by Ron Base
“Yes, Shay Ostler acted a little too hastily when she pumped three bullets into him on Coral Way in Miami, after you left him.”
Melora couldn’t hide her surprise. “Shay?”
“She’s a professional killer from Montreal. You didn’t know that?”
“I knew she worked for André. I thought she wanted the painting like everyone else.”
“Shay had other things in mind, including a contract to kill Crimson. She ended up killing Edith, too. I suppose Edith couldn’t tell her what she wanted to know.
“But you were different, Melora. You were simply after the painting. And when Max found out about it, he wanted it, too, and that’s how the two of you hooked up with Shay and Johnny Bravo. Trouble was, you couldn’t find the painting.”
“I did have one clue. The dog. That awful dog.” Her voice broke again. She tightened her grip on the gun. “Vic always said the dog knew everything. I thought he was joking. But it turns out he wasn’t joking at all.”
“However, when you came looking for Clinton, he had disappeared.”
“I knew that Vic had been in touch with you, and you were at his house when I picked him up. As unlikely as it seemed, maybe you had the dog.”
“All the information anyone needed to find the painting Vic hid in Clinton’s favorite toy.”
“I wonder why he did that.”
“Maybe he was hoping someone like me would find the painting, and someone like you wouldn’t.”
“And you figured it out, Tree. I’m impressed. Until you met us at the hotel, I wouldn’t have thought you could figure out much of anything.”
Tree held the painting up. “Here it is, Melora. The stuff dreams are made of.”
Melora frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“Never mind,” Tree said. “I watch too many old movies.”
Holding the painting, Tree wasn’t prepared for Clinton’s sudden lunge. The leash snapped out of his hand. Freed of any restraint, Clinton dashed forward, barking and snarling at the startled Melora.
“Stop that dog,” she cried. “Stop him!”
Tree put the canvas back on the table and started after Clinton. “It’s all right, he’s not going to hurt you.”
“Get him away from me. Get him away!”
Clinton’s teeth bared in an ugly snarl. His barks had descended into a low, unsettling growl. Head lowered, he came at Melora.
“Keep away!” She was screaming now and her face had gone white. Tree frantically called to Clinton, but he kept closing in on Melora—the hunter stalking his prey.
Melora cried out and the gun rose in a black blur in her moving hand.
“No!” Tree’s turn for the panicky scream.
Without thinking, he blindly threw himself at her. The gun went off. Melora continued screaming. Somehow Tree got his hand on Melora’s wrist. But she was a whole lot stronger than he imagined. He knocked her back against one of the trestle tables and for a moment the two grappled together for the gun. Then, with a further burst of unexpected strength, she broke free.
Four men loomed in the cavity of the garage, spreading out against the uncertain light. Three of the men wore Mexican wrestling masks. But not Johnny Bravo, a pale wraith with a gun in his hand. “I’ll take the painting,” he said with a certainty that, under the circumstances, Tree would not have thought was warranted.
“No, you don’t,” Melora said with equal certainty.
That’s when Johnny shot her, a deafening hollow bang in the garage interior that made Tree jump and Clinton yelp in alarm.
Melora staggered back, a bloody hole where her left eye had been a moment before. Johnny walked over to the painting. The tallest of the three men with him said in a raspy voice, “Sorry, Johnny.”
And then he shot Johnny Bravo in the chest. Johnny managed to get a shot off, and that induced more gunshots from the other masked men.
Tree, ducking down, got hold of Clinton’s trailing leash, and yanked him back. He crawled around a table, hugging the dog to him. More gunfire sounded. Bullets ricocheted around. Tree saw the Glock lying on the floor. He reached over and grabbed it. He saw Raspy-voice Guy, the Rembrandt under his arm, disappear out the door.
Abruptly, the gunfire stopped. Johnny Bravo’s voice broke the silence: “Tree, you don’t have a gun, do you?”
“I’m afraid I do, Johnny,” Tree called back.
“Well, those bastards shot me.”
“Your own people,” Tree called back.
“Crazy, huh? Shows you can’t trust anyone.”
