Tanzi's Ice (Vince Tanzi Book 2)

by C I Dennis

  “Got some nice leg-a-lamb in the oven,” Kermit said to me. “They raise ʼem over ta Charlotte.” He pronounced it Sha-lott, which is how the locals did.

  “Smells great,” I said. “You ever cook it outside?”

  “Yes sir, Mister Dooley,” he said. “That’s the real way. Butterflied lamb over lump charcoal. Did one last summah, and the god-danged dog pulled it right off the fire when I wasn’t payin’ attention. Sixty bucks worth of lamb, gone in a jiffy.”

  “Too bad,” I said. Kermit looked like he’d weigh in at around 120, and Eunice was about double that. You see them all over the state—skinny guys in tractor hats with a big wad of keys on their belts, pushing the shopping cart for momma, who was so big she made a beep-beep noise when she backed up. Ah, love.

  My phone buzzed. It was a text from Junie. I had no idea he even knew how to do that.

  I’m out, it said. Thanks.

  I crossed the kitchen, over to a window where I could watch the snow falling outside. No prob, I wrote back.

  Going to the bar to celebrate. Wanna come?

  I’m at Burleighs, I texted. Took a job driving.

  CALL ME, he wrote.

  Can’t, I sent back. Supper on table.

  GET OUT OF THERE NOW.

  Will call U later, I wrote, and I put the phone away.

  *

  Kermit’s lamb was as good as you could get in any restaurant in the world. He used an ancho chile marinade according to Eunice, who listed the ingredients for me in a squeaky-doll voice. She said he’d found the recipe in Bon Appétit, which she pronounced Bone Appetite. There would be no leftovers, and I would need to be careful not to back up after the huge portion I’d had or I’d be beep-beeping myself.

  Jenny sat at my left side, with Yuliana at my right. The au pair barely spoke, and when I tried to draw her into conversation, Tomas would run interference. He was pretty good at it, so I started to make it into a game. I’d thrust, he’d parry, and after a while he realized what I was doing and laughed.

  “You’re quite the inquisitor, Vince,” he said.

  “I’m just a curious guy,” I said.

  “Next time we meet I’ll have Jenny bring her résumé.”

  “That would be a time-saver,” I said, and he smiled. He had a small mouth, and his slightly-crooked teeth were stained with tobacco.

  “Too bad about your father,” he said. “And your brother. I’m sure he’s innocent.”

  “He’s out already,” I said. “They suspect someone else.” I dangled that out there to see if I’d get a reaction. Nothing. Tomas had as good of a cop-face as I did—not even an eyelash moved.

  “Well, that’s welcome news,” he said. “How do you know this?”

  “They picked up two people on the surveillance tape. Professionals. The state cops are looking for them now.”

  “Any idea who they are?” Man, he was good. But I was holding the cards, and I could either lay down some aces or raise the pot. I decided to see if I could make him squirm.

  “I forgot to ask,” I said. “But the lieutenant I spoke with said he thought they’d pick them up within a few hours.”

  This time I got a reaction. Fear. I couldn’t exactly see it, but I could smell it. It was as strong as the lingering smell of the marinade on the lamb bones that covered my plate. I almost expected him to push his chair back from the table and bolt for the exit, but he was way too cool for that. Instead, we finished our entrée and chatted over coffee and Eunice’s maple bread pudding, which was so sweet and rich that I could already hear the scales groaning in the morning as the needle hit the danger zone.

  “Everyone’s tired from a long day,” Brooks announced. He was right; I was ready for bed. “Tomas, you’re staying over, yes?”

  “No, thank you,” Tomas said. “We have to be up early.”

  “You can’t go out in this weather,” Yuliana said.

  “We must, I’m afraid,” he replied. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”

  “Why not have Vince drive you in the Escalade?” Brooks said.

  “We’ll be fine,” he said. “The Audi has all-wheel drive.”

  “Give me your keys,” I said. “I’ll get the snow off and start it for you.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and he handed them to me.

  “I’ll just grab my coat,” I said, and I bounded downstairs. It was snowing like hell now, and I’d need my coat, hat, and gloves. I also needed something else—something from my little bag of tricks. It was a battery-powered GPS tracker, with magnets that would hold it onto the underside of his Audi. The unit would send me a signal which I could track from a program that Roberto had installed on my computer. I had put a scare into Tomas Schultheiss, my fencing partner, and if he was going to run, I wanted to know where.

  *

  I woke up at midnight, thinking about Junie. I’d forgotten all about calling him back. I checked my phone in the dark, to see if he had called me. Nothing. Whatever it was he was so worried about could wait. Maybe he was hitting the bars and was still awake—but I nixed the idea of calling him. I was groggy with the effects of the huge meal, and snowstorms make me extra-sleepy, as if Nature was covering me up in a soft white blanket. I’d try him in the morning.

  SUNDAY

  I was up before the sun, and the first order of business was to boot up the laptop and see where Tomas’ Audi was. He’d wasted no time—the car was a long way from his house in Stowe. It was in North Hero, and I recognized the address: Carla’s. It must have been quite a drive in the storm; I’d apparently provided him some motivation. I inwardly laughed my Evil Laugh.

