by Bob Morris
“What do you think?”
“I think Janeen redeemed herself, at least a little bit, by calling Worley after we left there the other day, trying to tell him what she knows. That counts for something. She’s reaching out.”
“Then let’s go hear what she has to say.”
63
I couldn’t believe it when I heard they were holding Sir Teddy for questioning,” Janeen Hill says. “I know damn well he didn’t kill your brother, Fiona. He didn’t kill Peach and Boyd either.”
We sit around the table in Janeen’s apartment. We’ve dispensed with the pleasantries and put aside recent bad history. Janeen and Fiona haven’t exacdy kissed and made up, but they aren’t at each other’s throats either.
“That’s all very well and good,” Fiona says, “but until we can actually prove who did commit those murders, then Sir Teddy is staying right where he is.”
I look at Janeen.
“The other day, when I was getting ready to leave here, you told me there was a lot we didn’t know about this Lost Cross thing.”
“There is,” Janeen says, “a whole lot.”
“Time to educate us,” I say. “I don’t need the long version. It’s late. I’m tired. Just tell me how you think it’s related to the murders and who the hell is behind it.”
“The Sangrento Mao,” Janeen says.
“Sangrento what?”
“Mao,” Janeen says. “Spelled just like Mao in Mao Tse-tung, but no relation whatsoever. Mao is Portuguese for ‘hand.’ Sangrento means ‘red.’ The Red Hand.”
“Bad guys?”
“Can be. You remember what I told you about the Fratres Cruris?”
“Yeah, yeah. The secret brotherhood. Supposedly found the last piece of the True Cross, put it in a fancy reliquary, shipped it off to the New World on some ship …”
“The Santa Helena.”
“Whatever. And it was never seen again, blah-blah-blah-blah. Does this Sangrento Mao have something to do with that?”
“They most definitely do,” says Janeen. “But first, let me show you something. Just so you have a physical point of reference here, just so you know that the reliquary really did exist.”
She steps over to the bookcase and returns with a copy of Richard Peach’s book, The Legend of the Lost Cross. There’s a sheet of paper stuck in it. She pulls it out, lays it on the table in front of Fiona and me.
“Behold the Reliquarium de Fratres Cruris,” says Janeen. “As drawn by the unfortunate goldsmith who met his end after showing this around town.”
There are two sketches on the sheet, actually. One shows a front view of the reliquary. It’s shaped like a cross with arms of equal length. At its juncture there’s a grating held shut by an elaborate latch.
“The design is after the crux immissa quadrata, also known as the Greek cross,” says Janeen. “The goldsmith likely chose that design because it was more compact and stable—better suited for traveling—than the traditional Christian cross. Made out of gold and silver and studded with jewels. Probably rubies and emeralds. They were much more popular than diamonds back then.”
The second drawing is a close-up. It shows the juncture of the cross with the grating open to reveal the interior of the reliquary.
“That’s where the piece of the cross would have been displayed,” says Janeen. “It’s hard to tell from the drawing, but there was probably a layer of glass inside the grating to offer further protection. It wasn’t like they had vacuum-sealing back then, you know.”
I pick up the piece of paper and study the drawing more closely.
“So where did this come from?” I ask Janeen.
“The original is at the Museu de Marinha in Lisbon. But I copied it from a copy in Richard Peach’s papers. According to his wife, he was considering this drawing as the cover illustration for his uncompleted book.”
“Peach have a name for the book?”
Janeen nods.
“Working title was Finding the Lost Cross” she says. “Peach was quite optimistic regarding his search here.”
“So, out of all the other possible places where the Santa Helena might have met its end, how did Peach settle on looking for the reliquary in Bermuda?”
“It was thanks to a bit of serendipity, actually,” says Janeen. “Shortly after his first book came out, Peach was planning to focus his search along the coast of North Florida. But first, he and his wife traveled here for vacation. Like everyone else who comes to Bermuda, he was just looking for some R and R. And then, just by chance, he visited Spanish Rock.”
