She leaned toward him, and for a moment her cheek rested lightly against his shoulder. "That's cheating. You're reading that."
"You caught me. I can't remember everything." He smiled, enjoying the moment. He felt her closeness stirring his desire, and under different circumstances he would've touched her knee, her arm, maybe her hand.
They turned their attention to the court as the game began. "This is game four. We're starting with Teams One and Two."
The ball shot off the front wall as the game began. The back player for Team Two scooped it on one hop and fired it low against the wall. Team One's front player dashed over, caught it, and fired. The ball rocketed off the wall and arced high and deep. Team Two's back player glided over to the side wall, leaped, braced himself, and hurled it back. The volley continued several more times, until the ball eluded Team One's front player.
Team Three replaced Team One, and the game quickly moved ahead. "You see what happened? Team Two has one point now, and they're playing Team Three."
"Is that good?"
"Sure. Two's my team."
"What was that word you said at the counter when you placed your bet? A quinla?"
"Quiniela. You pick two teams to finish first and second in either order. I bet a quiniela box, that means I pick three teams and win if two of them—Two, Five, or Seven—finish first and second in any order."
"How much can you win?"
"Depends. It's pari-mutuel betting, so the amount you win depends on the amount being bet and the number of winners. The house takes a percentage, and the winners get the rest. I've seen Fuego win twelve hundred dollars on one game, and he's probably done better."
"Really?" Elise leaned forward, alternately watching the game and studying the scoreboard above the court. "All right," Pierce shouted. "Two won again."
"What's your biggest win?" she asked as Team Four took the court.
"Fifty or sixty bucks. I really don't get down here too often. Not like Fuego."
The ball shot back and forth several times until it was bobbled by the back player for Team Four. "Two again," Pierce said. "See the scoreboard? Two's got three points already."
"They don't waste any time, do they?"
"No time-outs for commercial breaks."
"Come on, Five," Pierce yelled.
"Five? I thought you wanted Two to win."
"Five's my team, too. They need a win here."
"Don't the teams have names?"
"You can call them by the players' names," he said, glancing down at his program, "but it's easier to say, 'C'mon, Five,' then 'C'mon Olasagasti and Arteaga.'
She laughed. "I see your point."
My court tonight, he thought again. Elise, the archaeologist, was digging through the puzzle of the sport like it was an unknown culture, and Pierce, the insider, was the cultural interpreter, a native son.
Team Five beat Two, then Six ran off five straight points. When it was over, Six won first and Two second. "Well, I didn't win that game; neither did Fuego."
He glanced over at Elise. "You want to stick around?"
"We just got here. I'm still trying to figure out what's going on."
That makes two of us, he thought.
Chapter 10
"We should have at least an hour. But I don't want to be in there more than twenty minutes. Tops."
Gore grinned from the passenger side of Thor's Mercedes, and the scar on his jaw curled into a backward S-shape. "I can do a lot in twenty minutes."
"I bet," Thor muttered, thinking over their plans, testing it for any weak spots. They would approach the house from the back, because he knew about the old woman across the street. The lots of most South Florida neighborhoods backed up against one another, but in Coconut Grove there were alleys and that would make it a simple matter. When they reached the house, they would enter through a side window. It would be easy.
The bushes in the front and along the side would block the view of anyone who happened to pass by. They were mostly bougainvilleas and hibiscus. A quality hedge, Thor thought. Far superior to the ficus, which every second or third homeowner in South Florida seemed to plant around his house. He hated ficus. They were a weed, a scourge. If you let them grow into trees, their roots would strangle everything in the area and would even tear up pavement.
He turned his thoughts away from hedges and back to the matter that awaited them. "When we get in, you start upstairs. I'll work downstairs."
Gore nodded and was about to open the door when he let go of the handle. "I got one question. How come you're going with me? Don't you trust me?"
Thor didn't want to tell him that he had his own job to take care of in the house. It was none of Gore's business. "It'll be faster."
