Whistler's Angel

by John R. Maxim

  “You’re…talking about Ragland’s wife? What about her?”

  “You do remember her, don’t you?”

  “Paul, I have never met Ragland or his wife. And Adam said he’d never even heard of them.”

  “You may not have met Ragland, but you have met his wife. Her maiden name was Torrey. Olivia Torrey. She worked as a BBC stringer, remember? Harry, she’s been to your house.”

  “Wait a minute.”

  “And she and Molly Farrell have been friends for fifteen years. Molly’s been trying to call her all morning. They met at about the same time.”

  He did not remember. No, wait. Yes, he did. And Adam could have met her as well.

  He said, “Paul, this is bothering me more by the minute. Too many dots are starting to connect.”

  “I know, I’m getting that feeling myself. But how do the Recons fit in?”

  “The what?”

  “The shooters. Those two Reconstructionist characters.”

  Recons, thought Harry.

  Recon-JC.

  Aubrey’s ledger. Those entries. Joshua Crow. Recon-JC was that dim little light that kept floating just out of reach.

  “Harry?” Bannerman had heard the silence. “Did you just connect another dot?”

  “Yeah, I might have. That ledger that started all this. Either Adam knows damned well how this all ties together or he’s out on a limb and he has no idea. Kate Geller sure as hell doesn’t.”

  “So you’re…thinking Felix Aubrey is behind the try on Ragland. Just to shut Ragland up? Why would he bother?”

  “I don’t know. You’re right. It wouldn’t make any sense.”

  “We both might be reaching. Just as I did last summer. You remember. That business with Carla.”

  Harry felt his stomach tighten. “What business was that?”

  “Those two knifings in Zurich. I guess you were away; I spoke to one of the twins. Knowing Carla was there, it seemed worth checking out.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Oh, for Christ’s sake. “Yeah, they told me she was clean.”

  “So I owe you. Tell me what you need.”

  TWENTY THREE

  The plane that Lockwood had taken to get to the island was one of two aircraft in the Center’s employ. Both were kept in a hangar out at Ronald Reagan Airport. Both always had a pilot on standby. This was the little one, the Lear, their smallest model. He didn’t like to use it, not because of its size, but because its pilot was a pain in the ass who didn’t always do as he was told.

  He preferred the bigger one, the Hawker 700. He liked that one’s crew a lot better. The Hawker had been seized from an air charter service out in Oklahoma somewhere. A residue of cocaine had been found in its baggage hold and its owner had been unable to account for it. Its pilot and co-pilot, the same two as now, were the ones who had planted the cocaine residue and then blew the whistle on their boss.

  What they got in return was a soft job with Aubrey and a portion of the Hawker’s market value. And that wasn’t even the best part. Once the Hawker was signed over to the Center, it became immune to further searches and sniffs. That meant that the crew could moonlight running drugs with zero risk of ever getting nailed. Lockwood had to like people with that kind of initiative as long as they know where their bread is buttered.

  It was those two who flew him out to Denver last year. It was also them who got him out of there fast when the shit hit the fan in Cherry Creek. They didn’t argue when he said, “Let’s get out of here. Now.” They didn’t ask him, “We don’t wait for Briggs?” They just went. They were not like the jerk who flew the Lear.

  But the Lear was heading down to Florida anyway, so Aubrey told him to use that one. Lockwood asked, “He drops me off? Then how do I get back?” Aubrey answered, “Let me think. Buy a ticket?”

  Little shit. That’s what he said.

  The flight to Hilton Head took an hour and a half. The Hawker could have made it in an hour. Before landing, he told the pilot to make a low pass over Palmetto Bay. He wanted to try to spot Whistler’s boat. The pilot said he had to circle in from that direction anyway, but not below eight hundred feet. The pilot said, “You want lower? Use binoculars.”

  Some day soon, thought Lockwood, he would knock this guy’s teeth out.

  But for now he would let him have his way.

  Whistler’s boat was not where Kaplan said it would be. It wasn’t out at anchor, but Lockwood did spot it. The boat was on its way in. He could make out Whistler and the girl at the wheel. Or rather Whistler was steering. She was standing behind him. She had her arms around his waist and her face up by his neck as if she was cooing in his ear. From a thousand feet up, Lockwood couldn’t be sure, but he didn’t think Whistler looked happy.

