“I just need for you to sign your name right here on this line,” she said softly, returning to place a card on the counter in front of him. Smoothly, he pulled a pen from his pocket. I was about to distract the woman by commenting on the lovely building when she spoke again.
“And, of course, I’ll need to see some ID, Mr. Gold.”
Tom hesitated and I stepped forward, my pulse surging.
“Oh, we were afraid of that,” I said. “He lost his wallet last night at the restaurant. Isn’t the signature enough?”
I could feel Tom’s foot pressing against mine, and I knew I wasn’t following our plan. But we were so close to getting to that box! I simply couldn’t help myself.
“It’s for your own protection,” the woman explained. “I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course we do,” Tom said, taking my arm. “We’ll just run over to the restaurant and see if they found the wallet yet. If so, we’ll come right back.”
I was about to try another plea when the woman picked up the card and tapped it on the table.
“Sorry about that,” she said, a flicker of suspicion crossing her features. “But that’s our policy, you know.”
“Wait!” I cried, gesturing toward the card though I could feel Tom’s fingers pressing my arm. “I still have my wallet.”
The woman and Tom both looked blankly at me. Then she gazed down at the card, turning it over to see what I had just glimpsed.
“Are you Mrs. Webber?” she asked.
“Yes, I am,” I replied, grinning foolishly as I reached into my purse for my driver’s license. Good ol’ Eli, I thought. He had put my name on his box as a backup, forging my signature just like the old days!
I signed on the back of the card next to my name. Within ten minutes, Tom and I were back at the car, a manila envelope weighing heavily in my hands.
“That envelope better be worth what we just risked to get it,” he said.
“It will be,” I replied, running my fingers across the front. “If I know Eli, it will be.”
Eight
We found a little restaurant on the way out of town and asked for a table off to ourselves. With a knowing smile, the hostess led us to a booth near the window, but there were still people within earshot. Tom gestured toward an empty dining room at the back, slipped the woman a twenty, and asked if we might sit there instead.
“Honey, for twenty bucks,” she said, pocketing the cash, “you can come home with me and sit at my kitchen table!”
As soon as we were seated in the back room and had placed our orders, I pulled out the envelope and opened the clasp. Inside I found two items: Eli’s old address book, falling to pieces but held together with several rubber bands, and a thick file with Eli’s familiar handwriting scribbled across the front. I carefully removed the file and set it down in front of me.
“Aw, shoot,” the waitress interrupted, bringing in two glasses of water. “You wanted privacy for a business meeting. I thought y’all was sweet on each other and just wanted a little solitude, if you know what I mean.”
She must have picked up on our mood because she left the room without much more chatter. Once she was gone, Tom moved over to sit next to me so we could go through the file together.
The word Eli had written across the front of the file was “Nadine.” My heart pounded. All of my hunches in finding and securing this file were about to pay off.
We opened it up to find Eli’s typed notes, the first entry dated December 28 of last year.
“He started this file four months ago,” Tom said, pointing to the date.
Though Eli used a shorthand way of writing, his notes were always thorough, containing impressions and observations that lesser detectives might have missed entirely. As he had taught me years ago, you never know what’s going to be important in a case. Better to write it all down as it happens so that you can refer back to it later if need be.
Now, Tom and I both read the entry silently to ourselves.
12/28 6 P.M.—Ferry St. Thomas to St. John on way to house. White female passenger on ferry looks familiar. Attractive brunette, age approx. late fifties. Expensive watch, well-cut clothes. Carries two shopping bags—one orange with big white sunflower, the other brown with big cursive signature logo. Based on time of day, I assume she’s been shopping in St. Thomas and is now headed back to St. John for the night. I puzzle over it the whole way; getting off the ferry, I realize what it is: She reminds me of Nadine Peters! Face is different, though.
