Whistler's Angel

by John R. Maxim

  He said, “Add in all sick who are in chronic pain, people hurting so badly they wish they could die. Any doctor could ease their pain if you’d let them. But do you? No, you don’t. Any doctor who prescribes enough pain drugs to help them risks having his license to practice suspended. You intimidate the doctor; you intimidate the pharmacist; you let the patient suffer, and for what? Because the DEA zealots say it sends the wrong message. Use drugs to feel better? Oh, we can’t allow that. We can’t let some old lady who’s dying of cancer risk getting addicted to morphine, God forbid. We’ve got to protect that old lady from herself. Can’t any of you grasp how imbecilic that is? Don’t any of you have the guts to stand up and…”

  A gavel came down. “You’ve been warned, Mr. Ragland.”

  “My Black Lab had cancer. I had to put him down. But that dog was kept free of pain all the way and he died a calm and dignified death. My mother had cancer. She died trying to scream. Mr. Chairman, do you see an inequity here? It’s okay to help my dog but not okay to help my mother. I wish to God that I myself had had the guts to go out and buy morphine on the street. But let’s say I did. Let’s say I decided to treat my mother as mercifully as I treated my dog. You hypocrites would have had me locked up. Not one of you would have…”

  A gavel came down hard. “Mr. Ragland, that’s enough.”

  “Very well, I’ll change the subject. Let us talk about our children. We must protect them from drugs, must we not?”

  “I believe that’s what we’re here for, Mr. Ragland.”

  “You’re aware that our children can readily buy drugs. Most don’t, but all of them can. Am I right?”

  “Sadly, yes.”

  “Ask a child which drug is the hardest to buy. So hard that it’s scarely

  worth the effort. Can you name it?”

  “I dare say that you’re about to tell us, Mr. Ragland.”

  “The answer is booze. I’m talking alcohol, gentlemen. Vastly more common, vastly more harmful, but vastly more difficult to purchase. And why is that?

  “Because its distribution is controlled by the government.”

  Ragland nodded. “Correct. And controlled quite effectively. You used to prohibit it, did you not?”

  “Mr. Ragland…”

  “Distribution of alcohol is controlled by our government. Distribution of drugs is controlled by the mob. There’s a lesson there somewhere if you look hard enough.”

  The gavel rapped again. The committee chairman was angry. He was telling the witness to be careful with his language and to forego any further personal attacks on the honorable members there seated. But the people in the gallery seemed to be with Philip Ragland. A camera panned over them. Most of them were applauding. Several, here and there, had sour looks on their faces. Those several, no doubt, were there to testify as well, probably to rebut Ragland’s arguments.

  Whistler suddenly blinked. He leaned closer to the screen. He said, “Claudia, look. Those two men three rows back.” He reached to point them out with his finger.

  “Uh-huh. Who are they? Do you know them?”

  “Oh, yes.” He tapped the screen. “The bigger one, white-hair, yellow tie, is Stanton Poole. The one who looks like a frog…that’s Felix Aubrey.”

  “They’re the ones who…?”

  “Yes, they are.”

  She squinted, surprised. “But they both look so…harmless.”

  “Well, they don’t have horns and a tail.”

  “Especially Poole. He has a kind face. He looks…I don’t know…so at peace with himself.”

  “That look is standard issue for the morally certain. Never mistake it for kindness.”

  “But even the other one. He doesn’t look evil. He reminds me…I don’t know…of some kids I went to school with.”

  “Kids you thought were dorks?”

  “I have never used that word.”

  “Not you. You wouldn’t. But you’re right about the type. The kind who never had a date or got invited to parties. And who envied, even hated, those who did. Yeah, that would have been Aubrey. And Aubrey, I imagine, dreamed of someday getting even. I think you’d be surprised how many people like Aubrey find their way into government jobs.”

  Claudia leaned closer. “What’s he holding in his lap?”

  “Looks like a crutch. The short kind with a clamp.”

  “Is he crippled?”