“Are they still out there, Johnny?”
“Doesn’t look like it, Tree. Looks like they ran away.”
“How badly are you hurt?”
“It’s bad,” Johnny Bravo said. “I’m bleeding like a stuck pig, so you might as well give me the painting.”
“I’m sorry you’re shot, Johnny, but I don’t have the painting.”
“I guess they took it with them. Doesn’t that beat all? I really am bleeding, Tree. I’m going to have to get to a hospital.”
“Let me call an ambulance.”
“Sure, Tree, call an ambulance.” Johnny’s voice sounded weak. “I’m coming over there to get that painting in the meantime.”
“It’s like I told you, Johnny. I don’t have it.” Clinton trembled against Tree, his whole body shaking.
“That’s right, Tree,” Johnny Bravo said. “That’s what you told me.”
“I’m going to call an ambulance, Johnny. But I don’t want you to shoot me, okay?”
Johnny didn’t respond. Tree peered around the edge of the table. He couldn’t see anything.
“Johnny,” Tree called. But there was no answer.
From outside the garage, Tree heard the high-pitched scream of sirens, growing steadily louder. “The cavalry is on its way, Johnny. You don’t want them to find you here, that’s the last thing you want.”
Still no response from Johnny. The wail of the sirens grew to a crescendo and then abruptly stopped. If the police were on their way, they were not, for the moment at least, on their way to Crimson’s studio. He ventured a glance above the trestle table.
The garage was empty, except for Melora, who lay face down on the concrete floor and Johnny Bravo on his back, blood pouring from his chest. Neither of them was moving.
Tree called to Clinton and the dog struggled to his feet, looking up at Tree with imploring eyes, as though apologizing for moving so slowly.
“Are you all right, baby boy?” Tree said. “What’s the matter?”
Clinton responded by lying down again. Tree feared the dog had been hit by a bullet. But there was no sign of a wound. “Clinton, we have to go. Come on, boy. Get up.”
But Clinton just looked up at him, beseeching. Finally, Tree had no choice but to bend down and with difficulty lift the dog up in his arms. Clinton struggled a bit, not liking this. But he quickly exhausted himself and settled so that Tree could carry him out into the street. He went around the corner to where the Hellcat was parked. He managed to get the rear door open and then place Clinton on the back seat. Clinton lay there, panting hard, anxious.
“It’s going to be all right, boy,” Tree said in a gentle voice. “It’s going to fine. I’m going to get you help.”
Tree got behind the wheel and started the engine. Well, he thought as he drove off down the street, this was interesting. When it came to a choice between a dog and a Rembrandt painting—he had chosen the dog. Now that must say something about him.
Except he couldn’t decide what that was.
41
Driving the Hellcat out of Miami, Tree expected police to come after him. “There are two bodies lying in a Wynwood garage,” he imagined them saying once they surrounded him. “We think you’re behind this. You caused all this mayhem, you and that dog.”
But there were no police in the gray morning. By the time he reached Fort Myers, the sun had broken through and risen high and bright in a clearing sky. Another
perfect Florida day. No murder on a day like this. That was all far behind him in dangerous Miami; here in peaceful Fort Myers murder was an impossibility.
The parking lot at the Tôt Funeral Home was nearly full. Tree managed to find a shady spot so he could leave Clinton in the car. He reached into the glove compartment and took out the Glock pistol.
As he approached the front entrance to the funeral home, the door opened. Raspy-voice Guy stepped back to allow Tree admittance. He took note of the Glock in Tree’s hand. “Hey there, Mr. Callister,” he said. “No need for that.” Raspy-voice Guy looked freshly pressed in a dark suit that barely contained his body.
“Glad to hear it,” Tree said.
Inside, Balding Guy, also in a dark suit, positioned himself near one of the potted plants. Pockmarked Guy nodded from his place near partially open double doors.
“Tree said, “I like you boys better when you’re wearing your Mexican wrestling masks.”
“Tree’s got a gun,” said Raspy-voice Guy casually, as if everyone who came into the funeral home brought a gun along.