Think nothing more of it, must deal with my own luggage. Leaving the dock with porter, observe woman again, from behind; she is reaching up to unzip sunroof from car. Her movements raise the hem of her skirt, exposing ugly scar on thigh just above her knee. Coincidence? It has been many, many years. And Nadine is dead. I saw her die. Shot her myself. Still, that scar. Those movements. Something about that face…
I make note: Plate JAB 6944, Suzuki Vitara, gray.
She drives away immediately; impossible to tail without being obvious or explaining to Stella. Distract Stella with the bags and then ask two cabdrivers; neither claims to know her. Vendor at dockside stand thinks woman is a local but that she doesn’t get out much or mingle in the community.
That was the full entry for that date. Tom and I looked at each other, and he didn’t even have to ask the question for me to answer it.
“No,” I said, shaking my head, “I never heard of Nadine Peters. Have you?”
“No,” he echoed.
“I don’t get this about the ferry, though. Why is he on a ferry?”
“There’s no airport in St. John. To get there, you have to fly into St. Thomas. The islands are fairly close to each other. I think the ferries run all day long, and you can get from one to the other by boat in less than an hour.”
“So that’s what he was doing when he first saw her. Eli and Stella had flown to St. Thomas and they were taking the ferry over to St. John, where Stella has a house.”
“Yes. And while they were on that ferry, he thought he recognized someone from his past. Someone of significance.”
“But then he says, ‘Nadine is dead. I saw her die. Shot her myself.’ Now he thinks he sees her alive. He must’ve been stunned!”
Tom reread the notes.
“Has Eli shot many people in his lifetime?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “He’s been a detective and a cop, and he was in the military. I suppose in all of that, there might have been at least a few times he had to shoot at someone.”
We moved on to the next entry, both fascinated by the detailed notes.
12/29—Can’t get woman out of my mind. One screaming question: Could it be Nadine????? There is simply no way. Nadine is dead!!!
12/31—7 P.M.—Bring bottle of good champagne to A. to toast the New Year; convince him to run plates; leave with name and address info from lic. plate. Plate JAB 6944, Suzuki Vitara, is registered to Earl Streep, Turtle Point, East End. Husband?
1/10 noon—Can’t stop obsessing, have to investigate just to rule this out. Locate Turtle Point out on the East End of St. John. Driveway to house is long, winding road up mountain with no way to approach without being seen. Posted as “Private Drive, No Trespassing.” Let it go, just coincidence.
“Hmm,” I said. “Looks like he tried to forget about it, for a while at least. The next entry is about six weeks later.”
“February 28,” Tom said. “That was just two months ago.”
“I know. I guess he couldn’t let it rest forever.” We continued to read.
2/28—BIG SURPRISE! Go to St. Thomas to get bracelet for Stella for birthday. Spot same woman shopping in town. I purchase camera with zoom and tail on foot. Two hours of shopping, visit to private home 3344 Ketch Alley for approx. 45 minutes. Ferry back to St. John. Take chance of getting on ferry, afraid she will spot me. She sits front, right, so I go back left and get some photos. Not spotted. Stella picks me up. Decide I will set up surveillance near bo
ttom of driveway to her house. Across the street is a small beach.
3/1 10 A.M.—First day of surveillance. Warm and sunny. Beach umbrella, ice chest, chair—I’m set. Camera at the ready, car parked not ten feet away. Let’s have some action.
6 P.M.—Time to pack it in. No one in or out all day. Local on beach says “big estate” at the top of that driveway. No comment from him on frequency of activity (or lack thereof) in and out of driveway.
8 P.M.—Back in Stella’s car for night surveill., park several blocks away. No easy night cover here, small restaurant but it’s closed tonight, no other activity.
9 P.M.—Police car passes twice, acting suspicious, so I hang it up for the night. Will try again tomorrow.
“He sounds very determined,” Tom said, turning the page.
“That’s Eli,” I replied. “Like a bulldog when he gets started on something. You have no idea.”