“Spanish Rock. I think I remember seeing a sign for that when I was riding around with Barbara the other day.”
“Yes, it’s a part of Spittal Pond Nature Preserve. A big rock on a bluff overlooking the ocean. There’s a bronze casting of a curious inscription that was found carved into the rock. The original has long since been removed.”
“What do you mean by curious?”
“Well, the inscription is hard to make out. It’s very worn. The earliest theories were that it read ‘TCF—1543.’ Alongside it was a crude carving of a cross. It was attributed to a Spanish explorer, Theodore Fernando Camelo. Hence the name Spanish Rock,” says Janeen. “But it was later suggested that the inscription was made by Portuguese sailors who were shipwrecked here and the initials they carved were actually ‘RP’ for ‘rex portugaliae,” king of Portugal. When Richard Peach visited Spanish Rock, he looked at that inscription, along with the carving of the cross, and saw something else—RFC.”
“For Reliquarium Fratres Cruris,” says Fiona.
“Exactly,” Janeen says.
“But what about the date—1543? That doesn’t jibe with when the Santa Helena left Portugal,” I say. “That was 1499, wasn’t it?”
“It was. But Peach had proof that the Fratres Cruris launched another ship to search for the Santa Helena around that time. It was his theory that it, too, wrecked in Bermuda and that survivors etched those initials in the rock,” Janeen says. “He planned to lay out all the evidence in Finding the Lost Cross. After, of course, he found it.”
Fiona asks, “Is that what you’re calling the book you’re working on, too?”
“No, not unless by some miracle the cross is actually found. I don’t really have a name for my book yet.” She gives Fiona a sad smile. “Look, I apologize again for the way I handled the whole book thing the other day. I’m sorry.”
“We’re past that,” Fiona says. “Let’s move on.”
“Yeah, let’s talk about this Sangrento Mao outfit,” I say. “How do they fit into things?”
“Well, as you might imagine,” says Janeen, “when the Santa Helena was lost, and the reliquary with it, it dealt a devastating blow to the Fratres Crucis. They sank a lot of money into funding search expeditions for the Santa Helena. And faced with financial difficulties, the brotherhood eventually began to abandon its spiritual quest in favor of, shall we say, more secular pursuits. It leveraged its sizable following and secretive methods into a natural venue—extortion, gambling, whatever illegal activities presented themselves. In short, by the early eighteen hundreds Fratres Crucis had morphed into the Portuguese version of the Mafia. It became known as Sangrento Mao, the Red Hand.”
“So named, I’m guessing, for its bloody way of doing business?” Fiona asks.
“You got it. And to this day it controls organized crime in Portugal, the Azores, Macao, Brazil, wherever Portuguese colonization made a notable footprint,” Janeen says.
“But that doesn’t include Bermuda, does it?” Fiona says. “This was never a Portuguese colony.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Janeen says. “But shortly after the Sangrento Mao began flexing its muscles, the first wave of immigrants from Portugal started arriving in Bermuda. Over the years the Portuguese community has grown to the point that it now represents nearly twenty percent of the population. There’s a Portuguese cable TV channel and a radio station that plays Portuguese music. And, yes, the Sangrento Mao has a p
resence here as well.”
I’m hearing the sound of fado, smelling a cigar smoked by an old man with a leathery face.
“It’s run by a fellow named Papi Ferreira.”
64
I laugh. Technically, I suppose, it’s more of a guffaw. Whatever it is, I do it again.
“Well, kiss my ass and call me cutie-pie,” I say.
Janeen and Fiona look at me.
“It’s true, Zack,” Janeen says. “I’m not just making this up.”
“Oh, it’s not that I don’t believe you,” I say.
“What is it then?” Janeen says.
“Let me tell you a little story,” I say. “It’s not an especially funny story. Still, you might get a kick out of it.”
And so I share the whole thing with them. Or most of it anyway. I don’t go into the specific details of exactly how much money is at stake—that’s my business, not theirs—but I tell them about how I tracked down Brewster Trimmingham and how that ultimately led me to Papi Ferreira. I leave out the part about Boggy and me whupping up on Ferreira’s minions. No need to appear boastful or anything like that.
