The ride took only a handful of minutes. The ferry wasn’t at the dock, but there was a tubby fishing boat with a small pilothouse jutting forward over her flaring bows. Long trolling poles angled off her stern. Bell recognized Keno Wilson, and another of the cops from the night before, standing just behind the bridge. Exhaust burbled from a vent in the fishing boat’s transom.
“I found the rowboat about a mile north of the hotel,” Bell said as he approached.
“Well done. Bill, go check it out.” The other cop stepped up off the boat just as Bell jumped down into it.
“It’s hidden in a thick patch of seagrass,” Bell called after the cop. “Take my taxi, courtesy of the national Republican Party, since they are ultimately picking up the tab.”
A deckhand released a line securing the fishing boat to the dock, and the captain at the helm fed in more power. The boat gathered speed, but ponderously, like a dowager trying to swim. They started across the bay toward the white-hulled battlewagons. Bell turned his attention to San Diego’s top lawman. “Good morning, Chief. What’s the fuss about?”
“Three of the four men killed last night floated up from the sunken boat and were recovered by Navy personnel from the Maryland. They’re getting ready to send a hard-hat diver down to see if he can find the fourth. I thought you might want to get a look-see at the bodies before they go to the coroner.”
“I appreciate that.”
“You put a fast end to the worst shooting this city’s ever seen,” Wilson said, his eyes slit against the wind fanning across the boat’s aft deck. “Least I can do.”
Wilson didn’t seem to have anything more to say, and Bell was just as happy to keep his own counsel. The sun was climbing higher into the sky and throwing lightning-like flashes off the wavelets rippling the harbor. A big gull momentarily hovered over the boat, as it motored toward the heavy cruiser, but soon realized there was no prospect of fish and wheeled away.
They approached the Maryland under the vigilant eyes of a half dozen armed men standing watch. After the previous night’s brush with anarchists, the captain was taking no chances.
The cruiser’s boarding ladder was down, and a sailor in white was waiting on the landing to help Bell and Wilson jump across. They climbed up to the main deck. The ship’s second officer was there to greet them. Bell couldn’t recall his name. He led them around the forward gun turret, under the enormous barrels of its eight-inch cannons, and back down the cruiser’s port side. Just aft of amidships, a crane had been unlimbered and its boom arm maneuvered over the ship’s rail. Nearby, a compressor powered by steam from an auxiliary line off the ship’s main boilers chugged rhythmically and forced air down a vulcanized rubber hose to the diver standing on a cradle dangling from the end of the crane. Sailors were on hand to feed his umbilical smoothly into the water and to monitor the electric telephone system.
The diver himself was clad in an enclosed canvas suit topped with an enormous brass helmet, with three round viewing ports, and lead-soled boots on his feet. A lead belt was buckled around his waist. Because of the air pressure inside the suit when he was submerged, all the extra weight was needed to anchor him to the seafloor. He had a knife and pry bar attached to an equipment belt.
The dive master threw the diver a salute, which he returned as best he could in the bulky outfit, and the crane started paying out more line. The cradle descended, and the diver was soon chest-deep in the warm waters of San Diego Bay. Then he was gone altogether, leaving only the steady rise of bubbles to give his location.
Bell noticed a Navy rowboat made of gray metal was a safe distance away from the work zone. It was crewed by five sailors, and he understood its grim task.
“Where are the other bodies?” Bell asked the executive officer.
“Come.”
He and Wilson were led aft, where the three bodies had been laid out on stretchers under heavy canvas tarps, the edges weighted down with paint cans.
“Do you mind if I . . . ?” Bell asked the chief, who had jurisdiction, and knelt next to the first one.
“Help yourself.” Wilson had no desire to see the bodies, so he gazed out over the harbor.