Before we could go on, the waitress showed up with our food. She set it down in front of us, asked if we needed anything else, and then left us to our papers. Tom reached for his hamburger and took a bite. I was too excited to eat, but I stabbed at my chef salad anyway, spearing a chunk of ham and a little lettuce before sliding the plate away and returning my attentions to the papers.
3/2 9 A.M.—Back on the beach.
1:30 P.M.—At last, some activity!!! Delivery car from Island Foods, bringing groceries.
1:45 P.M.—Delivery car exits. Decide to follow and perhaps engage in conversation. Long trip back to town; two more deliveries are made on the way. Finally, over mountain and into Cruz Bay, pull into Island Foods lot; make note of delivery man.
Pick up a few things in the store. Delivery man is stocking shelves, his name tag says Gerald. I complain about how much I hate shopping, wonder aloud if the store has delivery. He says with a fee. Where is my house? I say East End, he says $50 del. fee plus tip. (Wish I could shrink myself down into a box of macaroni and have myself delivered there.)
3/3—All day surveillance. No activity.
3/4—All day surv. No activity. Go through photos—some good shots. This woman just has to be Nadine. I bring the best pics to Z. at the deli in Coral Bay since he knows almost everyone on the entire island. Does he recognize her? He says, yes, that’s Dianne Streep. She lives out on the East End. Keeps to herself. Married? Yes, her husband is Earl. Know anything about them? Just that they don’t really mingle with the community. Been living out on Turtle Point for a long time. Big estate. Nice little beach around back.
3/5—Need new approach. Call P. in Seattle for satellite photos of the area. He e-mails them; I download and study. Big estate. Tennis court. Pool. Walls. No other houses in vicinity. No vantage point for better look. Too old to climb mountain on foot! Would probably be caught anyway. Am ready to give up search. Call A. and get reference for local PI out of St. Thomas. For $200 they’ll do some research into the estate’s security. Costs are mounting, but I give the go-ahead. They will have report by the end of the week. Get tips from them on purchase location for certain items. Do some shopping and then organize h.c. with new tools.
In the meantime, call around to see if T. is still in the area, still has that sailboat.
“What’s with the initials?” Tom asked. “Who is ‘P’? Who is ‘T’?”
“Eli always did that to protect his sources—though we’ll probably be able to figure out who’s who since we have his address book.”
“Oh yeah,” he said, glancing toward the envelope.
“I have a feeling ‘P. in Seattle’ is probably Paul Tyson,” I said, “a guy I use sometimes too. A real computer genius. Not always operating on the right side of the law, you understand.”
“Nothing illegal about getting satellite photos. You can get them off the internet.”
“Maybe. But if I know Paul, his photos were downloaded straight from the CIA’s satellites or something. He’s a real hacker, and he has a way of going places most people don’t see.”
“You sure keep some interesting company, Callie.”
“I learned at the hand of the master,” I replied, gesturing toward Eli’s notes.
“What’s ‘h.c.’?”
“No idea,” I said, rereading the sentence: “‘Do some shopping and then organize h.c. with new tools.’ Some kind of storage area? Maybe a special carrying case? Those would be my best guesses.”
We continued.
3/6 8:30 A.M.—Out on T.’s sailboat with telescope in hand. Have a good glimpse of the main gate, though house is obscured by trees. No activity.
We sail around back side. I’m pleased to see a private road from estate down to small beach. Activity on beach, though not her. Three dogs and a native. Anchor boat and swim over. Though the beach is public, there are “No Trespassing” signs about every 10 feet along brush line. I try to look nonthreatening, say I’m a little seasick & need to stretch my legs. He is responsive but not overly friendly.
Conversation tough, don’t want to be overeager. Says he works for the Streeps and points up the hill. Brings dogs down twice a day for run on beach. Apparently the dogs are Mrs. Streep’s pride and joy. I say it’s a swanky place, curious what they do for a living. He says Mr. Streep is retired, Mrs. Streep is an art dealer. She works from home as a consultant. I don’t let anything show on my face, but I can’t believe it. Nadine Peters minored in art history in college! If she’s living here in a new life, art consultant is perfect fit.
