A man appeared at the table next to theirs. He stood out not only because he appeared to be Thai, but because his clothing looked European. He wore a handsome straw hat, a silk shirt restrained in its color and design, white linen pants and leather sandals. The man nodded hello when Shanahan first noticed him.
‘What brings you to Phuket?’ The man directed his question to Maureen in perfect English.
‘At first business, now just pleasure,’ Maureen said.
Shanahan leaned across the table and whispered in her ear: ‘In a few moments, turn away from him, pretend he doesn’t exist. Now say something to me about how silly I am.’
Maureen laughed. ‘Maybe tonight. We have a few days, you know.’
‘I hope your business trip was successful,’ the man said.
She shrugged, picked up her menu and moved her body, so that he was looking at a shoulder and the back of her head. Shanahan, in sunglasses, pretended to focus on the menu as well. After a few quiet moments had passed, Shanahan picked up the tell-tale movement. The stranger’s right hand opened from a fist to fingers splayed outward, then back, then outward. It was the tic that Channarong described.
‘I know what I want,’ Shanahan said, putting the menu down and taking a deep breath.
‘Me too,’ Maureen said, eyes reengaging with the man at the next table.
‘I hope I was not too nosy,’ he said, ‘I travel a lot and I’m just interested in other people’s stories.’
‘Don’t worry, we just let hunger get the best of us. I was afraid the waiter would come and we wouldn’t be ready.’
‘Americans,’ he said with kindly amusement.
‘We weren’t really here on business in the economic sense,’ Shanahan said. ‘I was trying to find my brother. We were separated in our youth and well . . . it’s late in our lives. We thought we’d take a vacation where we understood he was living. But it appears he has taken off again.’
‘You don’t know where he has gone?’
‘No way to know.’
‘So you came here?’
‘We heard so many lovely things about Phuket.’
‘We spent a good deal of money to get here,’ Shanahan said, trying to be more sociable than he was. He was not good at being chatty. ‘We decided to see a little more of your fine country before we leave.’
‘Not my country,’ he said, smiling. ‘I am a visitor too.’ He looked at his watch and excused himself. ‘I’ll have to grab something on the run. So nice to meet you. Enjoy your stay.’
He was gone.
‘He was down to business,’ Maureen said. ‘You think he buys the story and is headed back to Bangkok?’
‘I think we wait a day or two anyway before we do some serious hunting. We’ll do tourist things. I’m sure there’s a boat ride to somewhere and temples and hotels.’
The problem was, though, that even if Fritz were in the area as Shanahan theorized, it still didn’t mean they could find him. But with the stranger in Phuket it was too early to be showing photographs around.
As Shanahan faced the day, Cross went out into the night. He had set his alarm for three a.m. Casey came in the bathroom to see what had disturbed the routine and, apparently satisfied, went back the way he came. The drive to the Eastside was quiet. Moisture saturated the air. Having stopped a few blocks from Edelman’s used car lot and in dark clothes, Cross walked the rest of the way. By walking, he thought, he reduced the chances of being seen.
The streets, still hot from the August sun, sent steam up from the asphalt and the wet air made the lights from the streetlamps fuzzy. He dodged these soft pools of light.
He jimmied the back door of the office. He hoped it wouldn’t be in vain. The police might have taken his financial records to help determine if this was a suicide. In fact, they should have. But it was likely they couldn’t find the hidden records. Cross clicked on his two-foot-long flashlight – which could double as a weapon – running the beam across debris. The degree of the mess suggested it wasn’t a forensic cop who did the tossing.
Though he wasn’t exactly sure what his predecessors were looking for, he figured it was probably the same thing he was after. Because the mess was so comprehensive, it suggested the intruders might not have found what they were looking for. And that probably meant that what Cross wanted wasn’t in the wreckage. Or, all of what they needed was on the old computer. The box was gone. The screen remained. But what Cross wanted wasn’t something Edelman would keep out in the open. The only difference between himself and the people who made the mess is that Cross knew where Edelman kept the vodka. And putting the beam of light on the sailfish, it appeared it had not been touched.