“Inspector Worley told me Ferreira was a bad guy,” I say. “Didn’t mention that he ran an organized crime ring.”
“Not something the Bermuda Police Service likes to acknowledge,” Janeen says. “I’ve knocked heads with them over the years when I’ve broached the subject in stories. But I was never really encouraged to pursue it by the paper. Organized crime in Bermuda is not something the Royal Gazette likes to acknowledge, either.”
Janeen gets up from the table, puts water on to boil, gets out cups.
“I’ll pass on the tea,” I tell her. “You got any beer?”
She shakes her head, no.
“Rum?”
“Sorry,” she says, “all I have is vodka.”
“That’ll work,” I say. “Just pour it in a glass and float some ice in with it.”
She does that. I drink some.
“I’m still not getting the connection between Ferreira’s bunch, the Sangrento Mao, and the murders,” I say. “What am I missing here?”
“You mean, besides the most obvious connection—the ritualistic removal of their victims’ eyes?”
“Yeah, besides that.”
“Well, despite the fact that they devolved into what they are today, the Sangrento Mao never completely abandoned its hopes of one day finding the Reliquarium de Fratres Crucis. The reliquary is still part of its internal lore, its myth,” Janeen says. “So, seven years ago, when Ferreira got wind of what Richard Peach and Martin Boyd were up to …”
“Wait a minute,” Fiona says. “I thought Peach and Boyd came here under the radar, that no one knew what they were looking for.”
“That’s right. At least, no one knew what they were looking for until Martin Boyd let it slip to one of his lady friends.”
Janeen steps to the table with cups of tea for herself and Fiona. She sits down.
“Worley mentioned something about Boyd when Fiona and I met with him the other day,” I say. “Something about Boyd getting involved with someone’s wife while he was here in Bermuda.”
“That someone was Cristina Ferreira.” She lets the name sink in. “Papi Ferreira’s daughter-in-law. Married to Papi’s only son, Antoni.”
“Bad choice of bed partners,” I say. “So your theory is that Papi went after Boyd for cuckolding his son and Richard Peach was just collateral damage?”
“Not exactly. I think they wound up putting Peach in their sights, too,” says Janeen. “What I heard, from a fairly reliable source with ties to the Sangrento Mao, is that after Antoni discovered his wife was having an affair, he was all for getting rid of both her and Boyd. But she managed to bargain her way out of it.”
“How did she do that?”
“She was on the inside of the Sangrento Mao. She knew its history, its origins. She knew how important the Reliquarium de Fratres Cruris was to them. She offered information about where Peach and Boyd were searching for it in exchange for her life. She’s living in L.A. now. Sells real estate. Antoni died five years ago while visiting Portugal. Automobile accident.”
I sip more of the vodka. It’s not awful. No taste. Just burn. But the burn is what I want, that and the boost that comes afterward.
“When we spoke to Worley, he never mentioned Antoni Ferreira by name, just that he’d ruled him out as a suspect,” I say. “Said he was in Miami when the murders were committed.”
“Doesn’t mean that Papi, wanting to provide his son with an alibi, couldn’t have arranged to have Peach and Boyd killed while Antoni was out of town,” Janeen says.
“After they’d led Ferreira’s outfit to where they thought the wreck of the Santa Helena might be found.”
“Something like that,” Janeen says. “I haven’t worked out all the details. All I know is that Peach and Boyd must have been killed before they pinpointed the exact location.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because in the years since their deaths—again, this is from my source—Ferreira and crew have been looking for the wreck on their own.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, the Sangrento Mao were underwriting a small-scale salvaging project that was searching for the wreck of the Santa Helena. It hit a bump last year when a few of their guys got hauled in for disturbing a wreck site without a permit.”
Fiona perks up when she hears that.
“You mean, Michael Frazer caught and arrested them?” she says.