Time’s up. He yells for Bob, Eve, and Alice. I’m expecting three people to appear, but it turns out he’s calling for the dogs. We shake hands; he is William.
“Dianne Streep,” I said. “An art dealer.”
Tom didn’t reply. We kept reading.
3/7—Report from Windward Investigations. Security on estate is extreme!!! Protective barriers include:
1. Three watchdogs
2. One night security guard
3. Alarm system on doors and windows
4. Biometric entry system on all doors
5. Internal and external motion sensors
6. Internal thermal sensors
7. Internal and external cameras
8. Acoustic/electromagnetic shielding for secure room
9. Backup generator for electronic security devices
10. Closed computer network
Protective measures are far above and beyond the norm. This more than anything convinces me that Dianne Streep and Nadine Peters are one and the same. Bigger question: Is the art dealer thing really her job now or is it a cover? Is she still an active agent?????
3/8—Windward calls to tell me that subject has gained knowledge of their security inquiry. Not good. Surveillance will have to wait for now. Must convince Stella we’ve got to go back to States a week early. Risk factor high. Need to approach from different direction.
3/9—Home in Florida; book morning flight to Baltimore without Stella.
3/10—Flight to Baltimore. Meet with R., now docent at the museum. Confirms Nadine’s death as eyewitness. Says imagination plays tricks, forget it.
3/11—Under Freedom of Information Act read all declassified info on Nadine. Learn nothing new. Sold secrets to Russians during CMC, worked as mathematician for NSA.
“What does that mean?” I asked. “What’s ‘CMC’? What’s ‘NSA’?”
Tom didn’t reply, but I could feel his arm muscles stiffening as he sat there next to me.
“Tom?” I asked.
He simply shook his head and pointed at the next paragraph of the report.
“Looks like Eli and this woman were a couple,” he said.
File contains full reports of her relationship with me! Including photos of us together at cabin. Partial report of discovery of her betrayal; my interrogation; her escape and subsequent death at cabin. File closed with “Deceased.” Autopsy report included. Photo of body.
Compare to current photos I took. Bring photos back to R. He says he will look into it and get back to me. Could take weeks—he says to be pa
tient.
3/12—Return to Florida and wait. Put file into highest security storage until I hear back from R.
CODE YELLOW.
“That’s it,” I said. “That’s his last entry. The twelfth of last month.”
Tom and I looked at each other and then back down at the stacks of photos, reports, and documents.
“What’s code yellow?” Tom asked.
“Like a traffic light,” I replied. “It means ‘slow down and wait.’”
Tom nodded.
“I guess while he waited, somebody decided to shoot him.”
Nine
“We have to go back to square one,” Tom said as we pulled onto the interstate. “Recap the whole thing again.”
We had finished our lunch while looking through the stack of photographs, reports, and computer printouts that had been included with the file. As always, Eli’s records had been thorough. This case was too complicated to take it all in at once.
“Okay,” I said, holding the case notes in front of me and turning in my seat a bit to get comfortable. We had an hour’s drive back to Stella’s place. Though I would have preferred to spend the time sleeping, I knew Tom was as exhausted as I was, and I needed to stay alert in order to keep him from falling asleep at the wheel. Before I went over everything, I reached out and took his hand.
“Are you all right?” I asked. “At some point we both need to lie down and take a nap.”
“Maybe when we get back to Stella’s,” he said. “Right now, my mind is racing too much to sleep anyway.”
“Good. Then you drive while I go it through again.”
“Go for it.”
“The short version is that Eli saw a woman from his past he thought he recognized, a woman he had had a relationship with and then apparently shot and killed. He investigated to find out if it was really her, and then he ended up getting shot by a sniper.”
A Quarter for a Kiss Page 6
