by Smith, Julie
“Oh, sure. But my guess is, he’d go to Miami. Has he got any money?”
“He must. He paid cash for a sailboat.”
Rudolfo nodded. “There’s a couple of first-rate forgers down there, but I doubt they’ll reveal the names of their clientele.”
Skip gave her a grin. “You never know till you ask.”
Rudolfo was tapping on her desk. “Let me make a phone call.”
She called someone and spoke in Spanish. Skip was encouraged by much nodding and repetition of “si.”
Rudolfo wrote something down before she hung up. “I called a guy I know in Miami. One of these clowns isn’t too active right now. My friend thinks he left the country for some reason.” She passed the paper over. “This one’s your best bet. Real popular with high rollers. And there’s something else—my friend in Miami says she’s got a kid.”
“She?”
Rudolfo nodded. “Eleanor’s a pioneer in her field—real poster girl for equal opportunity crime. But Stefan, the kid, has been in a lot of trouble a lot of times.”
“Drugs?”
“Yeah. And here’s the good news—they’ve got him in custody right now. His mom may not know about it yet. Maybe you can use that for some kind of leverage.” She shrugged. “It’s about an hour’s drive down there. Plenty of time to dream something up.”
Skip frowned. “How do I find her?”
Rudolfo gave her directions and wished her luck.
It wasn’t far to Miami but Skip had a panicky sense of time racing by too fast. The note must have meant an appointment with the forger—today, probably. But suppose Eleanor Holser wasn’t the right forger? I wonder, she thought, if I should call in sick tomorrow?
She phoned Steve but got no answer—he must have been at the beach. She left a message and started driving. It was that difficult time of day when the sun is sinking and manages to shine in your eyes no matter what you do with your visor. It occurred to Skip that it was going to be dark soon. But traffic was light and she made good time.
Holser lived in what seemed to Skip a fairly upscale, if, to her mind, decidedly tacky, part of town. Her house was some sort of split-level A-frame that managed to look like a cross between a barn and a beach house. It appeared to be built of driftwood, and if Skip had to guess, she’d have put it at late-seventies’ vintage. By now, the evening was only a hair from pitch-dark, and the forger apparently hadn’t turned on her porch lights.
There were also no lights in the front of the house, but the curtains hadn’t been drawn and from somewhere, maybe a den in back, came an orangy glow. Probably someone was watching television. Skip approached gingerly, listening a moment before planning to ring the bell.
Instead of the expected drone of television news, she heard a thump followed quickly by a kind of truncated scream—a short, staccato sound that meant sudden pain, a woman’s pain. She thought later that it was a yelp.
Quickly, she dropped to a crouch and listened more closely. It could, after all, have been the television.
The woman yelled, “Goddamn you!” and there was another thump, far too close, too immediate to be electronic. Grateful there wasn’t much light, Skip dug her gun from her handbag and crab-walked to the corner of the building. Here she straightened and ran to the back, which was glass nearly all the way across, the room, thus enclosed, perfectly illuminated by a single table lamp.
It was quite astonishing. The place was like a ruin lit for a son et lumière—so magnificently displayed a mouse couldn’t have hidden in it. As she had surmised, it was a den, low-ceilinged and lined with bookshelves that held as many tchotchkes as books. The furniture was Naugahyde, all placed for optimum viewing of a television screen so large it destroyed any pretense of proportion. On the sofa sat—or rather huddled—a woman with her hands behind her, as if tied, and in front of the woman, obscuring her partially, was a man in jeans and a black T-shirt. He held a gun loosely, by its barrel.
He’s pistol-whipping her, Skip thought, and the woman gasped, coming to attention. She had seen Skip. The man couldn’t miss the fact that there was something outside. Skip dropped to the ground as he whirled, shooting through the glass, wildly. The glass made a horrible noise, but the shot didn’t. Silencer, she realized—and it had already been on the gun.