They left the car and hurried away from the streetlight. A gibbous moon overhead cast a faint silvery light as they moved like shadows down the alley. The fragrance of jasmine wafted through the warm night air. They paused for a moment as they heard a car and watched as it passed by the Mercedes.
Gore apparently was still wondering why Thor was going with him. "You think I'm going to steal something? Is that it?"
Thor blew out his breath, exasperated. "The only reason I told you not to take anything," he whispered, "was because we don't want to be seen leaving the house carrying anything. This isn't some goddamn two-bit burglary like you're used to pulling in Tampa."
"I got that impression. What is it? What did the broad do, anyhow?"
Thor led the way into the yard and stopped. He stared at the back side of the dark house. "None of your fucking business."
Chapter 11
They stayed for several more games, until it was obvious that Elise's interest was waning. Pierce had bet three games and lost eighteen dollars. Elise hadn't been willing to place even a minimal bet because she didn't understand the game well enough, and she'd refused to allow him to bet his own money for her. After game seven, he suggested they stay for just one more.
"I think that'll be plenty for my introduction to jai alai," she agreed.
As they headed to the betting counter, he spotted Fuego working his way through the crowd toward them. "Last chance to bet," he said to Elise as Fuego was waylaid by a friend. He looked down at his program when she didn't respond and silently picked his numbers.
"Why the long faces?" Fuego said as he walked up to them.
"I'm losing," Pierce grumbled.
"I'm hot, on a roll. You should've bet with me. I'm up two thirty-five."
"I'll bet with you on the next game, Fuego," Elise said.
"Now you're talking," he said. "But you've got to bet a trifecta box. You know what that is?"
She shook her head.
"I pick three teams," Fuego explained. "They've got to come in first, second, and third in any order. It's a little tougher than a quiniela box, but it's my bet."
"How much?"
"Minimum of six."
Pierce watched, surprised and a bit annoyed as Elise reach into her purse and handed Fuego a five and a one.
She must have noticed because after Fuego moved toward the counter she told him not to get offended. "I believe in using the advice of experts. You said yourself that Fuego's here a lot more than you."
He shrugged and forced a smile. "I'm not offended. Be right back." He walked away, hoping she wouldn't follow, and got in line behind Fuego. "Listen, I need some help myself."
Fuego laughed and glanced over his shoulder. "You mean you want to go with my bet, too? That's a switch."
"That's not what I'm talking about. I want you to see what you can come up with on the connection between Paul Loften, the dead museum director, and Raymond Andrews."
"Oh, going after a big fish," Fuego said as he approached the window.
"Yeah, the guy who hired me. Just want to cover my ass." He opened his billfold, peeled off several bills, and stuffed them in Fuego's back pocket.
"You're getting very friendly there, amigo," Fuego said, turning his head.
"Yeah, sure. A friendly payment. See how far you get on four hundred, then get back to me. Good luck."
Pierce bought his quiniela box and rejoined Elise. As they sat down again, she touched his shoulder. "Tell you what. I'll let you in on half my winnings for three bucks."
"Ha. I'll stick with my bet." He regarded her a moment. "You're catching on fast."
As the game began, he wondered if everything for Elise was so black and white. She thought like a man, that's what it was. She'd come here with him, but betting his way wasn't part of the deal. Now she was cheering her teams and glancing between the court and the scoreboard. She'd caught on, all right. She wasn't the type who'd stay in someone else's court for long.
By the middle of the game, Pierce's teams were faring poorly. Elise, however, was still in it, but the baffled look on her face told him she wasn't even aware of that fact. "Hey, Pierce," she said excitedly as the end of the game neared, "I think I'm winning."
He glanced up at the scoreboard. "You're right. If Six beats Two, you got it. Eight, Six, Three."