Bell lifted the tarp. The man hadn’t been in the water long enough for any marine decay, but the explosion and fire had wreaked havoc on his flesh. Not the worst Bell had ever seen, but disturbing nevertheless. His features were Hispanic, with strong native ancestry, and Bell recognized him as the one who’d picked up the Lewis gun after he’d shot its original owner. Like the anarchists he’d inspected in the dining room, he had a slight build but was wiry with muscle, and he had distinct calluses on his hands. The corpse had no legs below the knees.
There was nothing in his sodden pockets and no labels in any of his clothes, but they were rough-spun, so likely bought in Panama.
The other two men were in similar condition and just as uninformative.
Bell joined Wilson at the rail. “I can positively identify these three as part of the squad that attacked us at The Del. I will sign an affidavit, if you’d like.”
“Probably should, just to keep everything official. Learn anything about ’em?”
Before Bell could answer there was a commotion farther down the ship. The crew were bringing up the diver. Nearing the surface, his canvas suit and bright helmet began to appear as a light splotch under the murky green water. With no warning, another corpse suddenly surfaced close by, propelled upward by the gases trapped in the stomach.
The body bobbed obscenely.
The diver’s brass helmet broached, and moments later he was hoisted clear of the harbor on the cradle, water sluicing off his vulcanized suit and spattering the water beneath his weighted feet.
When the cradle rose over the ship’s rail, the derrick swung back over the deck, and he was lowered to where the sailors already had a bucket waiting so he could sit. Standing upright in the heavy suit was a physically draining exercise. Down on the water, the men in the steel boat had rowed over to where the legless body was floating facedown. Rather than haul it over the gunwale, a fifth sailor, not manning an oar, reached over the bow and took a firm grip of the back of the corpse’s shirt collar.
It took just minutes for them to row around the fantail and up to the boarding ladder. Bell and Wilson circled the deck to keep watch. The trawler that had taken them out to the Maryland moved in, and the body was lifted from the sea onto her deck. A sailor rushed down from the deck with a tarp, which was quickly draped over the prone figure.
A detail of sailors was assembled to transfer stretchers with the other dead men on them to the fishing boat, so they could be taken ashore. Chief Wilson had mentioned earlier he had horse-drawn hearses standing by on the dock. After the coroner’s investigation, they’d be buried in the city’s version of a potter’s field.
Bell and Wilson thanked the XO and disembarked onto the fishing boat.
Bell checked the hands of the last man recovered from the harbor, the presumed getaway driver, since he didn’t recognize his face. Minutes later, the last of the corpses were aboard, and the trawler pulled away from the warship with its grisly cargo laid out on deck. There was barely room for Wilson and Bell to stand.
“What’s next for you, Bell?” Wilson asked as they chugged across the bay.
“Panama, I suppose.”
The chief was taken aback. “Why? This isn’t your fight.”
“You asked me what I deduced from the bodies just before the fourth floated free, remember? Well, here’s my answer. Except for the boat driver, who didn’t participate in the attack, they all show calluses on the inside of the middle finger of their right hand.”
The veteran policeman didn’t need long to know what that meant. “Shooter’s callus. From the trigger guard.”
“Exactly. A very particular callus to develop. These men did heavy training for this mission, enough so they should have been e
xpert marksmen. However, it appeared that they didn’t know how to use their weapons effectively, especially the Lewis gun.”
“Doesn’t figure.”
“Right,” Bell agreed. “But what if they intentionally fired like a bunch of yokels, for some reason? Recall that my man outside the dining room threw off their timing.”
“Okay.” Wilson paused, thinking, trying to see how any of this fit together. He finally shook his head. “I don’t get it.”
“That’s just it,” Bell agreed. “It doesn’t add up. If they were good marksmen, what was the purpose of intentionally missing the Senator during an assassination attempt?”
“Maybe it wasn’t an assassination attempt.”
“Maybe it wasn’t,” Bell agreed. “I’m missing a piece to this puzzle and it has to be in Panama.”
“Why?”