  “He wasn’t. Must have been in an accident.”

  Whistler hadn’t told Claudia that Aubrey had been visited. He saw no point in telling her now. In any case, the pan of the camera had ended. A voice-over announcer was wrapping up the segment. He reminded the viewers that Ragland had been shot, but that he was expected to recover.

  “It’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it,” said Claudia.

  “You mean seeing Poole and Aubrey in the same room with Ragland? I wouldn’t call that a coincidence.”

  “It doesn’t make you wonder?”

  “Yeah, it does, but it shouldn’t. A hearing like that one would have dozens of witnesses arguing for and against. Stanton Poole is always testifying at these things. Poole and Aubrey wouldn’t care about silencing one critic unless he’s caught on to what they were doing. Even then, they wouldn’t have done it like this. They had nothing to do with last night.”

  “Or you’re hoping they didn’t.”

  “No, I’m sure of it.”

  Claudia turned her head. She was looking toward the shore. A sportfishing boat had left the dock and was motoring in their direction. She reached below for a pair of binoculars. As she focused them on the approaching boat, she saw a young woman in a sweatshirt and shorts stand up and wave both her arms.

  She said, “That’s Leslie who’s waving. From Jump & Phil’s. She’s trying to get our attention. And that’s Phil himself at the wheel. That’s his boat.”

  Whistler stared. “Who’s that with them? Is that Sergeant Moore?”

  “Yes, it is. Why would he be coming out on Phil’s boat?”

  “As opposed to a police boat? I can’t imagine.”

  “Hold on. Leslie’s trying to tell us.”

  Leslie had backed away from the wheel and out of Sergeant Moore’s line of sight. She brought a hand to her ear as if holding a phone, then she spread her hands wide and she shrugged.

  “She’s saying that she tried to call us, I think. Did you shut off our phones?”

  “Yeah, I did. I forgot.”

  “Now she’s mouthing something. She saying…he knows. He knows what?

  That I did throw that knife?”

  “He couldn’t know that because that didn’t happen. He probably knows our real names. That’s okay. She’s just letting us know that she had to tell him, but that doesn’t explain why he’s coming out with them.”

  “I guess we’re about to find out.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Vernon Lockwood had called Felix Aubrey at his home as Aubrey was struggling to get dressed. Aubrey’s dressing routine involved strapping on a brace that supported one atrophied leg. It also involved putting on an undergarment that absorbed a certain leakage that had plagued him. These reminders of his visit by that woman from hell did not start Aubrey’s day on a positive note. Nor did any interruption, especially from Lockwood. He was not pleased to hear Lockwood’s voice.

  “Yeah, well, just listen. You’re not going to believe this.”

  “Then I probably won’t at the office either. See me then, Mr. Lockwood.

  It can wait.”

  “You want to know who cut you? I can make a good guess. I think it

  was that girl who’s with Whistler.”

  “Mr. Lockwood…”

  “Turns out she’s as good as they come with a knife. You’re not going to believe what happened last night. You’re not going to believe why they stopped on that island. You’re not going to believe who they’re tight with.”

  “Mr. Lockwood…reflect. Think back, if you can, to when I was assaulted. Do you recall where Miss Geller
was at that moment?”

  “Where? Oh, the hospital? She was still there?”

  “She’d been shot five days earlier. She was not in robust health. So you see, you’re quite right. I’m not going to believe you.”

  “You’re not? Then try this. She did a lobotomy on some guy last night. It was in this bar. My guy, Kaplan? He saw it. And now before you start giving me shit, ask me why her and Whistler were there.”

  “Mr. Lockwood…no more teasers. Blurt it out, if you will.”

  “They’re down there to meet with Philip Ragland.”

  Aubrey listened as Lockwood related what his man on the scene had reported to him. “Kaplan’s been there two weeks. Could have taken Whistler easy. You said just watch, so Kaplan did. You said he should see where they went, who they talked to, which was mostly no one you’d care about.”

  “What phone are you using to call me, Mr. Lockwood?”

