seem all that surprised to see him.
“How did you find me?”
“Hank Dearlove left an Island Inn brochure lying around.”
“Poor Hank,” was all she said.
“So you know he’s dead,” Tree said.
“Why don’t you come in out of the sun?”
Tree followed her into a sun-drenched sitting room. The white-painted furniture reminded him of the cottages his family occasionally rented on the island in the early 1960s. A flat screen television was the sole concession to the twenty-first century. Not exactly Elizabeth Traven’s kind of place.
She swung around facing him, removing her sunglasses. The strains of disappearing had not disrupted her beauty. The incandescence of her swimsuit threw off unexpected heat. “I just came back from the beach,” she said. “Can I get you anything?”
Tree shook his head.
“Well, now that I’ve been tracked down by that crack private eye, Tree Callister, I’m going to have a beer.”
“Seems kind of down market for you, Mrs. Traven.”
“I am a simple woman of the people, Mr. Callister,” she said with a smile. “You should know that by now.”
She swayed into the tiny kitchen to an old-fashioned refrigerator rattling away in a corner. She opened the door and bent to retrieve a can of Budweiser Lite. Faced with the view of her pear-shaped derriere, Tree was struck by the realization that once again he was alone with a woman without enough clothes on.
She straightened and snapped the cap on the beer, seeming to sense his unease. She smiled. “I’m making you nervous.”
“You’re making me wonder what’s going on,” Tree said.
“Are you sure you don’t want anything?”
“Just some information.”
Elizabeth perched on a sofa beneath windows that opened outward to allow a breeze from the ocean and the cries of children on the beach. He could hear himself a long time ago in those sounds.
He was distracted from his past by Elizabeth crossing the long legs that he used to spend far too much time trying not to look at.
“Why don’t you sit down?” she said.
“Right now, I prefer to stand.”
“In case you have to make a run for it?” Her smile brightened. “I’m not going to bite you.”
“Every time I find a dead body, it seems you are not far away.”
“You think I had something to do with Hank’s murder?”
“Did you?”
She took a sip of her beer before she said, “I was a long way away when that happened.”
“I’m guessing Dearlove realized a guy with a machete named Edgar Bunya was after you and decided he’d better get you out of Key West. Only you couldn’t come back to your house, so Dearlove got you this place.”
She drank some more of the beer.
“I take it from your silence you know who Edgar is,” Tree said.
“We have met,” Elizabeth acknowledged.
“Edgar jumped me last night and, when he realized I didn’t know where you were, he went around to see Dearlove. When Dearlove wouldn’t talk, Edgar killed him.”
“How much of this have you told the police?”
Instead of answering, Tree said, “Miram Shah claims you’re the love of his life. So does Javor Zoran.”
That made her snort. “Miram is a fool.”
“Funny, Hank Dearlove said the same thing before someone killed him.”
“Well, it’s true. He never should have hired you in the first place. He did hire you, didn’t he?”
“So did Javor.”
“Good grief.” She rolled her eyes. “You’ve seen the two of them. What do you think?”
“Where you are concerned, Mrs. Traven, I’m never sure what to think.”
“Well, I’m telling you they both have the wrong idea.”
“Why do I suspect that if they do have the wrong idea, you gave it to them.”
“That’s not true.”
“There is what you tell me, and then there is the truth.”
“You were hired to find me. You’ve found me. Congratulations. Great detective work. Now you can report back. Mission accomplished, as they say.”
“Except there is more to it,” Tree said.
“Is there?”
“For instance, there’s Edgar Bunya’s money. What have you done with it?”
“I want another beer.” But she didn’t move.
“We don’t have a lot of time for your games, Mrs. Traven. Edgar Bunya probably killed Hank Dearlove. I know he is looking for you. If I can find you, so can he. The police are going to be on me again today, and I don’t feel much like lying to them again. So you’d better start telling me what you’re up to.”
“Oh, dear, Mr. Callister,” she said with a mirthless smile, “I’m afraid you’ve learned something about the art of extortion since the last time we met.”
“I’ve had a great teacher,” Tree said.