There it was. Behind three bottles of Absolut was an expandable file and a big checkbook, the kind that businesses use. He pulled out the checkbook, sat it on the desk. The account was a bank in Montana. The folder was thick. Notes had been scribbled on yellow legal pads, napkins, the margins of columns in magazines, the back of envelopes. All informal, and, if Cross was right, incriminating.
Satisfied, he grabbed the folder, the check book and a bottle of unopened Vodka. What he was doing was highly illegal. But compared to the hovering murder charge, it was nothing. He made his way back to the Trooper and back across town, getting off the Interstate Loop at 56th and crossing back to his place via Kessler Boulevard.
It was as if all human life had been sucked from the planet. The late night celebrants were climbing into bed and the early morning workers had yet to stir.
When the light began to seep in through the windows, Cross switched from vodka to coffee. Since you’re up, Einstein seemed to say with his nagging meow, feed me. Cross went through the morning routine earlier than usual and sat back down to the papers before him. The pieces were coming together. Edelman did not own the car lot or his house. The business appeared to be making a profit and the house paid off. Both were legally owned by two different Raymond Taupin corporations. Based on the information Kowalski gathered, the name E. V. Lancaster was listed as a shareholder and board member. Judging by the scrambled notes, Taupin’s opportunity came during Edelman’s divorce. No doubt Taupin stepped in to help Edelman financially during an expensive divorce. And Edelman had no idea just how expensive Taupin’s help would be until it was too late.
The problem was, according to Edelman’s scribbles, that Taupin was squeezing harder and harder, every bit of blood out of the turnip. And Edelman, feeling the pinch, was doing a little investigating on his own – keeping a separate set of books. Edelman had notes that paralleled Kowalski’s, listing all of Taupin’s companies and names. Edelman, on the brink of financial ruin, might have challenged Taupin. And the bodies might have been designed to send Edelman a message. But why would Taupin kill his son-in-law and some woman to make a point?
Cross sat back, pulled off his latex gloves. It didn’t make sense. The other thing that didn’t make a lot of sense was a note with several different phone numbers with country codes that turned out to be Colombia, South America. The girl? If Edelman did commit suicide why didn’t he see to it that incriminating evidence got to the police in the event of his death – or before? If he didn’t do himself in why was he killed before the killers found what they were looking for?
Cross would call Kowalksi and fill him in, but not until the sun came up a little higher. He took all of Edelman’s papers to a copy house and, with latex gloves back on, made a copy of everything.
When he got back, he called Kowalski.
‘Give them the copies,’ the lawyer said. ‘I’ll find a lock-box for the originals.’
‘You don’t trust the DA?’
‘I don’t trust Taupin,’ Kowalski said. ‘His slimy hands are all over everything. He is well-connected to the city council and has been known to push the mayor around. I think you should get the young-uns out of your house. When you drop off the box, bring Casey and Einstein. They can stay here. You heard from the world travelers?’
‘Something odd goi
ng on. They’re in Phuket and they believe they’ve picked up a tail who might have their phone lines tapped.’
‘Sounds like a good time. Wish I was there. Anyway, I’ve got an extra piece of halibut. So come up around dinner time.’
Kowalski, over grilled halibut, sautéed eggplant and chilled white wine, explained his concerns about the animals. If the DA had a sudden urge to have him arrested, they might arrive with guns drawn and dogs be damned. And if the murderer comes for you, you’re all in jeopardy.
‘In other words, I’m inches from the cliff?’
‘You know Taupin is making their lives miserable – the cops, the DA, the mayor.’
They dined outside, Kowalski’s bulldog, bored with his furry friends, slept in a little spot of evening sun. Though White River, as it wound through the strange little neighborhood known as Ravenswood, wasn’t exactly the kind of river that songs were written about, it looked presentable as the sun prepared to set.