  “The cell phone you gave me. You said it’s secure.”

  “It is. Now what’s this about Ragland?”

  “Let me tell it, okay? We got context here. My guy tailed Whistler and the girl to this bar. It’s a bar they’d gone to a few times before this. They always try to take the same seats. They always sit like they’re watching and waiting for someone, but until last night no one shows. Last night the place is almost filled when Ragland and his wife come waltzing in. They go to the one empty table. Whistler looks over to the table where they sat. The guy looks toward Whistler, kind of gives him a wave. Whistler pretends not to know him.”

  “You’re certain it was Ragland?”

  “You can turn on the news. But first let me tell you what’s not on the news. Oh, Wait. I didn’t tell you that Ragland got shot.”

  “A…significant detail, Mr. Lockwood.”

  “It’s not too bad. I hear it looks like he’ll live.”

  His man, Kaplan, said Lockwood, had a front row seat. “He’s sitting on the opposite side of the bar. For a minute, he thinks Whistler and the girl might have made him. They’re looking up toward him and they’re whispering. But then he realizes they’re not watching him, they’re watching someone who’s standing outside. He turns around himself, sees two guys he doesn’t know, but they don’t look like much so he ignores them. Two minutes later, one of these guys comes in, walks over to Ragland, yells something and shoots him.”

  “Yells what?”

  “God something. Like a curse. He didn’t catch it exactly. Anyway, by this time, Whistler’s out of his stool. But the girl grabs Whistler; she holds him back and, swoosh, she nails the guy with a knife. She throws it. You got that? From way across the room. It’s this plain old knife she was sitting there eating with. And remember, this guy’s not standing still.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, the guy, who’s now got her knife in his head, stays on his feet, but the guy’s one big twitch. Suddenly he’s spraying the room. Two or three more get shot before Whistler can get at him. Whistler takes him down and he takes the guy’s gun. The girl meanwhile runs to Ragland. She yells to Whistler, ‘Watch the front, I’ve got your back.’ Does that still sound to you like she’s Little Bo Peep?”

  “Never mind the girl. Stay with Whistler and Ragland.”

  “Whistler clubs some other guy who was trying to jump him. I’m not sure what that was about. Then, after telling my guy to get down, he shoots through the window at this first shooter’s partner who by then is coming up with their car. Whistler misses him; the guy gets away. Whistler gets the girl and he makes her sit down and act like her dinner’s all she cares about. Whistler tells the barmaid to call the cops. Oh, and this barmaid, here’s what’s funny about her. She not only…”

  “Mr. Lockwood…never mind the barmaid either, if you please. Confine yourself to Whistler and Ragland.”

  “That was it. He never goes near Ragland himself.”

  “Never spoke to him. Nothing?”

  EIGHTEEN

  As the boat that was bringing Sergeant Moore approached, Whistler took a moment to step below decks and switch on his cell phone and satellite phone and also his answering machine. He was halfway back topside when the satellite phone chirped. He reached for it, thinking that the caller might be Leslie.

  He said, “Sorry. It was off. What’s happening, Leslie?”

  But the call had come from much farther away. His father’s voice answered. “You tell me.”

  “Dad? Oh, Hi.” He tried not to sound startled.

  “Good morning, Adam. I’m in need of reassurance. I’m hoping you’ll tell me that you had no part in what happened on that island last night.”

  “You’re talking about that shootout in some local bar? How did you hear about that?”

  “Adam…we do have TV in Geneva. More specifically, we have CNN.”

  Oh, great, thought Whistler. Now it’s gone international. His father had probably been at his computer checking every new wire service update. He would also be looking at a little yellow blip that showed, within yards, the boat’s location.

  “Dad, we’re not even on the island at the moment. We’re anchored off shore and we’re about to have breakfast. Some friends we’ve made here are on their way out to join us. I thought that’s who was calling when I answered.”

  “If that’s so, why would you ask this Leslie what’s happening?”

  “What’s happening? Dad, that’s just an expression. You know, like, ‘How goes it? Wie Gehts?’”