“This started out purely as a business arrangement,” Elizabeth said, and Tree believed for the first time tha
t he had cornered her to the point where she had to talk. Whether or not there was any truth to what she was saying was something else entirely.
“I met Zoran at a party in Miami. He and Miram Shah along with Henry Dearlove had known each other over the years, from the time when Hank was with the Central Intelligence Agency.”
“Zoran headed security for Slobodan Milošević. Shah was the deputy director of the Pakistani secret service. But by the time you met them, they must have been unemployed.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Out-of-work spooks. What do they do with themselves?”
“What do they do?”
“They realize that in a world less and less friendly to despots, the kind of people they used to deal with regularly might be in need of the help that only they could provide.”
“What kind of help?”
“Help getting into the United States. Hank came up with the idea that there might be a lucrative business in smoothing the way for various individuals with less than sterling credentials wanting to emigrate here.”
“Legally?”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Strings are pulled. Money changes hands. But eventually, everything has to be done properly.” She gave a wan smile. “Eventually.”
“I don’t understand where you came into all this,” Tree said.
“They needed someone to liaise with their clients. It turned out that both Zoran and Shah were in this country under somewhat shaky circumstances themselves, meaning they were reluctant to leave. So they wanted an associate who had a clean record, internationally speaking, and who could speak to clients on their home ground.”
“And collect the cash payments?”
“That was part of it, yes.”
“Is that how you got your hands on the ten million dollars?”
“Ten million dollars? Where did you come up with that figure?”
“Edgar gave it to me.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she said.
“Is it?”
She exhaled and uncrossed her long legs, a familiar maneuver that in the past had always worked to distract him. Not this time. “Mrs. Traven, I’m two seconds away from going to the police and telling them what I know.”
She let out a groan, as though this was all too much for her. “All right. Do you know someone named Emomali Rahmon?”
“Should I?”
“He is the president of the Republic of Tajikistan, somewhat amusing since he isn’t really a president and Tajikistan is not really a republic.”
“What is Rahmon?”
“A ruthless dictator, but a nervous ruthless dictator, meaning he has seen the Arab Spring and a number of other events that don’t bode well for the world’s despots, and has decided the business of being a dictator is not what it used to be. He started looking for an exit strategy that would bring him to Florida where he has managed to bank much of his considerable fortune since coming to power in the early nineties. Hank Dearlove entered into negotiations. They sent me to Paris to pick up the down payment.”
“Ten million dollars?”
“No,” she said vehemently. “That was the eventual amount to be paid once Rahmon was successfully installed in a beachfront condo on Captiva Island. I never, ever, saw that kind of money.”
“Why not simply wire-transfer the money into a friendly bank account?”
“Because these days there is no such thing as a friendly bank account. No, better for someone like myself, who doesn’t create suspicion at borders, to collect the cash and bring it back.”
“So then what happened?”
“I met Rahmon’s man in Paris at the Georges V.”
“I’m guessing Edgar Bunya.”
She looked impressed. “Edgar is an international fixer, a man who gets the dirty things done for people like Rahmon.”
“What rock did he crawl out from?” Tree said.
“A rock somewhere in Liberia. Edgar got his start as a child soldier for one of the warlords there. By the time he was a teenager, he had made enough of a reputation for himself that MI-6 decided they could put him to good use for some of the dirty work they needed done in that part of the world. They flew him to a special training center in South Africa, taught him how to speak English and how to torture people. When they didn’t need him, they loaned him out to the CIA.”
“Now he’s graduated to the president of Tajikistan.”
“He became too much for MI-6 and even the CIA. They cut him loose and he’s been freelancing ever since.” She gave another wan smile. “His specialty is not being nice. That’s why people hire him.”
“So you met Edgar in Paris. What happened?”
“He gave me the down payment—two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Not ten million. Then I flew back to Key West and I gave Hank the money.”
“So what makes Edgar think you stole ten million dollars?”
Her gaze was steady as it met his. “I have no idea,” she said.
She’s lying through her teeth, he thought.
“And why do you think Miram Shah hired me?”