Bell chuckled a little darkly and looked at the bodies at their feet. “Because I’ve killed all the leads here in California.”
8
Bell was unable to reach Marion when he returned to the hotel but managed to talk with Joseph Van Dorn and brief him on the situation. The veteran detective assured Bell that following the trail down to Panama was the right call, though he wasn’t certain the clients would want to continue paying for his services.
“It doesn’t matter,” Bell fired back. “There are too many inconsistencies for me to ignore. Plus, there’s the personal component for me.”
“I know, I know. Our contract with the Republicans expires shortly, but we must still protect the man. The agency has a history with him, after all.”
“I’ll work on my own time, if necessary. We both know this attack won’t dissuade him from going to Panama, right?”
“You know him better than I do. He’s a close friend of your father, is he not?”
“Very close. He taught me how to shoot a rifle on his ranch in Dakota.”
“He’s not one to be intimidated, so we’ll have to assume his travel plans will remain intact.”
“Then tell the Republicans I’ll act as an advance man for a security detail.”
“Of course,” Van Dorn said. “One would hope they’ll want to ensure the safety of their candidate.”
“I’m heading to Panama on the first boat out of San Diego. The hotel’s booking agent is securing passage for me right now.”
“Not to pry, old friend, but aren’t you supposed to be enjoying a vacation with Marion?”
“Yeaaah,” Bell said, drawing out the word and indicating his discomfort. “She’s arriving within the hour. With any luck, I’ll have a day or two with her before I leave.”
“Good luck there.”
“Thanks.” Bell hung up the phone and stepped out of the glass and brass booth. Across the lobby, The Del’s booking agent saw him and waved him over. He was on the phone with another guest and kept a finger in the air to indicate it would be a short conversation.
“Yes, Mrs. Blandon, you’re all set. You have a starboard cabin for your journey, and your reservation at the Hotel Sorrento in Seattle has been confirmed.” A pause. “Yes, ma’am, it has been our pleasure having you with us. Enjoy your last day here, and bon voyage tomorrow.”
He settled the receiver on its cradle. Bell felt someone get in line behind him but didn’t turn around.
The agent beamed. “Mr. Bell, you are a most fortunate man. There’s a cabin available on a steamship heading for New York. It normally doesn’t call in on Panama as a regular port of call, but there are more than fifty workers needing passage to the canal so the ship’s owners agreed to a detour.”
“That’s terrific. When does the ship arrive?”
“She’s more than a day out of San Francisco, so she’ll put in late this afternoon and be gone as soon as her coal bunkers are topped off.”
Bell’s stomach sank. Marion had always been the most understanding and accommodating woman in the world but abandoning her without warning on the first day of a vacation was a line he shouldn’t cross. No one had that much forbearance.
“Is there any chance there’s another ship leaving tomorrow or the next day?”
The agent seemed genuinely hurt that his customer wasn’t overjoyed at getting exactly what he wanted. “Is there a problem? You said you needed to be in Panama as soon as possible.”
“It’s just that my wife . . .”
A sultry voice behind him finished, “. . . was promised a week’s holiday at The Del and hopefully she’ll forgive me if I stick around for at least a day.”
Bell whirled around and was met by an amused and mocking smile. Marion was wearing all white, the only splash of color being a green band around her large hat that perfectly matched the emerald hue of her eyes. Her blond hair cascaded around her shoulders. She was as slender as a teen, willow-waisted but curvy elsewhere, and she always was the most beautiful woman in any room she entered. When asked what she did for a living and she said she was in pictures, everyone assumed she was a starlet and not a director.
She cocked her head, her mouth shifting into a little moue at Bell’s stunned surprise.
“Or am I wrong?” She batted her eyes playfully.
“Marion,” Bell finally said and took her hands. He leaned in to give her a kiss and she turned her head at the last second so all he got was her silk-soft cheek. “You’re here earlier than I expected.”