  Yuliana was in the kitchen, still in her robe, making coffee.

  “What time do we leave for D.C.?” I asked.

  “Late afternoon. Assuming they have the runway plowed.”

  I looked out at the landscape. The farm was buried under at least a foot of fluffy white stuff. It was powdery and it hadn’t stuck to the trees, which was fortunate because it would have significantly added to the damage from the ice storm. The dawn cast a pink glow, and a gusty wind was blowing the new snow into drifts against the outbuildings. Someone had already plowed the driveway, and I guessed that the roads would be open. Vermonters don’t let snow stay on the road for more than a few hours; it would be an affront to civilization.

  “Looks like the driving will be OK,” I said.

  “The snow stopped a few hours ago,” she said. “It’s supposed to be sunny and cold.” She put a mug down in front of me. “Missed you last night.”

  She was dangling the prize again. I wasn’t quite sure how to react. I laughed my non-evil laugh. “As if we could have done anything, with all that food in us.”

  “I felt like I’d swallowed a whole sheep,” she said.

  “Somehow I have to get my rental car back to Montreal,” I said. “Does Brooks have anything going on today?”

  “Not that I know of,” she said. “He was going to stay in and plan for his meetings.”

  “Maybe I’ll drive it up there this morning,” I said. With a side trip to North Hero.

  “I could change the flight plan and pick you up in Montreal,” she said.

  “I don’t want to inconvenience you,” I said. “I can get a bus back.”

  “It’s twenty minutes from here in the jet. I’ll hardly even get to altitude.”

  “If it’s OK with Brooks,” I said.

  “He does what I tell him,” she said, and smiled. “And you will too, eventually.”

  I laughed, but I already knew her well enough to know that she wasn’t kidding.

  *

  I inched down the hill in the Chevy. After a few miles I got my snow-driving mojo back and was negotiating the curves without slipping, even with the car’s balding tires. You have to just pretend you’re on skates, not in a car, and you’ll be all right as long as you don’t make any jerky movements and leave plenty of room to stop.

  The interstate was almost clear of cars, and I was able
to travel at about fifty miles an hour—slow, but I’d get there. I was on the island in a little over an hour, and used my phone’s GPS to lead me back to Carla’s place. I got out at the end of their driveway to take a look. There was one set of tire tracks in, superimposed over an older set from a different car that had gone out. I could tell by the direction of the tread pattern. Normally I can’t track for shit, and it always makes me laugh in the old movies when the Indian sees a broken twig and says, “He went that-a-way.” But fresh snow makes tracking easy. I called Carla from my cell.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Vince.”

  “Oh, hi,” she said.

  “Where are you?”

  “Burlington,” she said. “That guy made us leave last night, in the middle of the storm.”

  “Does he own the place?”

  “It’s some kind of non-profit. They give money to marine research, and they do this international exchange program thing. They get girls from Europe and place them with families. Like a work-study deal.”

  “Who else comes there?”

  “Just him, and Mr. Burleigh sometimes. Dad’s boss.” I heard her talking to someone in the background.

  “What are you doing calling her?” It was Ginny, who had snatched the phone.

  “Is that any of your business?” I was getting my fill of Ginny.

  “Where are you?”

  “North Hero,” I said.

  “For God’s sake, get the hell out of there,” she screamed. I held the phone away from my ear.

  “I have a question for you,” I said. There was no response, so I continued. “What do you call it when a man mistreats a woman? Yells at her, smacks her around, you know.”

  “That’s abuse,” she said.

  “Right,” I said. “Felony domestic abuse. And it doesn’t have to be a man.”

  “Yes it does.”

  “No it doesn’t. You can ask some of the people I’ve put in jail. They’re not all men.”

  “What are you implying?”

  “What I’m implying is that I’d like you to give the fucking phone back to my sister before I report you.”

  There was a silence. “Vinny?” It was Carla again.

  “It’s OK, Carla.”

  “You’re just making things worse,” she said.

  “If I am, I’m sorry,” I said. “But if she’s abusing you, you should think about your situation, and call me if you need anything.”

  “OK,” she said, and we hung up.

  *

  There was no sign of life from the house or any of the outbuildings. The Audi’s tracks led to a garage, and I parked the Chevy in front of it and tried the door. It was unlocked, and I raised it overhead, enough to see that the sleek German car was inside. A single set of footprints led from the garage to the large boathouse that I’d seen earlier, down the slope to where the water—now ice—met the edge of the shore. The footprints ended at a door on the side of the boathouse. It was secured by a keypad lock—my nemesis, as none of my lock-picking tools could crack it, and I’d left them in Stowe anyway. The boathouse exterior had no windows and looked fairly new and solidly built. I couldn’t detect any heat coming from within it, or any signs of life. Whoever had gone in hadn’t come out, and if they were still in there they must be damn cold by now. Strange.