“Didn’t he tell you?”
“He didn’t tell me the truth.”
She shrugged. “I may have neglected to say I was flying to Paris.”
“You mean Shah didn’t know about the money Rahmon was supposed to pay you.”
“That’s a possibility.”
“And neither did Zoran.”
She looked at him.
“So unless I miss my guess, you and Dearlove hatched a scheme to keep the ten million dollars for yourselves. Only something has gone wrong.”
“I keep repeating,” she said patiently, “there is no ten million dollars.”
“But something is wrong.”
“Shah and Zoran turned out to be frauds—ruined men, desperate to keep themselves afloat. So they made promises they could not possibly keep. They could barely help themselves, let alone anyone else, and certainly not the president of Tajikistan. When he realized these guys couldn’t do anything, he demanded his money back.”
“But you and Dearlove decided to keep it for yourselves. And now Dearlove is dead and you’re hiding out in case you’re next.”
“It’s not true, but I understand that’s what Shah and Zoran may be thinking.”
“I’m going to the police,” Tree said.
Elizabeth gave him a long, impatient look. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to get the police involved, Mr. Callister.”
“Tough.”
“Stay away from the police.”
“Why should I do that?”
“Because if you do, I will tell you all about Cailie Fisk.”
He looked sharply at her, trying to keep the surprise off his face.
Failing.
“What makes you think I want to know anything about her?”
“Come on, don’t try to pretend she’s not making your life hell.”
“Don’t tell me you’re behind what she’s doing.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “And I’m not responsible for the Kennedy assassination, either.”
“Only because you were too young.”
“Do we have a deal or not?”
Tree glared at her. She beamed. Elizabeth—electric blue and triumphant.
As usual.
22
Tree phoned Rex as he walked toward his car. “What are you doing right now?”
“There are two naked women in my office,” Rex said. “What are you doing?
“Selling my soul to the devil,” Tree said.
“That’s how I ended up with my third wife,” Rex said.
“How would you like to give me a ride in your new boat up to Useppa Island?”
“Given a choice between naked women and taking you up to Useppa Island, naturally, I would take you to Useppa Island.”
“I’ll meet you at the marina in an hour,” Tree said. “Incidentally, I don’t suppose you found where Cailie Fisk is staying.”
“No one named Fisk
or Susan Troy is registered at any of the resorts on the island,” Rex said.
________
A gleaming white pleasure craft, sleek and shiny in the afternoon sun, roared past as Former Actor churned along Pine Island Sound.
Tree looked at Rex tensed at the wheel. He wore dark glasses and a lamp shade-shaped straw hat that made him look like a Mandarin peasant out for a cruise. He hunched forward to peer through the windshield, one eye constantly on the screen of the GPS unit he had installed after he ran aground the second—or was it the third?—time.
“We’re going kind of slow,” Tree said.
“I’m still getting my sea legs under me,” Rex said in an edgy voice. “As long as we keep her between the buoys we should be just fine.”
“And if we don’t?”
“Then we do what I’ve already done a couple of times, we run aground. These waters are pretty shallow. Do you mind if I ask what we’re doing out here?”
“We’re two old friends out for an afternoon cruise together, off to talk to a Pakistani spy about his love life.”
That made Rex take his eyes off the GPS screen for a couple of seconds. “I like the part about two old friends out for a cruise.”
“What about the part where we talk to a Pakistani spy about his love life?”
“That part makes me wonder what the hell you’re doing.”
“You and Freddie,” Tree said.
“Doesn’t she know what you’re doing?”
“More and more I think she embraces the idea of me not doing this.”
“What? The new owner of Dayton’s doesn’t want you to get yourself killed?”
“How do you know about that?” Tree said, surprised.
“About getting yourself killed?”
“About Dayton’s.”
“I know everything,” Rex said.
“Freddie wants me to run away from the lions.”
“But you don’t want to be Francis Macomber in that Hemingway story. You want to stand your ground and prove what a man you are.”
“If I didn’t know better, I would say you’re siding with Freddie.”
“Perish the thought,” Rex said with a grin.
