Bone Deep

by Randy Wayne White

  I wanted to believe that. A message from the Ice Age had been sent. I wanted to be its twenty-first-century discoverer.

  While printing photos of the tusk, the phone rang. Dunk calling from his cheap 7-Eleven cell phone.

  • • •

  “YOU GOT BACK IN ONE PIECE?” I asked him.

  It was nearly ten. Dunk and Tomlinson had kept me updated on events in Venice until their rental car was safely on Interstate 75, heading south.

  “I just dropped our pal at Dinkin’s Bay,” he told me. “You haven’t seen him yet?”

  “No. How long ago?”

  “Five, ten minutes. He didn’t have his key or lost it, I don’t know, but he said he was going to climb over the gate. If he doesn’t stop at your place, he probably went to the nearest bar. He’s taking that woman Lillian’s death pretty hard.”

  My mind was on the meeting Dunk had arranged with the blood feud collector, as Mick described him. I asked, “Are we still on for tomorrow?”

  “It took some doing,” he said, then explained that Mick didn’t want me along, I looked too much like a cop, but he had finally settled for the promise of eight hundred in cash. “Is that a problem?”

  “That’s fine. Do we meet him in Venice or at the intersection?”

  “He’s driving. You’ll pay him when we get there. The guy—the blood feud guy—has people working a section of river not far from where we’ll meet. Mick wouldn’t say much about that, only that the sun needs to be high or there’s no visibility underwater. So we’re meeting at high noon. Don’t forget your snorkel gear.”

  I said, “He’s worried we’ll be wearing a wire. That’s why he wants us in the water. I’ll bring extra stuff for you.”

  “Hell, I can’t even swim good, but Mick doesn’t know that. Oh—here’s what I wanted to tell you: Just before we got to Sanibel, I got a phone call. It was the thief you took the duffel bag from, but he hung up, then called back a minute later. That’s how I know it was him.”

  “Deon Killip?”

  “Yeah, Deon. You called him from my phone last night, so he expected you to answer. That’s why he got scared the first time.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He wanted to speak to you, but I wouldn’t give him your number. Which really pissed him off. That’s when he finally told me his name. Said he wanted you to call him right away. He sounded wasted.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Well . . . that you’re a total cop narc asshole, which got a laugh from Tomlinson. I had it on speaker. If you want to call him from my phone, I can turn around. Seven-Eleven only carries twenty-dollar SIM cards, but I should still have a few—”

  The phone went dead. Minutes is what Fallsdown had intended to say.

  I went to the window expecting to see Tomlinson on the walkway or at the marina getting into his dinghy. Neither. On the bright side, Hannah’s skiff was gone, and the Brazilian’s sleek runabout was where it was supposed to be, suspended from its hoist. The combination provided me some adolescent comfort.

  Rather than call a drug addict thief from my cell phone, I used the office phone, dialing star 67 first to block my number. When Deon picked up, I asked, “Who told you I’d be off Cayo Pelado last night? The biker who broke your ribs? Or the maid?” I was guessing, but it got a reaction.

  “Cayo what? Jesus Christ, how many people you got in on this? The number you called from yesterday, some douchebag answered. And today two guys showed up in Venice asking questions. Were they cops?”

  I replied, “Is that what Mick the magic tour guide told you?”

  Another startled pause from Deon. “Hey . . . I don’t know anybody named Mick—but you just convinced me. You are a cop. With the feds, I bet. Dude, let’s drop the bullshit.”

  I was right about him knowing Mick. But was Tovar’s former maid involved? I asked about her again, adding, “You want something or you wouldn’t have called. Maybe we can work out a trade.”

  Deon, getting desperate, said, “Stop screwing with my head, man. If you’re with the feds, hell, I’ll cooperate. Really.”

  “I’m listening,” I said.

  “I mean it. I had a buddy, the feds gave him a whole new identity, haven’t heard from the man since. But first, I’ve got to live long enough, right?” Nervous laughter, then, speaking confidentially, he said, “I need that shit back, man—no joke—or they’ll kill me.”

  He had called hoping I was a federal agent, I realized. I asked, “Who’s they?”