  “Were you on the boat when the shooting took place?”

  “No, we’d gone out for a nice quiet dinner. As a matter of fact, we were with these same friends. When they get here you can ask them yourself if you’d like.”

  The line went silent for a beat. “But you knew about the shooting.”

  “Everyone does. It’s all over the news.”

  His father asked, “And you don’t know this Ragland?”

  “I’d never even heard of the man.”

  “Adam, I think you understand why I’d wonder. You would seem to have a good deal in common with the victim. By extension, so would Aubrey and Poole.”

  “Well, I’m not going to tell you that it didn’t cross my mind. But all I know is what they’re saying on the tube.” He paused. “Look, Dad, our company’s here. I’ve got to go help them tie up alongside.”

  “Why’d you turn off your phone?”

  “So we wouldn’t get called. Because every now and then, we’d rather not be disturbed. Will you stop with the suspicions? We’re okay. We’re just fine.”

  “And you’re staying clear of trouble? You’re sure?”

  “Believe me, I’ve been doing my best.”

  “Kate Geller tried to call you. They get CNN in Colorado as well and she had the same uneasy feeling that I had. She was ready to jump on a plane. You should call her…no, wait…I’d better do it myself. Listen, Adam, while we’re on the subject of Kate, let me ask how you’d feel if…after Kate sells her business…”

  “She’s found a buyer?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “You’re saying it’s you. Does she know that?”

  “Not yet. Listen, Adam…” Another silence, this one longer. “How would you feel if, not now, but down the road…”

  “You’re thinking about getting married again?”

  “I’m…thinking that I miss her. I like being with her. As I say, down the road. Nothing imminent.”

  “Have you asked her?”

  “I’ve asked her to move here. I didn’t say as what. I’m sure she’ll have some thoughts on that subject.”

  “Well, my feelings are that I like you together. I’m sure that Claudia would feel the same way. Want to ask her yourself? I’ll put her on.”

  “Not now. You talk it over. Let it settle for a while.”

  “Look, Dad…if it’s us that’s holding you back…”

  “No, I have some things that need attending to first. In the meantime, leave the damned telephones on. I don’t like it wh
en you’re out of reach.”

  Whistler waited for his father to break the connection, then he breathed a qualified sigh of relief. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have lied to his father, even though what he’d said had been technically accurate. If he’d told him the truth, he’d have to have told him how Claudia took out that shooter. It should be up to Claudia who she’d tell, if and when. And God knows what his father’s reaction would have been. He would surely have sent some people here to look after them. The twins, most likely. This island had been traumatized enough without those two. Anyway, depending on why Moore had come calling, their role in all this should continue to fade.

  Phil had slowed his engines and maneuvered his boat abeam of the yacht’s starboard quarter. Whistler dropped fenders so that they could tie up, but Phil said, “We’re going to stand off and wait for Eddie. That okay? He said he wants to talk to you alone.”

  Whistler looked toward Leslie. She was gesturing again; she was pressing palms down, and she was nodding. She seemed to be saying that this would be all right. She mouthed the words, “He’s a good guy. Don’t worry.” Whistler next looked at Moore. He looked into his eyes. He saw a new interest, a new curiosity, beyond what he’d seen the night before. And he noted that Moore had brought a small briefcase with him. He wondered what Moore might have to show him.

  Whistler answered, “Come aboard,” and he held out a hand, waiting to help the Sergeant climb the railing.

  “Nice boat, Mr. Whistler. Good morning, Miss Geller.” He smiled and added, “Yeah, I know your true names. Once the press was gone, Leslie told me why you fudged them. That isn’t a problem for now.”

  “Coffee’s on. Would you like some?”

  “Thank you. I would. And I’d like to talk to just you, if my may.” He turned to Claudia. “Would you mind very much?”

  She looked into his eyes, rather strangely, thought Whistler. But she gave him a smile. She asked how he took his coffee. She said she’d bring it up when it was ready.