Cut and Run (14 page)

“You want to know something funny?” said McCulver, retaking his seat. “Even if Rodriguo's plan had worked out, a bunch of the stuff he bought might have been resold, anyway. A lot of the Cuban art that surfaced in the nineties was supposedly stolen and put on the market by Castro's own government—they needed some hard currency after the Wall fell and the Soviets couldn't subsidize them anymore.”

He offered the folder and Horatio took it. “Let's say you're right,” Horatio said. “Rodriguo put a large portion of his fortune into art, with plans of trading it for a new home in Cuba. What went wrong?”

“Who knows? My best guess is that all that treasure sitting in one place was too big a temptation for someone. Maybe one of Rodriguo's own men betrayed him. Maybe Castro pulled a double cross. Maybe the scheme even worked, and Rodriguo is living the high life in Havana while Castro decided to keep the whole collection in his basement.”

“I thought you said you were sure Rodriguo was dead.”

McCulver laughed. “I did, didn't I? Well, you know how it is with old cases—one day you're sure of one thing, the next you're convinced you had it all wrong for years. Like I said, Rodriguo's the one that got away. If you think you can figure out what happened to him, I'm glad to help. Maybe it'll help me sleep a little better.”

“Tell me,” said Horatio, “can you think of any reason Fredo Bolivar might be involved in the murder of a hot-air balloonist?”

“A balloonist? Well, Rodriguo used all kinds of methods to move his product—but I can't say I ever found any evidence he used a balloon. Too slow, hard to control, not much of a payload—plus, they're visible as all hell. Not much good to a smuggler.”

“Maybe not,” said Horatio. “But one might prove useful to a treasure hunter…”

 

McCulver told Horatio he could take the file with him, as long as he promised to keep him updated. Horatio thanked him and left, leaving the retired cop where he'd found him: sitting in a lawn chair and drinking another bottle of iced tea, watching the gulls argue and soar.

Horatio couldn't help but think of what he would do when he retired—assuming, of course, that he survived to do so. Would he wind up like McCulver, alone and bored, baking like an aging lizard in the sun while obsessing over old cases?

The thought brought up the memory of Marisol, and the constant, dull ache that accompanied her memory. She'd been young, vibrant, and so
alive;
she was like a clear river that had run, oh so briefly, through the dark landscape of his life. Being with her made him forget the pain so deeply rooted in his own heart, made him see you could draw strength from something other than suffering.

And then she had died.

It amazed him, still, how much it hurt. It was as if all the previous pain in his life had just been shadows, and Marisol's death was a solar eclipse. And lurking behind the blackness, obscured but still visible, the blaze of his rage.

But he hadn't let it consume him. That would have dishonored her memory, would have been disrespectful and wrong. He and Eric had done what had to be done, had avenged the death of a wife and a sister, and now Horatio could only hope she was at peace. He knew peace was what she wanted for him, too—but not the peace of the grave. No, she wanted him to live, to enjoy life the way she had, to savor the fine taste of wine in the evening, to revel in all the spice and subtlety that a good meal could offer. He could almost hear her voice, sometimes, telling him it was all right to be happy, and it was that voice that kept him going. That voice, and his sense of duty.

He sympathized with McCulver's problems with the higher-ups. Horatio had endured his own problems with interdepartmental politics, and had come close to quitting more than once. Not over wounded pride or stubbornness—he refused to let personal feelings get in the way of doing his job. But sometimes you had to take a stand, simply to make those who would abuse their power reconsider; to let them know they were in for a fight, that you wouldn't back down no matter what the consequences. It was important.

So maybe that was his fate. Maybe he'd wind up all alone, just him and his memories on a beach, wondering if he'd made a wrong choice somewhere along the line.

Horatio turned on the radio. He found a station playing an old jazz standard—one Marisol would have liked—and softly hummed along, all the way back to the lab.

 

Horatio spent the afternoon in his office, looking through the file and cross-checking references. Calleigh showed up around three, looking just as frustrated as she had the day before.

“Still no luck?” Horatio asked, leaning back in his chair.

“No. Either my calculations of the flight path are off, or we've just missed it. Either way, it's got to be out there.”

“Unless Fredo Bolivar got to it first.”

She frowned. “You talk to that DEA agent?”

“I did. He had some interesting tales to tell.”

She sank into a chair. “Well, I
love
a good story…”

He told her everything McCulver had told him. “So,” said Horatio, “It could be that Bolivar was out there hunting more than ducks.”

“Or discarded firearms,” said Calleigh thoughtfully. “And a hundred million dollars in art would certainly be motive for murder.”

“Just what I was thinking. And hunting for it is also exactly the kind of endeavor that Timothy Breakwash would be attracted to.”

“Well, hunting for buried treasure is practically Florida's official sport. You think Breakwash got the bug and was using the balloon to search from the air?”

“It makes sense. Especially if he was looking for an aircraft that went down in the Everglades twenty years ago.”

Calleigh nodded. “So Bolivar and Breakwash might have been competitors.”

“Or partners that had a falling out. If Breakwash actually found Rodriguo's stash, he might have gotten greedy, held out for a bigger cut.”

“Which means Bolivar knows where it is, too; he wouldn't kill Breakwash otherwise. But if that's the case—”

“—why was he out searching the Everglades when he should be hauling away treasure?” Horatio shrugged. “I don't know. Logistics, maybe. He might need heavy equipment or diving gear or even explosives. He was probably scoping out the situation when you scared him off.”