‘I’m puzzled by the Taupins using muscle,’ Kowalski said. ‘The murders couldn’t have been planned. He is the slimy type, but it’s all done financially and the pressure he can bring to a situation with the powerful folks he knows and manipulates. It’s all favor for favor or denial of a favor. Mafia-light.’
‘Why do you have it in for Taupin?’
‘The people downtown paint me as either a socialist or a Nazi. That’s because they don’t know the definition of either. I don’t like the idea of somebody working real hard to set up a business honestly and then there’s guys like Taupin who use insider knowledge, play fast and loose with regulations, and set up complicated business deals that blindside and bleed out their investors. That’s why all these corporations have different names. When one goes rotten, the public doesn’t associate the others with it.’
‘Kind of creating a brand name.’
‘Precisely. You have to take a special interest in him to put the pieces together and you’ll never know when you have all the pieces.’
Cross told him about Edelman.
‘My point, exactly. Taupin is a predator in an angel’s tutu.’
‘Angels wear tutus?’ Cross asked.
‘Meanwhile,’ Kowalski said, ignoring the interruption, ‘the guy trying to start a business on his own gets screwed over.’
‘Survival of the fittest, Kowalski,’ Cross said.
‘Yeah, well I’m going to survive,’ he said. He stood, went in the house. When he returned, he had a bottle of Scotch. ‘And I’m going to see to it you do as well. How are Maya and your folks?’
‘Maya’s six inches taller, still tough as nails, and ready for first grade. She’s going to be quite a woman.’
‘The problem is will first grade be ready for her?’
‘The folks are fine.’
‘You still trying to keep the farmhouse standing?’
‘Still trying. What are you up to?’ Cross asked.
‘Trying to keep an eighteen-year-old male out of jail for having consensual sex with a seventeen-year-old female. Prudery dies hard here in the Midwest.’ He laughed, shook his head. ‘They’re five months apart in age, but they insist on going for statutory rape.’ Kowalski poured them each two fingers of Scotch. Kowalski sat back. ‘Anything else I should know?’ he asked.
‘It’s a long shot, but on notes Edelman made, most of them about Taupin and money, he scribbled phone numbers. They had a Colombia country code.’
Kowalski’s eyes widened. ‘He can’t be into drugs. I mean he’s a major league asshole, but he’d be out of his league . . .’
‘The girl in the trunk could be South American.’
‘You call the numbers?’
‘Don’t speak Spanish.’
‘I do,’ Kowalksi said.
‘Anything you can’t do?’
‘I can’t get Angelina Jolie to return my calls.’
They sat for a moment.
‘This doesn’t make any sense. Taupin and women and drugs. Not at all his style.’
EIGHTEEN
Shanahan wouldn’t have enjoyed himself had Maureen not been there. The waiting would simply be dead time. And the varieties of exoticism that existed at this southernmost tip of Thailand would not be so entertaining if he weren’t seeing it through Maureen’s eyes. Her curiosity and excitement were his.
Yesterday’s dedication to look like tourists worked. They became tourists. Whether it was the splendor of the Wat Chalong temple, the flirtatious ladyboys on Bangia Road or the sweaty Muay Thai warriors in the boxing ring, they shared experiences that brought them even closer.
It was a new morning. Shanahan believed that to be safe they would play their game for one more day and begin the search tomorrow.
‘Have you dreamt of him?’ Maureen asked as they breakfasted at the same place as yesterday when they met the man with the twitchy fingers.
‘Not since I’ve been in Thailand. Not once that I remember,’ he said. He waited for the follow-up question. It didn’t come. She was respecting his desire not to discuss his feelings. But he was feeling more relaxed about things. It wasn’t that he came from some fast-paced world from which he would have to chill, it was because time was slowing, moving at a less urgent pace. But finding his brother hadn’t become less urgent. Yet because of the pace, the air and the warmth, Shanahan found patience. He also believed – and it was uncharacteristic for him to believe without evidence – that Fritz was nearby.
‘We are still looking, aren’t we?’
‘We are.’