  “Kiss my ass. Like, tomorrow I need what was in those cases. Aren’t you listening? I’ll sign papers, take a lie detector. I had no idea what I was getting into, man. Please—I’ll give the stuff to this guy, then you can pick it up later when you arrest him. You’ve got to do this for me first.” Deon was losing it, but then his brain sparked and he caught himself. “Whoa. Hey . . . if you’re really a fed, why’d you have to ask who wants the shit back?”

  I said, “Does it matter? I’ve got what was in the Pelican cases. You don’t. I’m willing to part with some of it, but when we had our little talk you gave me a fake name for the maid—I checked. And who was the guy in the ski mask?”

  “Oh . . . Christ,” he muttered, “you’re not a fed.”

  “Doesn’t mean we can’t work something out,” I told him. I suggested he go to a motel for the night, then tried to press for more information.

  Deon had already cut free of the conversation, though. Speaking to himself, he said, “I am so screwed,” and hung up.

  • • •

  HALF AN HOUR LATER, Tomlinson, instead of being flustered and in a funk, came through the door acting like his old self. “I’ve never heard this dog bark, have you?” he asked, scratching the retriever’s ears. “Probably because of the throat injury, but it could be he’s waiting for the right moment. I’m trying to learn patience from him.” He cupped the dog’s head. “Aren’t I, Mr. Flamingo?”

  The dog pulled away, stared at a lamp, and sneezed.

  Flamingo . . . Matecumbe . . . Largo . . . Tomlinson had tried several experimental names, seeking a geographical fit. We had found the dog a few months ago lost in the Everglades, traveling south toward the last inhabited spot—an outpost named Flamingo. In Tomlinson’s mind, he would have continued onward, swimming across Florida Bay to the Keys. I’d had to pry the teeth of a decomposing boa constrictor out of the dog’s neck.

  I said, “Flamingo might be the worst name ever.” When I said it, however, the retriever snapped to attention.

  “I’ll be damned,” I muttered.

  “Aren’t we all?” Tomlinson said, suddenly despondent again. “First time in my life I actually wanted to kill someone. Ski Mask—the crazy Harley gangbanger. I’d bet they’re one and the same. So, after Dunk dropped me at the gate, I did a power meditation, just me and the stars trying to get my humanity back on track.”

  He reached to pet the dog, adding, “It’s a classic Buddhist koan. Does a dog have Buddha nature? Doc, the reality is, we’re all part wolf. It scared me how fast I reverted.”

  The dog, who dodged Tomlinson’s hand, smelled of fresh mullet and mangroves, and he was dripping water on the floor. I shooed him outside and used disposable automotive towels, not a lab towel, to mop up. The nearest washing machine was at the marina and I was tired of making trips.

  “I’m sorry about Lillian,” I said.

  He replied with a Me, too shrug. “A Masonic brother found the names of the other two ladies and I called them. They’re fine, thank god. I’m still waiting to hear how Lillian died. How it happened, or whoever did it, that won’t change anything. For Lillian’s sake, I’m trying to move on.”

  “That’s not the impression I got from Duncan,” I said.

  “I know, I know . . . But between the Venice exit and Tuckers Grade, I said prayers for Lillian’s safe transition. I
feel better now. God calls us all. How’s it go? The wise and dumb and the very well hung. I’m taking a Live in the moment approach. If Ski Mask stuffs a rag down my throat, I’ll simply disappear before he lights the match.”

  I removed my glasses and cleaned them. “Are you okay?”

  “A little thirsty, that’s all.” Tomlinson selected a graduated beaker from the shelf, went out the door, and returned with a bottle of twenty-one-year-old El Dorado. With reverence, he poured 250 milliliters of rum over ice. It was a recent preference, drinking fine rum from a beaker of borosilicate glass, laboratory grade. Twenty bucks apiece, those beakers cost me, but no point in warning him again.

  “Duncan says he put the phone on speaker when Deon Killip called,” I said. “Give me your version of the conversation.”

  No new details, so I told Tomlinson, “I’ve got something to show you. It’ll cheer you up. While I get it ready, you can explain why you’re acting so weird.”

  Looking through the screen door, Tomlinson fixated on the retriever. “Strange that he never even woofs. Just sort of grunts when he’s gotta piss. Did you get those tests back yet?”