  You want to see unhappy? I’ll show you unhappy. Lockwood wished that this thing carried napalm.

  The Lear was down within another five minutes. As it taxied toward the terminal, Lockwood spotted Arnold Kaplan. Couldn’t miss him. He was waiting on the tarmac.

  Lockwood, on the whole, was satisfied with Kaplan. You could give him a job to do and it’s done. Three things, however. He argued too much. That time they were waiting for Whistler on his roof, Lockwood nearly threw him off for all his bitching. The second thing was that he wore stupid clothes. He liked to wear hats like Greg Norman, the golfer. Flat hats, wide brim, curled up at the tips. He wore horn-rimmed glasses, big frames, red lenses. And he always wore these ugly sport jackets that had patterns that looked like they came from a beach chair. You could spot him in a crowd a mile away.

  These were not the best outfits to wear on surveillance, but he couldn’t make Kaplan understand that. Kaplan did, however, know a little about bugging. He didn’t know a lot, not as much as he claimed. Aubrey was actually right about that. Most of what Kaplan knew, he had learned on his own. He got books about it from Delta Press; it’s a catalog that sells manuals on shit like that, including how to make bombs. Also, he’d hang around Radio Shack trying every new eavesdropping toy they got in.

  “You know the tap on the mother? It’s better now. It’s good.” Kaplan said this as Lockwood climbed out of the plane and waited for the overnight bag he’d brought with him.

  “Never mind out there. Let’s just worry about here.”

  “No, listen; this is good. I just got off the phone.”

  “Tell me in the car. Let’s get down by that dock.”

  Kaplan’s car was the third thing. He always drove a big Cadillac, a red one, no less. Try to tell the guy he looks like a pimp and he says, “That’s the point. It helps me stand out. That’s until I don’t want to stand out anymore. After that, I go “poof.” I disappear.

  What he meant, not that Lockwood thought it made any sense, was that all that people see is the wrapping. Take away the wrapping; he’s invisible. He had once said to Lockwood, “Look at you, for example. All the time these black suits. Your idea of changing outfits is to buy a new belt. It’s like wearing a sign that says, ‘I’m a Fed’ because that’s how Feds dress in the movies.”

  He was right about one thing. Blacks suits look official. For a long time he wore dark glasses as well because dark glasses make people nervous. But then one day Briggs told him he had scary eyes. Briggs said, “You got eyes that look at people like they’re already dead. They even scare me. You should use that. Lose the shades.” This was back before Briggs became a wuss.

  They had reached Kaplan’s car. Kaplan said, “Can I finish?”

  Lockwood lit a cigar. “Go ahead. Someone called you?”

  “I was saying,” Kaplan told him, “that I just got off the phone with the guy who’s been monitoring her calls.”

  “You mean the mother.”

  Kaplan nodded. “Correct.” He said he thinks the mother might be on her way here. Maybe even Whistler’s father from the sound of it. “On top of that, something else is going on here. There was a very strange meeting on that boat this morning. This Deputy Sheriff; he’s that sergeant, the black guy. He goe
s out to see Whistler along with the barmaid and one of the owners from the bar where this happened.”

  “Wait a minute. They had a meeting? You saw this?”

  Kaplan nodded. “Through binocs. But I saw it.”

  “Fucking Aubrey. I told him. He thought it was bullshit.”

  “I saw what I saw. But wait, let’s back up. Let me finish with the mother and the father.”

  “Fucking Aubrey.”

  “The mother calls the father like at midnight last night. She gets him in Geneva where it’s dawn. She says she’s calling him because she can’t get through to Whistler. She asks the father, did he hear about the shooting? She says she just saw it on TV out there. The father says, yeah, he just heard.”

  “That’s all he says?”