“The train from L.A. caught a tailwind or something. Surprise.”
“So—” Bell cut himself off. He saw it then, shining in the back of her eyes. She wasn’t mad at all, just having fun at making him think she was. “You minx.”
She started to laugh and wrapped her arms around his neck and raised herself up on tiptoes to plant a kiss on his lips that made the travel agent blush.
“I read a newspaper on the ferry on the way over from the mainland. Lead story was about how Panamanian anarchists tried to murder a Senator here at The Del and how an unnamed individual—you, I can only surmise—saved said Senator and dispatched two of the said Panamanian anarchists here and four more following a boat chase across San Diego Bay. The reporter was quite breathless about the whole thing. Me? That’s about a five on the Isaac Bell scale of chaos and mayhem.”
Marion looked past Bell’s shoulder so she could address the agent. “We will be taking that cabin. And could you let the front desk know that we’re canceling our stay here? If there is a fee for such late notice, we understand completely.”
“What are you doing?” Bell asked his wife.
“As soon as I read that article, I knew you’d want to follow up, and that meant going to Panama. I just want time alone with you. I don’t care if it’s here at The Del or on a ship heading south. It’s us being together that I care about, not where we are.”
“I cannot love you more,” he said solemnly. “I also can’t take you with me.”
A storm started brewing in her eyes. “Think very carefully. Are you sure those are what you want your dying words to be?”
Bell had to force himself not to chuckle. “It’s dangerous, Marion. There’s an insurgency growing in Panama, and the attack last night might be the trigger for a lot more violence.”
“I’ll make you a deal,” she offered. “I come with you, and once we’re there if you deem it too unsafe, I’ll come home, no argument.”
“Promise?”
“Yes. Besides which, you need me.”
“How so, more than normal?”
“You don’t speak any Spanish, and I speak it practically con fluidez.”
* * *
Senator Densmore had used his office to get a tour of the USS Maryland for him and his extended family, so Bell couldn’t introduce Marion to Elizabeth. He left a note with the front desk for the Senator and his niece, and he and Marion went up to his room so he could pack. He’d been told earlier that Court Talbot had checked out of t
he hotel while he was working with Chief Wilson. While he packed, Bell told Marion all the details of the attack and the discrepancies that tugged at his subconscious. Renny Hart came by as he was finishing up. He introduced Hart to his wife.
“I knocked on your door earlier,” Bell told him.
The young agent smiled embarrassedly. “The house doc came to my room every hour all night to make sure I didn’t have a brain bleed. I finally got some real sleep sometime after five in the morning and just woke up a few minutes ago.”
“You feeling okay?” There was a puce knot the size of an egg over his right eye with threads of green and purple around it. He also had a black eye that looked like it was going to linger for weeks.
“Still a little woozy, and the bump hurts like the devil,” Hart admitted.
“You on the three o’clock train for L.A.?” Renny nodded. “Marion and I have a ship to catch this evening, but we’ll head over early and see that you make your train. I’ll cable the L.A. office to make sure someone is there to bring you home.”
“You don’t need to do all that, Mr. Bell.”
Marion piped in, “He does and he did. You saved all those lives.”
“She’s not exaggerating, Renny. Your warning gave me enough time to flip the table and give us some cover. Without that, they would have killed us all.”
The young man blushed and couldn’t meet Bell’s eye.
Bell zipped up his bag. “Let’s enjoy lunch by the pool and then make our way along to the pier.”
Hours later, Bell and Marion were in their cabin, unpacking their things, for the six-day cruise to Panama. The SS Valencia had once been a luxurious express liner plying the North Atlantic route between New York and Europe, but that had been two decades and four name changes ago. While she was clean and the cabin spacious, her age was really starting to show. The carpets in the common areas were so faded that any pattern they’d once had were now muted smears of indistinct color, and a great deal of the veneer for the paneling was becoming delaminated and curled at the edges.
The Saboteurs Page 7