“Yes, it made headlines for a while. Of course, there was no official connection with the Sangrento Mao, but anyone who knows anything about Bermuda recognized who was involved and connected the dots.”
“Sounds like a gutsy move on Frazer’s part,” I say.
“Yeah, he’s pretty devoted to protecting all the wrecks out there, making sure that any salvaging that takes place is done only under his authorization and supervision.”
I finish off the vodka. Janeen doesn’t ask if I’d like another. So much for the lost art of hospitality.
“Was Frazer on the job when Peach and Boyd were killed?” I ask Janeen.
“Yes, I think he’d been here for a couple of years at that point,” she says. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Guess I’m wondering why Peach, being the good academic and all, someone who planned to publish his research and hold it out for public scrutiny, didn’t get a salvage permit from Frazer’s office.”
“I’ve often wondered about that myself,” Janeen says. “Best explanation I can come up with is that Peach and Boyd might still have been prospecting potential sites when they were killed. The permit requires the applicant to list a relatively specific location and maybe they just didn’t have that yet. They were waiting until they knew for sure.
“I do know that Peach met with Michael Frazer on a couple of occasions while he was here. Frazer told me about it. Turns out, Frazer was a graduate student under Richard Peach when he was at Leeds University.”
It piques Fiona’s interest.
“Oh, really?” she says. “Michael didn’t mention anything about that when we spoke the other night.”
“Yes, Frazer even helped Peach with some of the research on the first book,” Janeen says, reaching for the copy of The Legend of the Lost Cross that sits on the table. She opens the book, flips to the acknowledgments page, and reads from it. “The author is particularly indebted to the contributions of his graduate assistant, Michael Frazer, who labored long hours for little reward on the author’s behalf.”
“Funny,” I say, “when we spoke to Worley the other day, he said one reason why he didn’t believe the Santa Helena story was that Michael Frazer had pretty much debunked the whole thing.”
“Yeah, I spoke with Frazer about that, too, when I started putting Peach’s notes together and trying to get some momentum going on the book. Frazer was dismissive of the notion that the Santa Helena ever made it to Bermuda,” Janeen says.
“He claims that much of the work he did for Peach was inconclusive in its findings and that Peach skewed it to support his own research.”
“Did Frazer bear a grudge because of it?” I ask.
“Didn’t appear to. I mean, you’ve met him. He’s a professional. Does he seem like someone who would obsess over something like that?”
“Not at all,” Fiona answers quickly.
“Besides,” Janeen says, “it’s hardly unusual for a professor to co-opt a graduate assistant’s work and use it to whatever end he pleases. Happens all the time.”
Janeen clears away the teacups, takes my empty glass. I find myself fighting off a yawn. Fiona notices. She stands up from the table.
“I’m for calling it a night,” she says. “You’ve given us a lot to sleep on, Janeen.”
“Well, here’s something else to sleep on,” Janeen says. “If you’re up to it, I’d like to interview you about your brother. Get into some of his personal background, what his childhood was like. His hopes and dreams, that sort of thing.”
“Is this for your book?” Fiona says.
“Yes, it is,” Janeen says. “I’m going forward with it no matter what. But I would like to have your backing.”
Fiona doesn’t have to think about it long.
“You’ve got it,” she says.
65
By ten o’clock the next morning, the seventh and next-to-last Bismarck is in the ground. The party is scheduled for tomorrow evening and we’ve got one palm to go. Things are looking good.
There’s no doubt that there will be a party. Aunt Trula has rebounded in fine fashion. If anything, she seems even more driven to perfection for her big to-do. She’s overseeing a small army of landscapers who are edging and clipping and planting and trimming, making sure everything is just so.
“She steadfastly refuses to discuss the subject of Teddy,” Barbara says as we watch her from the terrace. “But if that’s her way of dealing with it, then so be it.”
“Any word from the attorney?”
“Not yet. Mr. Denton instructed Teddy to ask the police if Titi could visit for just a few minutes this afternoon. We’ll see what happens. In the meantime, how do you rate your chances of coming up with something that will put Sir Teddy in the clear?”