She couldn’t return fire for fear of hitting the woman, but the gunman evidently saw she had a gun. He disappeared into the other room.
Skip struggled to her feet, looking wildly around her in a moment of indecision, and then ran back around the side of the house. Gaining the front, she saw a car pulling out across the street, its lights off, no way to see its plates, or even its make. But she was pretty sure at least two people were in it.
She looked back toward the house and saw that the door was open. Thankfully, no curious neighbors lined the sidewalk.
She wished she could call for backup, but she was on her own here. Gingerly, she peeked in the house, and then, cautiously, she entered. It was quite dark, except in the back of the house.
She saw movement, low, toward the back. It was the woman who’d been on the sofa, wriggling like a snake. Her feet were tied as well as her hands. “Who the fuck are you?” she said.
“Police. Who else is here?”
“Nobody. The asshole’s gone.” She sighed, and Skip had the impression she was keeping back tears. Skip came in, shut the door behind her, and searched the house quickly. It had an odd smell to it, like new wood, though it was probably at least twenty years old.
The woman was crying when she came back. “Eleanor Holser?”
“Yes.”
Skip untied her. “I’m Skip Langdon. New Orleans Police.”
“New Orleans! Shithead Favret’s from New Orleans. I hope the fuck the river floods the Superdome.”
She rubbed her ankles and stood up. Skip saw that she was very short, scarcely over five feet, with an hourglass figure poured into a tight red dress. An odd outfit for a forger, but this was Florida.
Skip said, “Can you walk? “
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Let me help you.”
But Holser pulled away. “What the fuck do you want? “
Skip took a step away from her. “Did you see the silencer on that man’s gun? He was going to kill you, are you aware of that?”
Holser only gaped.
“I just saved your life, Ms. Holser. You mean, what do I want as a reward? Five minutes of your time—would that be too much to ask?”
Holser stared at her. “I’ve got things to do.”
Skip was getting angry. “Eleanor, you’ve got problems you don’t even know about, and I don’t mean your little cottage industry here.”
“What you talking about?”
“What you think—your kid.”
For the first time, Holser showed an emotion other than anger. Her face turned a whole-wheat color. “What you mean, my kid?”
“Get nice and I’ll tell you.”
“I don’t got to—”
“Stop being stupid, Eleanor. Make your life easier.”
Holser looked at her out of eyes like quarters—big, but glittery and hard as metal. Finally, she said, “My kid okay?”
“Why should I tell you?”
The forger let some of the belligerence go out of her stance. “Okay, all right. Tell me what you want.”
Uninvited, Skip sat on the sofa, and Holser followed suit. “For openers, who was that man and what did he want?”
“A hired thug. I don’ know who hired him.” She shrugged.
“Why do you say that?”
“He had a silencer, he wasn’t bright, and he was looking for a client of mine. Looking for Edward Favret.” She gave Skip a shrewd look. “Popular guy, Edward Favret. You want him, too?”
“You got it. Where is he?”
“I did a little job for him, he didn’t pick it up.”
“When was he supposed to?”
“Today.”
“What do you mean, to
day? When today?”
“Just today, okay? He said he’d come; he didn’t.”
“Don’t give me that shit. All the hired gun had to do was wait for him.”
“I told him Favret’d already been here.”
“Why’d you do that? It just about cost you your life.”
“Well, I didn’t know that, did I? I didn’t want the creep hanging around.”
“And you wanted the money—in case Favret did show up.”
“He’s not gonna show.” She looked at her watch. “I told him I was going out at seven. It’s seven-thirty now.”
“Okay, here’s what you do. You give me the papers you made for him, and when you see him, you tell him I need him.”
“Fuck, no. How’m I gonna get paid?”
“You just told me he’s not gonna show. Which is it?”
She sighed. “You got it. He ain’t gonna show. I don’t care—take the fuckin’ papers. Just tell me where my goddamn kid is.” A note of desperation had crept into her voice.