“I keep telling you, the man’s a comedian,” said Balding Guy.
Through the opening Tree could see a memorial service in progress. A disembodied voice remembered “Jim’s Georgia boyhood …”
The voice drifted off. Tree focused on Sonny Trinchera tucked into one of the easy chairs positioned around the foyer to catch grieving relatives too weak with grief to reach the exit. One of those relatives occupied a chair at the end of the room. Draped in black, she sat with her back to them, her head obscured by a wide-brimmed black hat.
“You’re late,” Sonny said. He did not get out of the chair. “What are you doing with a gun?”
“Just in case you have any ideas about shooting me,” Tree said.
“Why would I shoot you?”
“I don’t know, Sonny. Why would you?”
“You caught me just in time. I’m on my way back to Montreal for my brother’s funeral.”
“A time of great mourning and sadness, I’m sure,” Tree said.
“So is everything taken care of?”
“Melora is dead if that’s what you mean.”
“You killed her?”
Tree shook his head. “Johnny Bravo took care of that.”
“Where’s Johnny now?”
“Let’s stop the charade. I’m sure your boys here have already filled you in on what happened.”
“Serves the bastard right,” Sonny said. “Although I kind of liked Johnny.”
“Now you can go back to Montreal, bury your brother, and run it all, just like you always planned,” Tree said. “You even got the painting everyone wanted.”
“What do I care about a painting?” Sonny’s face had gone blank. “And what’s this you’re talking about? Run everything? What kind of nonsense is that?”
“You killed your brother, Sonny.”
“My brother was a jerk,” Sonny said. “He wouldn’t listen to me. I tried talking to him. For years I tried. But he would never listen.”
“So you had Shay kill him.”
“Who’s that? I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“She’s the professional killer who works for you.”
Sonny cracked a mirthless smile. “You’ve been watching too many gangster movies. I’m a businessman. I don’t have anything to do with killers.”
“What I still can’t figure out is why you hired me.”
“Like I told you. Find my brother’s killer. Melora Spark. You did a good job. Congratulations. You’re a great detective.”
“Come on, Sonny. It’s just the two of us. No one’s going to believe me, even if I do tell the police—and I’m not going to tell them anything, provided I get what I want from you.”
Sonny measured him for a couple of beats, the way he might have studied a corpse in a coffin.
“Okay. Fair enough. I’m willing to pay you for your work. How much do you want?”
Tree shook his head. “Better hold onto your money. You’re probably going to need it.”
“You don’t want the money?” Tree had finally induced a look of surprise on that horse-face. “What’s wrong with you?”
“That’s a good question,” Tree said.
“I don’t get it. If you don’t want money, what do you want?”
“A dog,” Tree said.
________
Tree checked on Clinton in the car and then waited until the woman in the wide-brimmed hat came out. She removed the hat and Tree thought how lovely Kelly Fleming looked in black. It was her color. He wondered if she would wear black to his funeral. He wondered whether she would even attend his funeral.
He said, “Are you okay?”
“I’ve never been so scared in all my life,” she said. “My idea of news is interviewing kids at a petting zoo.”
“Did you get it?”
She gave a tense smile and held up the compact Canon HD camcorder, and then slipped it into her shoulder bag. “Not that I understood everything,” she said. “Those guys in there are so creepy-looking.”
“You wanted a story, this is the story,” Tree said.
“Yes, but where is the Chicago angle?”
“I guess I am the Chicago angle. Did you take a cab here?”
“Just like you told me,” she said.
“Good, I’ll drive you back. Get in.”
Kelly opened the passenger door and saw Clinton. “I don’t think this dog is doing very well,” she said.
He looked back at Clinton, and felt his stomach tighten. “It’s all right, boy. It’s going to be all right.”
Kelly said, “I think you’d better have a vet take a look at him.”
42
A story about a dog, a gangster, and an invaluable lost Rembrandt.” Kelly’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “This isn’t local, Tree. This is network. This is Scott Pelley and Sixty Minutes.”
“As long as you make sure the police get a copy of the video you just recorded.”