  The dog had been raised in Atlanta, I’d discovered, by a hunting trial enthusiast who had also been a noted geneticist. The dog’s oddities—not barking was only one of them—had piqued my curiosity. So, a week ago, I had sent off blood and hair samples, interested in the DNA results.

  Tomlinson was buying time, though, so I said, “He can damn sure growl. And you’re dodging the question.”

  “Okay. The problem is Mick. I’ve got a full read on him now.”

  My pal was serious. I mounted the digital microscope on the table and listened while he explained. “Part Indian, my ass—he has a lowlife pirate streak in him. That’s why I want Mick to believe I’m a harmless flake. He won’t let his guard down if he thinks I’m tricky. Before we left, I sold him a dime bag of Seven Mile Bridge at a discount. That should grease the skids.”

  “Sold him dope,” I said.

  “Weed. When will you ever learn the difference? My own special hybrid. Two tokes, you’re over the hump and walking on water.” Tomlinson plopped down at my desk, holding the beaker in his hand as if it were a brandy snifter. “Live the part, don’t play it—the Strasberg approach to acting. At the drum ceremony, Ava and the twins were convinced I was a flake, too.”

  It is not unusual for Tomlinson, who is an unorthodox character, to veil himself in the caricature of what people believe him to be. Typically, he does it to entertain or charm. He becomes the cheery butt of his own jokes; the drug-numbed jester who welcomes mockery with feigned confusion and a humility that, in private moments, he will confide is a test of his own Zen Roshi training.

  I carried a bottle of water to the desk and sat on the folding chair. “It’s better than wanting to murder someone. But where’re you going with this?”

  He asked, “What’s your read on Ava?”

  I hadn’t mentioned our brief re-meeting at the Albrights’ swimming pool. “Promiscuous,” I said, then told him what had happened.

  Tomlinson wrestled with something—possibly the desire to ask if the woman’s breasts were real—but stayed on topic. “There’re a few dark souls who go through a greed incarnation. Only manipulators use sex as a weapon. With Mick, greed’s behind his whole ancient calling act. A gift for finding arrowheads because his ancestors speak to him—please. And he claims he killed mastodons in a previous life. All total bullshit. That’s the sort of paranormal gibberish that no thinking person would fall for—but a lot do.”

  I had to take a sip of water before saying, “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

  “Dunk, of course, was onto him from the start. Doc?” Tomlinson hunched forward in the chair. “Remember Mick saying he teaches yoga? Actually, it’s more of a fitness thing, Brazilian yoga or aerobics yoga. He’s just a trainee. But here’s the interesting part: Ava told me she and the twins did a yoga retreat in Asheville a while back.”

  “Meditation retreat,” I corrected. “Leland mentioned it. They maxed out his credit card.”

  “Yoga, mood rings, mediation—to a suit like Leland Albright, it’s all the same. Trust me, this is my wheelhouse. Today, I put it together, but I played dumb and let Mick lecture me on the subject. It’s one of those franchise deals—Brazilian yoga, Jazzercise, cross-training. It’s all similar. Lots of sweating to loud music. Mick’s on the lowest rung at the Venice studio. But the regional manager is the head yoga stud, which is based in Sarasota. He was the headliner at Asheville. A franchise gig—a chain owned mostly by French and Saudis. See the connection?”

  I liked the direction this was going. “Does it have to do with Paris auction houses? I was just reading about that. Or something to do with the Muslims who took flight training in Venice?”

  Tomlinson tugged at a strand of hair while his expression read Someone’s a little slow today. “No. Umm, I’ll take it a step at a time. Ava and the twins attended the gig in Asheville—an obvious link. The head yoga stud also visits his franchise studios and works with new teachers—a link with Mick. But it’s more than that. Mick can’t say enough about this yoga teacher guy. He was almost an Olympic gymnast, a real motivator named Enrique Jones. You’re a jock. Ever heard of him?”

  “I don’t follow the sport.”

  “Well, Enrique likes to talk—especially about his female students. According to Mick, screwing students is one of the perks. The yoga stud—Enrique—he uses it like a carrot to his male trainees, who, in fact, are just salesmen. Like a pyramid scheme. He charges them a fee but keeps the fire burning with stories about his sexual conquests.”