Maureen ate the apple-like jujube at breakfast. It was one of the many tropical fruits not seen on the shelves of Indianapolis supermarkets. She had already tasted the juicy lychee and the sweet longan. Advised early by Channarong, she did not partake of the smelly Durian. In fact, some taxi drivers, Channarong told her, refused to pick up fares when the ugly fruit was included in the baggage.
‘Today?’ she asked.
‘You decide. I saw you looking through the pamphlets last night.’
‘Let’s plan on lunch in Phuket City,’ she said. ‘They have an old town.’
‘Old towns are almost always worthwhile,’ Shanahan said. ‘Ye Olde Papaya Shoppe.’
‘Sarcasm doesn’t become you,’ she said, giving him an ambivalent grin.
‘Old towns are charming like old people.’
‘I agree,’ she said. ‘I’ll be agreeing more as time goes on and so will you.’
Tourism dominated Old Town. The rest of Phuket City was what one expects of a more ordinary capital. It was neither quaint nor glitzy. It was, instead, the heart of Phuket Province administration and seemed oriented to meet the needs of its citizens rather than visitors. There was a locally well-attended outdoor food market, definitely not trendy. Basic grains, fruits and vegetables. The two of them had been the only Caucasian faces in the crowd.
As they had lunch at an Old Town eatery, amidst what Maureen’s brochure called ‘Portugese Colonial’ architecture, Shanahan looked over a map of the big island they were on to see at least a dozen other islands that could be reached by a small boat. Surrounding Phuket City were mountains of jungle. Surviving might be a problem but disappearing would be easy. While he could not get into Fritz’s head exactly, he knew what most people do on the run, the places they hide and the other requirements of their survival – if nothing else, sleep and food.
Shanahan knew that his search was based on suppositions and speculations. Fritz could be up north around Chang Mai, still in Bangkok or some isolated Thai village. He could be in Vietnam or Cambodia. He could be in Las Vegas. Shanahan chose Phuket for two reasons. One, if he were some place else the odds were a billion to one he could figure out where. Two, he believed that because he left his last dwelling in extreme haste, he might have some unfinished business in Thailand, and Phuket was as far away from the ruby business as one could get and still be in Thailand.
If he couldn’t be found here, Shanahan would be forced to give up his search. And he could console himself an
d perhaps confront his dream – he had at least tried to find his brother.
‘He worked alone,’ Shanahan said to Maureen who seemed surprised he spoke.
She nodded.
‘He wouldn’t be staying with friends. He’s staying by himself. That means that from time to time he needs provisions. If he’s down here, whether he’s on some outlying island or somewhere in Phuket, he’ll need something to eat.’
‘And drink, probably. He is a Shanahan.’ It was Shanahan’s turn to nod. ‘The market.’
‘Which one?’ Shanahan asked.
At a hotel, Shanahan made the phone call to Channarong to the number of the throwaway cell he’d provided his Bangkok guide. Shanahan made his requests.
‘Tomorrow morning at ten a.m. I’ll meet him there, his name’s Billy, right? And he’ll have it with him? Don’t call me if you can’t do it,’ Shanahan told him.
They took a tuk-tuk back the 30 miles from Phuket City to their modest hotel near Patong Beach. They brought with them a bottle of rum and some tonic water for Maureen and whiskey and beer for Shanahan.
They sat outside as night fell, content to do nothing, say nothing, think of nothing, just enjoy the other’s presence on the other side of the world. After a long and comfortable silence, Maureen spoke.
‘What are you thinking?’
‘Maybe this isn’t the time to answer that question.’
‘Sure it is. Do we have secrets?’
‘Sometimes we do. Temporarily.’
‘C’mon.’
‘You know I’m not a religious person,’ he said.
‘I know.’
‘If you need to have a service for me, please do. But I don’t need one, don’t want one.’
‘I know.’
‘I was thinking that I don’t want to be in a box. I don’t want to be put in a coffin when I die. I don’t want my ashes in a box or a vase. I want the ashes to be tossed somewhere.’
Bullet Beach Page 14