"C'mon, Six, kill the bastards," she yelled at the top of her lungs. Her shout was lost among the clamor of the crowd, but he'd heard it clearly, and it gave him pause. Less than a minute later, it was over. Elise leaped to her feet. "I won, didn't I?"
Pierce shook his head, amazed at her luck. "You sure did."
They walked over to the betting area and waited as Fuego collected their winnings.
"God, I've never bet on a game in my life. I can't believe it."
Her enthusiasm was contagious; he couldn't help smiling. "You were right. You went with the expert."
She leaned close to him. "Now you know why I went after you."
Her blue eyes sparkled inches from his own. He inhaled the scent of her perfume. Either this was part of her game, he thought, and she was doing her best to entice him, or this was just how she was. He wasn't in the mood to find out which.
As they drove away from the fronton, Pierce considered what he should do next. He was interested in finding out whatever she would tell him about the crystal skull and her interest in it. If she was involved in the theft and wanted to keep his suspicions to a minimum, she probably would have a story ready for him. He would have to judge it for himself.
"What're you thinking?" she asked.
He wasn't sure what to say and simply shrugged. "Guess I was just thinking how odd it is that I ended up taking you to jai alai."
"Why? Because I won and you didn't?"
"Yeah." He chuckled. "That must be it." But that wasn't it at all. He knew it, and so did she.
He could feel her eyes on him. "Did anyone ever tell you that you look like you're lost in a daydream sometimes? Something about your eyes."
"Maybe it's because I'm a little confused."
"Confused? About what?"
"About why you're so concerned about this crystal skull, and what it is that you've got against Andrews."
"I already told you. I think he stole it."
"What else? There's something more."
She looked down at her hands, didn't respond, then turned her gaze out the window.
"You want to know about Andrews. Let me tell you about him." Her voice was curt, and the edges of her mouth turned down as she spoke. "Your buddy Ray Andrews enticed my father into a business deal a couple of years ago that ruined him."
Pierce glanced over at her, then back to the road. "What kind of business deal?"
"It involved the production of Mayan replicas, mostly ceramic reliefs using the theme of Quetzalcoatl. Each one came with a copy of the legend of the cultural hero. Dad felt the story of the Plumed Serpent should be as well known as the deeds of Zeus. That's why he entered the venture."
"What happened?"
"Andrews and his sales team convinced thousands of people in South America, Europe, and the Orient to pay as much as a hundred grand each for the replicas."
"C'mon, I find that hard to believe."
"No. It happened. The sales pitch was that Mayan shamans had placed spells on the replicas, and that if you bought one you'd be protected from natural disasters or attacks by enemies."
"I must have missed that scam."
"That's because there was very little promotion or sales in the United States, which Dad thought was the main point. Then he was astonished when he found out how much people were paying for them and learned about the phony sales pitch that went along with it."
"He hadn't known about it?"
"He had nothing to do with the sales end, and didn't make much himself. Yet, I've seen evidence that total sales exceeded a hundred and sixty-five million dollars."
"Jesus." Pierce slowed for a light. "Well, if Andrews was involved, it's possible. He's always had the Midas touch. So what did your father do?"
Her resentment bubbled like hot soup. "It's not so much what he did, but what happened to him. There were complaints, and investigations in several countries. Everything was in Dad's name. Andrews was never touched, but Dad's reputation was ruined. He lost his credibility, and was driven from the field."
He turned onto Grand Avenue from U.S. 1 and entered Coconut Grove. "Where were you when all this happened?"
"Teaching in Chicago. If I'd known what was going on, Andrews would never have taken advantage of him."
It was guilt and revenge that was driving her, Pierce thought, and maybe that was what the theft was about. Neither spoke as he mulled over what she'd said. As he pulled into her driveway, he had another question. "How did your father meet Andrews?"
"Through Bill. You see, he introduced . .
Her voice faded, stopped. She leaned forward, her body tensing as she stared at the house.
"What's wrong?"