Skip had what she wanted, she gave something back. “Look, your kid’s okay. He’s in custody in Miami. I’ve got to call an officer in Fort Lauderdale—she’ll give you the particulars.”
She called Rudolfo and outlined what had happened, leaning heavily on the gun with the silencer.
“I think,” said Rudolfo, “I’d better send somebody to check on the boat.”
“I’d appreciate it.” Skip turned the officer over to the forger, and when she had collected the tools of Edward Favret’s new identity, headed back north. She stopped at a gas station, and while she was there, she gave Steve a call. “Hey. Good,” he said. “An Officer Rudolfo just called. Hung up no more than ten seconds ago.”
Wings fluttered in Skip’s stomach.
“She said to tell you the boat’s gone.”
***
The forger had said seven sharp, no earlier, no later, and Russell had arrived on the minute, this time having been allowed to drive himself to her house.
Some friends Dina had. Life with Bebe was never like this, he thought on the way down the coast. Thought it uneasily.
He still hadn’t the least idea how Dina came to know someone who wasn’t her brother and knew where to find a forger—someone who probably wasn’t a probation officer, either. But then when he thought about it, the bar where Russell met her didn’t seem out of the question. Ex-boyfriend, maybe. But the curious part was how protective the man had been—Dina was unquestionably a very unusual, very special person, one he had truly come to cherish.
He’d called her right away after her mysterious departure, to make sure they were still on track, whatever that might mean. They were, but he still didn’t know what it meant.
He thought it would be relaxing to be with a nice, if extremely busy woman who didn’t know any forgers. On the other hand, Dina was so intoxicating he didn’t know if he could live without the excitement. Not that it mattered—he was going to have to get out of the country, and he’d probably never see either Dina or Bebe again.
It was a thought that had the potential to depress him deeply, but at the moment, driving to Eleanor Holser’s, he was in a great mood, about to make the second payment on his ticket to a new life and a new world.
And that night, he and Dina were going to cook on the boat and go for a midnight sail, maybe anchor somewhere peaceful, where the water would rock them to sleep. It was Dina’s idea, and Russell couldn’t imagine Bebe agreeing to such a thing, much less suggesting it.
He had told her there might be a lot of wind, making the sail the wet, vigorous sort, and she had said, “All right!” It was over the phone, but in his mind’s eye he could see the playfulness in her face, the way her eyes would brighten as she thought about it.
Were women that way before you got married, even got close to them, and then they changed? It wasn’t a question the Gallup Poll was likely to tackle. Too bad, because lots of men needed to know.
He got off the expressway and threaded his way through quiet streets where every lawn was mowed, American-dream streets, the yards of which were planted with hedges of ficus, beds of hibiscus and crotons and cycads, poinciana trees and palms and fragrant ginger. Criminals had to live somewhere, he mused as he turned the corner onto Eleanor Holser’s block.
A woman as big as a biker was standing at the front door. The woman had a gun.
What the fuck was this?
He nearly drove up on the curb trying to double-check his first glance, but it was the same information the second time around. Nothing to do, he concluded, but drive on by.
It must be some kind of setup, he thought—the two women were going to kill him for his twelve-and-a-half grand.
But he couldn’t make that make sense. Holser was a forger, not a shanghai-er of sailors. Then there was the deeper problem of why the biker woman had her gun drawn outside the house. All his corporate and Uptown instincts told him to get the hell out without a backward glance, but he wasn’t about to, not without his papers. He had a lot of money invested and little time to lose.
When he had circled the block, the woman was gone. He parked down the street, as a neighbor might, or a neighbor’s guest, perhaps, got out of the car, and walked toward the forger’s house, thinking to mount a discreet investigation.
He heard the gentle clicking of a car door, and then the authoritative male voice: “Freeze or I’ll blow your head off.”
Fuck. The law. The woman must be a cop and this guy was her partner—he hadn’t even noticed another occupied vehicle.
Russell froze, his hands a foot from his body, as non-threatening as possible.