  I said, “I see where this is going now.”

  “That’s right. There’s a rich Sarasota wife who’s crazy about Enrique. Supposedly wants to leave her husband, and bring along a ton of money, if Enrique will just say yes. Enrique is no gentleman, Doc. Told Mick that she’s a oral savant. And he used her first name. It was Ava.”

  I said, “She’s promiscuous, I told you. But I don’t see Ava walking away from Leland’s money for a yoga instructor. This guy wants to marry her?”

  Startled by my naïveté, Tomlinson made a fluttering sound through his lips. “Dude, a yogi-gymnast can blow himself. Why the hell would he? No . . . Greed, that’s the connection. Turn it around. Mick tells Enrique there’s money in rare fossils. Enrique knows Ava’s husband owns a phosphate mine. Then Mick brags to Enrique about how much Finn Tovar’s private collection is worth. Ava wants in on it, or maybe Mick and Enrique work out their own deal. There are a lot of scenarios.”

  I asked, “You’re saying it was the yoga teacher in the ski mask.”

  “No. Mick would’ve known, and he’s not that good an actor. With Enrique, it’s more about sex. He bragged about doing the mother-daughter thing, but the Sarasota mother doesn’t know.”

  I said, “You mean, Ava doesn’t know?”

  “Yep. He’s screwing one of the twins, too. Cockhounds like him make even me cringe. Leland Albright and I didn’t exactly hit it off, but I feel sorry for that man.”

  We talked for a while longer before I told him that I was meeting Mick tomorrow, just Duncan and me, no one else. Tomlinson understood but wanted to know, “How are you going to handle the magic tour guide?”

  I said, “He thinks I’m a cop, so Duncan will do most of the talking. I’ll be the negotiator, though, if this collector can produce the stone owl.”

  “That’s not what I mean. Mick sees himself as the high mystic of bone hunting. You’ve got to play to his ego. He’s the expert, you’re the student.” Tomlinson’s expression urged Pay attention, then he added, “You have to convince him you’ve got a bad case of fossil fever. Like you’ve decided My god, Mick’s the teacher I’ve been waiting for. Play it straight, he won’t give you the time of day.”

  “I’m not much of an actor either,” I said.<
br />
  “His ego will take care of that. Put your brain in wind tunnel mode and let Mick’s bullshit blow right through you. I’ll be sending you good vibes from Sarasota.” He gave it a few beats before adding, “I’m having lunch with Ava.”

  That was a surprise. In response to my accusing look, Tomlinson said, “I’m not that low. You told Leland I haven’t touched her and I won’t. Information is all I’m after. Ava sees me as a harmless, charming goof.”

  “It’s the charming part I’m worried about,” I told him.

  He finished his drink and placed my twenty-dollar beaker on the desk. “I’m a social scientist, don’t forget. Today Mick had no idea my questions were classic personality probes. You ask a person Are you honest? he’ll say yes, which is meaningless. But combine it with opportunity: If my Crow Indian friend has artifacts to sell, could you find a buyer? See? Plausible temptation has to be introduced to make an accurate assessment. That’s straight from the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory.”

  I said, “You asked Mick that? I already know the answer.”

  “Which is why I didn’t bother asking,” Tomlinson said. “On the phone, I asked Ava and she said maybe.”

  “She admitted it?”

  “Could be she was playing the role of the bad girl, although I doubt it. Ava’s greedy. At the drum ceremony, after a few drinks, she complained about the prenup she has with Leland. If she maxed out his credit cards, could be she’s squirreling away cash. But she would need a really big score before she drops the hammer on a wealthy husband.”

  Impressed, I tapped my bottle of water against the beaker. “Welcome back, Dr. Tomlinson.”

  Tomlinson’s Nordic eyes were sharp and mildly predatory. “They suspect we have the missing relics, hermano.”

  “Mick said that?”

  “No, Ava—it flowed from her thoughts right into my head. There’s a reason she invited me to her house for lunch tomorrow. Doc . . . I’m going to find who’s responsible for what happened to Lillian. There’s more to this than some whacked-out Harley cowboy.”