  “Well, mostly he’s trying to calm the mother down. She says she’s trying not to worry, but she’s getting a bad feeling. She knows who Ragland is and she knows what he’s against. He’s on this crusade against the drug laws and seizures and against guys like you who don’t want them changed because then you’d have to steal someplace else, no offense. She knows that him and Whistler seem to have a lot in common because Whistler’s no pal of yours either. She says she also remembers saying to Whistler, ‘Try not to get my daughter shot again, okay?’ The father tells her that no way would his kid put her in danger, but he says, don’t worry, he’ll check.”

  “So he calls Whistler?”

  “He tried. He couldn’t get through either. He calls her back an hour or so later and he says he’ll keep trying, but he’s sure it’s okay. He says she shouldn’t jump to conclusions. He says his kid wouldn’t go to someone like Ragland without talking it over with him. He says he’d certainly never get the girl mixed up in it.”

  “Then his father’s lying or he doesn’t know dick about what his son turned her into.”

  “I saw her in action, remember? Let me finish.”

  Lockwood twirled a finger. “Short version, okay?”

  “What am I, Readers Digest? Details are important.”

  “Get to where the two parents are on their way here.”

  “Well, the mother’s bad feeling isn’t going away. She tells the father she’s tempted to jump on a plane and go down there and see for herself. Whistler’s father says don’t, but maybe she did. The father tried to get her this morning, her time, and all he gets is her answering machine. He says, ‘Kate, pick up, or call me right back so I’ll know you didn’t do something foolish.’ He says, ‘Kate, I spoke to him. His phone had been off. Don’t worry, they had nothing to do with that shooting. Everything seems to be fine.”

  “So…he’s lying to her?”

  “Or his son lied to him. You want my guess? It’s his son lied to him. Because then he sounded like he’s starting to wonder. He starts to say, ‘Okay, maybe I’d better…,’ but he doesn’t finish the sentence. I think he’s going to fly over himself. What else would follow ‘Maybe I’d better?’”

  “Did you check with the airlines?”

  “I got somebody on it. If I’m right, she gets here this afternoon sometime.

  The father gets here early this evening at best.”

  Time difference, thought Lockwood. They’re all here by tonight, maybe all on that boat. That’s why Whistler’s bringing it back to the dock. This could be too good to pass up. The

  boat reminded him. “You said Whistler had a meeting?”

  “With this deputy who questioned him after the shooting. Also with the barmaid I told you about. Also with her boss from the restaurant.”

  “That’s this morning?”

  “Cozy, right? They all met for breakfast.”

  “But what for? Why the meeting?”

  “Ask me, I’d have said to get their stories straight,” said Kaplan. “Remember, all three of them covered for Whistler. Whistler and the girl don’t get a peep on the news. Here’s the question. Why should these three people cover? What is Whistler to them?”

  “You got an answer?”

  “Yeah, I do. It’s like I thought. Gotta be they’re old friends. Gotta be they knew him from way before this.”

  “Except Whistler’s a loner. He doesn’t have any friends.”

  “Vernon…they’re out there having breakfast on his boat. He takes the boat out there, he shuts off his phones, and they’re having this meeting, passing papers around. Does that sound anti-social to you?”

  Lockwood’s mind had been elsewhere. “Wait a second. What papers?”

  “How would I know what papers? I’m on shore with binocs.”

  “Well, the stack…was it thick? Like they copied, say, a book?”

  Kaplan blinked. He asked, “What book would that be?”

  “There’s this book Whistler stole. It’s none of your business. But did it look thick like a book?”

  “I couldn’t see.”

  “The cop who was there. What did you learn about him?”

  “I asked around a little. That was all I had time for. I found out he was Army before he was a cop. I found out he was over in Iraq for Desert Storm. Whistler, too, am I right? Whistler did Special Ops. The cop could have been in Whistler’s outfit over there. It’s a stretch, but it wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Lockwood grunted, then shrugged. In his head he could see Felix Aubrey’s lip curling. “Mr. Lockwood, we had more than a half million troops there. That is hardly a definitive connection.”

  He asked, “The barmaid. You get anything on her?”

  “Hard to say. She comes and goes. She seems to travel a lot. She doesn’t work anywhere full-time.”

  “She travels, huh? Like where and for what? Is she maybe an advance man for Whistler?”