“Turn around.” The cop was burly and dark, vaguely Latin-looking.
Russell obeyed.
“Get in the car, Russell.” The cop seemed infinitely world-weary. Russell walked toward him, noticing that he had a hand stuck in his pocket, but no gun showing. Probably his way of trying not to alarm the neighborhood.
Russell sighed as he walked. The jig, apparently, was up—there would be no midnight sail, no escape to the Bahamas, no new life. Just scandal and degradation.
Oh, well, he thought, I always knew this might happen. It’s better than that lie I was living. Anything is.
He’d gambled and lost. He could be a good sport about it.
The cop put him in the backseat of the car, got in the front, and did draw a gun, which he trained on him, a gesture Russell found quite a bit more threatening than anything life had held up to that point.
He said, “Aren’t you going to handcuff me?”
A shadow crossed the cop’s face. Under other circumstances, Russell might have said his captor was taken aback, but surely that couldn’t be the case.
He heard footsteps, a man running, and turned to look. The new man got in the car and said, “Holy shit!”
The first cop said, “Cover him, will you? “
The second cop took the gun, said, “Freeze or I’ll blow your head off,” and the first cop drove. Fast and furiously.
No one followed.
When they were a good distance from Holser’s house, the burly one said, “Manny. What the fuck’s going on, man?”
“Why the fuck didn’t you cover me? Didn’t you see that fuckin’ broad?”
“If I’d’ve covered you, we’d have lost Prep-boy here. They got there at the same time—don’t ask.”
“Fuck. Let’s ask him. Hey, Russell, who’s the lesbo?”
“I, uh—I thought she was with you.”
“Fuck.”
Manny stayed turned toward the back, keeping the gun on Russell, but neither of the cops spoke again.
Because he hated the silence, and because in New Orleans everyone talks to everyone, he said, “Where are y’all from?”
“This ain’t no time for small talk,” Manny answered.
“I meant, uh, which police department,” and the same shadow crossed Manny’s face that had crossed his partner’s.
Before his head had t
ime to work on it, Russell’s body broke out in a sweat. Noticing a piece of paper in the backseat, he reached for it. Manny nudged him with the gun. But he had it already.
Turning it over, he saw that it was a faxed photo of himself.
“Where are you taking me?” he said, and there was a tremor in his voice.
No one answered.
When they were well out of Holser’s neighborhood, they stopped and put Russell in the front seat and Manny in the back so that he could keep the gun at Russell’s temple without having to strain his neck.
Eventually, they got on the expressway and drove north for nearly an hour, no one speaking except Russell, who tried periodically to get some kind of response. No matter what he asked them, no matter how provocative, the other two were sphinxes.
During the long drive, Russell tried to clear his head, to focus on his breathing, to give his mind a rest until he had more information. He succeeded so well he fell into a kind of waking nap, a numbness that might have been shock. He barely noticed when they arrived at Fort Lauderdale, and they were nearly at the marina before he realized they were taking him to his own boat.
It was about the time he’d have been getting back if everything had gone smoothly.
Dina would be there soon. He found he was sweating again. He had deliberately tried not to entertain the question of whether these dudes were thugs or just exceptionally nasty cops, but his body was telling him now. He knew who they were.
“Shit!” the driver said.
“What?” asked Manny.
The driver pointed. “Lights.”
Lights on the Pearson. In the galley and the main salon. Dina was aboard.
The driver said, “I’ll go.” He parked the car and got out. Russell tried without success to think of something to do. Then, almost without realizing he was going to, he reached over and leaned on the horn. Manny grabbed him by the hair, tugged him back, and stuck the barrel of the gun in his temple. Again without thinking, Russell called her name, hollered, “Dinaaaaa!” so loud it hurt his vocal cords.
“Fuck,” was the last thing he heard.
Next, someone was slapping his face, trying to revive him to get him on the boat. “Dina,” he said. “Dina…”