“Maybe. Or maybe he still doesn't know where it is—which means Breakwash could have been killed by someone else.”

“True. But whatever the case,” said Horatio, getting up from his chair, “I think one thing is obvious. It's time to have a little talk with Fredo Bolivar…”

 

Fredo Bolivar stared at Horatio with flat black eyes. He wore what Horatio thought of as generic gang-wear: baggy jeans with boxers showing over the waist, oversize basketball jersey, baseball hat with the brim at a forty-five-degree angle away from the forehead, expensive sneakers. And the sneer, of course; that was mandatory.

“Fredo,” said Horatio. “Thanks for coming in to talk to us.” Horatio was on his feet, holding a beige file folder in one hand; Calleigh sat across from Fredo, who was trying to look as though he were lounging casually in a chair designed to make that impossible.

“Yes,” added Calleigh. She leaned forward, putting her elbows on the interview table, and gave Fredo her warmest smile. “We appreciate it. Can I get you a soda or something?”

Fredo lowered his gaze about a foot, from Calleigh's eyes to her cleavage. “You don't have to go anywhere,” he said with a grin. “
He
can go get me a cold one, though.”

Horatio smiled himself, but didn't rise to the bait. “Fredo. Do you know a man named Timothy Breakwash?”

“Never heard of him.”

“You sure?” said Calleigh. “Maybe you and he ran into each other while you were out duck hunting. You know—with your father.”

That got a flicker of his attention. “My father. That's what this is all about?”

“That depends, Fredo,” said Horatio. “It depends on exactly who your father is.”

“My father's dead.”

“You know that for sure?” asked Calleigh.

“I know it in my heart. He was a great man—if he was still alive, he would have let me know.”

“And what,” asked Horatio, “was this great man's name?”

“His real name doesn't matter. He was my father, and that's what is important.”

“Maybe you don't know what his real name was,” said Horatio. “Maybe you don't care. Maybe what's important isn't his name…but what he left behind.”

The smile was gone from Fredo's face, replaced by a cold glare. “What's this all about? If you have something to ask me, just ask.”

“All right, Fredo,” said Horatio. “Where were you yesterday morning, around sunrise?”

“Out hunting. In the 'Glades.”

“Alone?” asked Calleigh.

“Just me and my dog.”

“Kill anything?” asked Horatio.

“No.”

“Guess you're not much of a shot,” said Calleigh.

“Didn't even fire my gun.”

“Did you notice anything unusual in the air that morning?” asked Horatio.

“Sure. Saw a big balloon go right overhead.”

Calleigh nodded. “Is that all you saw?”

“That's it.”

“So,” said Horatio, “if I were to dust Timothy Breakwash's house for prints, I wouldn't find yours—because you've never been there, correct?”

“That's right. I told you, I never heard of him.”

“You want to know what I think, Fredo?” asked Horatio. “I think you did know Timothy Breakwash. I think the two of you were looking for your father's legacy in the Everglades—you on the ground, him in the air. I think your relationship soured, and Timothy Breakwash wound up dead.”

Fredo shook his head in disgust. “That's a crazy story, man. This Breakwash guy was in that balloon? What, you think I shot him from the ground, or something? Well, I haven't fired my gun in weeks—go ahead, check it out. And as for my father's so-called ‘legacy,' the only thing he left me was a bunch of stories my mother told me. I guess him and Breakwash have that in common—I never met either of them.”

“We
will
check that out, Fredo,” said Horatio. “You can count on it.”

Six hours later, they were back to square one. Calleigh had gone back to the Breakwash residence and scoured it for prints, epithelials, any kind of trace that could put Fredo there; Rodriguo's purported son had even voluntarily given them a DNA sample. She found nothing. Even though his gun wasn't the make they were looking for, Calleigh tested it anyway; Bolivar had been telling the truth. The gun hadn't been fired recently.

Calleigh met Horatio in the layout room and told him the news.

“Well, at least we accomplished one thing,” said Horatio. “If Fredo does know where the art is, he won't move on it now; he knows we're watching him.”

“Do you really think it's out there, H? A hundred million in missing art?”

“It's possible. I've been going over the files in Breakwash's computer and the files McCulver gave me; there's a lot of overlap.”

“Breakwash had files on missing art?”

“Breakwash had files on all sorts of things. The art didn't jump out at me until McCulver brought it up—take a look.”

Horatio sat down in front of a monitor and tapped a few keys. “According to McCulver, Rodriguo concentrated on two things: paintings and pearls.”

“Ooh,” said Calleigh. “Diamonds may be a girl's best friend, but pearls are definitely number two on my speed dial.”

“They're highly prized as gems, but they're also pieces of history. McCulver seems to think Rodriguo was the one that bought a pearl called
La Pellegrina
in 1987, just before he vanished. It has a fascinating past; supposedly discovered off South America, it was originally called
La Reine de Pearl,
and was part of the Spanish crown jewels. It was given to Philip the Fourth's daughter when she married Louis XIV, and became part of the French crown jewels. In 1792, it was stolen; it resurfaced in India, then was brought to Russia where it was renamed the Zozima pearl. It became the property of Russian royalty and disappeared until the eighties, where it was sold at auction to an unknown buyer.”