  “Um, Vern…she tends bar. Whistler drinks in that bar. Let’s not make any huge fucking leaps here.”

  “Yeah, but say she knew him before. Say she’s a lot more than you think.”

  “Like what, for instance? She also waits tables?”

  “That woman, the knife, who cut Briggs and Aubrey. No one knows what she looks like. What if this could be her?”

  Kaplan grimaced. “I think you need a nap.”

  “No, let’s run with this a minute. Say you think that’s who she is. Say maybe you were wrong about who threw that knife. Say maybe it turned out to be her.”

  “Um…except we know it wasn’t. This is make-believe, right?”

  “What we’re doing is maybe improvising a little. What would Aubrey do if he thought it was her?”

  “Vern…her who did what? You’re losing me here.”

  “Her who did all of it. Her who cut Aubrey.”

  “First you’re thinking it’s the mother, then you’re thinking it’s the daughter. The daughter, since last night, becomes the much better bet.”

  “The daughter’s got an alibi from when she got shot. I forgot that. She couldn’t have done it.”

  “So you’re going to go to Aubrey and say, ‘Hey, guess what? I narrowed down the suspects; here’s where I come out. The knife had to be someone who knows Whistler, correct? Who’d know the guy better than his bartender, right?’ Vern…you’re asking to be shit on again.”

  “We’ll get proof.”

  “What proof?”

  “I don’t know. I have to think.”

  “Explain to me, though. The point of this is…?”

  “To get Felix Aubrey off his ass, is the point. This could do it. This could just maybe do it.”

  “Vern…you gotta trust me. This is too fucking dumb.”

  “Arnold…you never had your balls cut off, did you? It does things to your cogitative faculties.”

  Your what?”

  “It fucks you up, Arnold. Read a book, for Christ’s sake.”

  Lockwood opened the overnight bag that he’d brought. On top was a pistol that he’d wrapped in a towel, along with spare clips and a silencer. Underneath were several cellular phones. He selected the one that was marked with an “A.” It was specially coded. It reached only one party. He f
lipped it open and pressed the redial button.

  “Vern…who are you calling?”

  “Aubrey said to check in; I’m checking in.”

  “Hey, do me a favor. Leave me out of this, okay?”

  “You kidding? It’s you who gave me the idea.”

  “Take credit. With my blessing. You got my permission.”

  “You want to quit whining?”

  “Take that nap first, okay?”

  Lockwood raised a hand, telling Kaplan to shut up as he heard Aubrey’s voice saying, “Speak.”

  “Mr. Aubrey? It’s me. Are you sitting down? You’re not going to believe what I found out here.”

  “No, no, no, Mr. Lockwood. Put all that aside.”

  Felix Aubrey had listened with growing dismay to the drone of Vern the Burn’s recitation. The mother coming, maybe. The father coming, maybe. Adam Whistler and his out-of-thin-air co-conspirators meeting for breakfast to plan their next move. The proof? They were seen with sheets of paper. The boat is at the dock, now an easier target. We finish them all when they get here…and a bonus. Jill the Ripper has at last been unmasked. She is revealed to be some cocktail waitress who has honed her skills in an island saloon by sectioning lemons and limes.

  The man’s a marvel, thought Aubrey. Never fails to astonish.

  “Mr. Lockwood…now, listen. There is more urgent business. I want you to put Whistler out of your mind.”

  “You don’t care we know who cut you? I got sources. It’s her.”

  “And of course I believe you.” You damned fool, thought Felix Aubrey. “But even she can wait. This is much more immediate. Do you have a street map? Look up Lagoon Road. Yes, I’ll wait. You want number 22.”

  Aubrey drummed his fingers until Lockwood came back on. Lockwood said, “Yeah, I got it. What’s there?”

  “Not a what; it’s a who. A very dangerous man, his name is Joshua Crow. He is one of the two who tried to kill Mr. Ragland. As we speak, he is waiting for you and your associate. Listen carefully now. Are you listening?”

  “I’m listening, but how did you know this?”

  “He was identified this morning. It’s been on the news. I need you to see that he harms no one else. Am I clear in my meaning, Mr. Lockwood?”