  I walked around to the lakeshore side and checked out the huge overhead door that was positioned to let a boat in or out. It met the surface of the ice with a firm seal, but I noticed some slight melting around the edge. Some people paid to have heating installed inside their boathouses, along the waterline, so that they didn’t have to have their vessels removed in the winter to prevent them from being encased (and ruined) by the powerful ice. It was an expensive type of boat storage, but if Brooks and Tomas controlled this place there would be money to burn.

  I was puzzled by the fact that no tracks led out. Whoever had gone in must still be in there? No. It was clear that the building was empty. I tried to come up with some kind of theory, but it was escaping me. Tomas had done a Houdini, and I was pissed off, but I was also impressed. I needed to get on the road to Montreal, but I’d have to revisit this little non-profit Shangri-la, and the next time I’d bring my more persuasive door-opening tools, like a big-ass chainsaw.

  *

  Yuliana waved at me from the cockpit window as I approached the plane. There wasn’t as much snow in Montreal, but the wind had whipped up to a fury and I sprinted across the freshly plowed taxiway. The interior of the big Bombardier was cozy and warm. I felt like I’d re-entered the womb, and I began to wonder if that wasn’t the primal, driving desire behind all human activity.

  She was alone in the plane—no Ed. “You can fly these things solo?”

  “There’s so much technology onboard you hardly need a pilot,” she said.

  She had yet another Bond Girl outfit on, this time a uniform like Ed’s, but with strategic pleats and tucks in the right places. One of these days I wanted to see her in a dirty T-shirt and sweatpants. Forget it—she’d probably still look great.

  “Back to Morrisville,” she said. “Do you want to try a takeoff?”

  “No way,” I said. “Those dials look like a video game from hell.”

  She laughed, and busied herself with her preflight routine. I took the seat next to her and tried to stay out of her way. The big engines roared as she taxied out to a runway, accelerated, and pulled the jet up at a steep angle into the crisp winter sky, leaving the Canadian snowfields behind.

  “In the event of a water landing, I’ll be your flotation device,” she said. Her dark hair was tied behind her back, but it still glowed from the light of the LEDs.

  “Let’s not try that,” I said. “The water isn’t too welcoming right now.”

  “I have a confession,” she said.

  “What?”

  “It’s not what you want to hear.”

  “Try me.”

  “I like you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m not complimenting you, I’m confessing,” she said.

  “Is there something wrong with liking me?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m a little terrified about the whole thing.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “You are going to be a father. I know that you’re off-limits.”

  “I was reading about it while I waited for you,” I said. “In the airport. It says on the net that there are all kinds of risks at Barbara’s age.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “She’s gutsy,” I said. “She had kind of a rough start in life, but now she’s studying to be a nurse.”

  “Commendable,” she said. “People can reinvent themselves in this country, which is a great privilege. Second chances are a gift.”

  I thought about what she’d said while she adjusted dials and spoke into her headset microphone. She was talking to air traffic control, and she sounded cool and professional.

  “Like I said, I can get you out,” I said, and she took the headset off.

  “What do you know about your father and me?”

  “Not much,” I said. “Except that you both have the same video of Dulles Stanton on your computers.”

  She stiffened in the seat. “Not possible,” she said.

  “You thought you’d wiped it?”

  “I was the first person in his apartment,” she said. “I’m nothing if not thorough.”

  “Hard drives don’t lie.”

  She banked the plane into a slow turn toward the south. The sky was an azure blue, dotted with clouds that were outlined by a creamsicle sunset.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she said.

  “You already said it. Second chances are a gift.”

  *

  I had a number of phone calls to make, so I stayed in the jet while Yuliana went into the Morrisville air facility to stretch her legs and wait for Brooks. The first was to Carla. I realized that she was on the other side of a number of loose en
ds. Rodney Quesnel had told me that she was the “trustee”, and was responsible for paying the premiums on my father’s insurance policy. I didn’t understand that, and I’d missed the opportunity to ask her when Ginny had shooed me off. I also wanted to know what was in the boathouse. Her phone went to voicemail, despite several tries. I left a brief message.

  Next was Junie, who was not answering either. Probably still sleeping it off—he was a night owl. I was extremely curious about his girlfriend who had co-starred in the Dulles Stanton video. I was glad that he had had a romance going, even if it was over. I had the feeling that Junie was deep into whatever was going on, and he was holding back. If I couldn’t reach him on the phone, I’d go see him, which was probably a better way to get him to open up anyway. Face-to-face is always the most effective way to get to the truth.

  I got Patton on the first ring. “I’m just coming out of the shower,” he said.

  “Thanks for the visual,” I said. “I’ll have nightmares for weeks.”

  “Sorry about that,” he laughed.

  “Can you track Tomas Schultheiss’ cell?”

  “You have the number?”

  “Yeah.” I gave it to him. “He may be far away. I spooked him a little.”

  “How?”

  “I told him the cops had ID’d two guys on the security video, and they were about to pick them up.”

  “Subtle,” he said. “We’ll probably never see him again.”

  “That solves your problem,” I said. “But not mine. I want his ass in jail.”

  “Pallmeister’s on it. They saw what you saw on the tapes, and they may be able to ID the garbage truck.”