"I didn't leave any lights on. I'm sure of it."
A light was on in the living room, another illuminated an upstairs window. "Anyone else have your keys?"
"No. Except— It better not be him."
"Who?"
"Steve. My ex-husband."
He turned off his engine. "Let's take a look."
They moved swiftly toward the house, their feet whispering through the grass. He tried the door and found it locked. Prowlers rarely entered through a front door, but it wasn't uncommon for them to leave that way. An intruder could still be in the house. She handed him the key and he slipped it into the lock. He turned the knob, pushed open the door. He heard her suck in her breath, and a shiver fanned across his back as he glimpsed the wreckage. The place had been ransacked.
Books and bits of pottery were strewn across the floor, and two armchairs were overturned. Cushions had been torn away from the chairs and couch, and records and tapes had been tossed around. Elise's Mayan calendar lay amid the clutter; it was broken in half. Next to it, a television set lay on its side.
"Oh, God, my pottery."
"Stay right here," he hissed. "I'm getting my gun." He ran to the car, opened the trunk. He took his new .38 from its box and fumbled with the cartridges as he loaded it.
"Hurry," Elise called to him.
"Hold on. Be there in a second."
He hurried to the house and moved in ahead of her. He gripped the gun with both hands as he stepped over piles of books, shattered ceramics, records, and tapes. Holding the gun above his head, he moved carefully toward the back of the house.
He stopped, listened. He heard the honk of a distant horn and the hum of an electrical motor from the next room. He moved ahead, into the kitchen. The refrigerator and freezer doors yawned open, yellow light spilling out over lumpy pools of shadow on the floor and table. He found the light switch, flicked it on. The pantry shelves had been swept clean, and the floor was covered with boxes of pasta and oatmeal dumped over canned goods and bottles of cooking oil and vinegar. Chicken, hamburger, and leftovers were spread across the table.
He stepped over the food and closed the refrigerator and freezer doors. He knelt down and picked up an ice cube tray. The cubes were melting, but still filled the compartmen
ts. The place had been trashed within the hour. He set the ice tray down on the kitchen table, walked over to the back door, and turned the handle. It was unlocked.
"Nick!"
Elise stood in the doorway. Her eyes were wide with fear, her voice was a dry croak. "Upstairs. I heard something."
He closed the back door and followed her to the bottom of the staircase. She stopped, her hand lightly touching the railing. "There. Did you hear that?" Her voice was a whisper.
"What?" He froze, listened. Then he heard it, a ripping noise, like clothing being torn apart, coming from upstairs. The bastard's still here.
He peered up the shadowy staircase, heard the noise again. It grated at him. Quietly, slowly, he mounted the stairs, the .38 pointing the way.
"Nick," Elise whispered. "Be careful."
He patted the air with his hands and continued up the stairs. He stopped a couple of steps from the top. Maybe this isn't such a good idea.
He glanced back over his shoulder and frowned as he saw that Elise was gone. In some odd way, her presence at the foot of the stairs had impelled him forward, had kept him moving toward the noise. Now his courage deserted him. He listened, then heard her voice from somewhere in the living room. She was speaking low, giving her address. She'd called the police.
Just then, a scratching sound drew his attention back to the dark hallway. What the hell's he doing? Ripping her clothes? The fucker's crazy.
Cautiously he took another step.
He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry.
He pressed his back against the wall at the top of the stairway. There was a room to the left. The door was open; the room was dark. Quickly he bobbed his head forward and back. The hall to the right was dimly lit and empty. At the end of it, light seeped from under a closed door.
If you're going to do it, then move it.
He crouched low, gripping the gun above his head. He'd rush the bastard, catch him off-guard. But which room was he in? He glanced around the corner again, and was about to rush down the hall toward the light when he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. He pulled back, pressed against the wall; his heart pounded. The intruder was in the dark room at the top of the stairs. Just a few feet away.
Castro Directive Page 9