“I can’t believe you pulled this off,” Kelly said. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“All I’m concerned about is the dog,” Tree said. “That’s the only reason I did any of this—for Clinton.”
“All this for a dog,” Kelly said. “Who would believe it?”
Anyone who ever owned a dog, Tree thought. They would believe.
_________
Tree dropped Kelly off at the Chamber of Commerce Visitors Center, amid promises to get the video and the story to CBS as well as to Sanibel Police Detective Cee Jay Boone.
As he drove, Tree reassured Clinton it was going to be okay.
And it was. It was going to be okay.
Not to worry.
At Dayton’s, he found Freddie in the midst of a meeting. The fleeting relief on her face disappeared as soon as she saw his grim expression. She told the others they would have to continue this later.
“Are you all right?”
“No,” he said. The word choked in his throat.
“What do you need, my love?” Gentle words from wonderful Freddie—the words that just might get him through.
She followed him out to the parking lot. When she saw Clinton, her eyes welled with tears. Then she caught herself, took a deep breath, and got into the back with him. Clinton managed to lift his head so he could lay his snout on Freddie’s lap.
Tree started up again. He could hear Freddie on the phone, calling a veterinarian she knew. Her voice was calm. They had to see him right away. Tree tamped down his rising sense of panic, forced himself to concentrate on the road.
It was going to be all right, he said to himself for the umpteenth time.
But then it wasn’t all right at all.
Suddenly, the rear window shattered, sending a spray of glass through the interior. Clinton yelped in alarm. Freddie cried out as Tree hit the brakes and fought to keep the Hellcat on the road. Another bullet thumped into the side of the car. Tree, fighting with th
e wheel, glanced in his rearview mirror and saw the black and yellow of the Ducati Streetfighter. Shay performing one last hit before departing South Florida. Apparently, Sonny Trinchera had no faith in the promise of Tree’s silence.
Shay swung her bike into the passing lane so that it came abreast of the Hellcat. Shay twisted to face him, a black robot with a gun. Tree took his foot abruptly off the gas pedal and the Streetfighter sped past. Shay swerved the bike back into Tree’s lane, ahead of him now. Tree hit the gas, speeding up, intending to run into her. But Shay, realizing what Tree was trying to do, rocketed ahead. Freddie called out: “Tree, what’s happening?”
“Hang on!” was all he had time for. There was too much traffic in the other direction so that he couldn’t pass. From behind him, he heard an impatient horn.
A break in the oncoming traffic and Tree stomped on the gas. Once again the Hellcat lived up to its name, as it sprang into warp speed, no valet mode on this baby, seven hundred race horses, the Hellcat unleashed. It flew abreast of the Streetfighter. But then—and not even Hellcat horses could defeat this—an oncoming car and looming head-on disaster. Tree hit the gas and turned the wheel, thrusting the Hellcat smartly back into the right lane, a hair before the oncoming car flew past, angry horn at full blast. But now, the Hellcat once again was in the wrong place—fronting the Streetfighter.
And Shay had him in her sights.
Tree glanced at the speedometer. The Hellcat galloped comfortably along at over one hundred miles per hour, Periwinkle Way a passing blur. Despite the speed, a glance in the rearview mirror showed Shay in ominously close pursuit—the Streetfighter living up to its name.
The traffic cop at the corner of Periwinkle and Causeway Road jumped away in alarm as Tree braked, throwing up dust into the intersection, a breathtaking left turn—a turn he could not have ever previously imagined.
He hoped against hope that Shay would not be able to match that turn, but as he headed onto the causeway off the island, there was the Streetfighter, veering into the passing lane.
Tree caught another glimpse of the helmeted Shay, taking her time, aiming the gun. Abruptly a rusting pickup with what looked like a refrigerator strapped to its metal bed, materialized, as though the gods had thrown this groaning impediment in front of him to challenge the mighty Hellcat. He slammed the brakes, the Hellcat fishtailing wildly to show its disdain for such an unexpected maneuver. With Shay crowding him on the left, there was no way of escape. Imagining Shay beginning to squeeze the trigger, he could only cry out, “Freddie!”
