Black Tide (35 page)

"I was about to ask you the same thing," I said. "Progress?"

"Some, though nothing I want to talk about over the phone."

"Want to get together tomorrow?"

"Sure."

"Then name the place," I said. ''And time. But don't make it too late. I've got an appointment down in Massachusetts."

"One o'clock," Felix said. ''At the place we've been to before, the one with the crazy ice-cream sundaes."

I knew the place well, and I knew the games that Felix was playing. Very safe, very conservative and very circumspect.  That's what kept him alive in a career where sharp elbows didn't mean a thing, but sharp knives did.

"I'll be there," I said, "with some progress of my own."

"Glad to hear it. And, Lewis?"

"Yes?"

He seemed to take a deep breath. "Thanks for coming back with me on this one. Ah, I usually like to work alone on a lot of things like this, but I appreciate all you've done."

With those two sentences, I felt as if Felix had exhausted his sensitive-male quotient for the month. I said, "Not to worry. You owe me a meal. And not at the restaurant we were at last. I think it’ll be a long time before you and me can eat there without getting arrested."

That got a small laugh, and he said, "Tomorrow, Lewis," and I hung up. I put the phone down on the deck and finished my wine, and sat back, looking up at the stars. I waited, hoping to see a taste of what was going to happen next week, when the great Perseid showers were to take place, and for once I wasn't disappointed. Two shooting stars flared across the night sky, quicker to see than to describe, and in their dying moments, they gave me a sense of tranquility and beauty.

I thanked them for their gift, then I went to bed.

Chapter Twenty

On Sunday afternoon I met Felix at the Conquerin' Cone, an ice-cream store on Atlantic Avenue, just over the line from North Tyler and into Wallis. About five minutes from the Conquerin' Cone was Cameron Briggs's summer home, but I felt confident the man had never been here in his life. The place is across the street from a rocky strip of beach that is usually frequented by the locals, and it has picnic tables in a dirt lot with faded blue golf umbrellas overhead. The building is one story with peeling white paint and those yellow light bulbs outside that supposedly drive away summer insects but instead just give the customers an unhealthy glow about their faces. Not the type or place a guy like Cameron Briggs would visit.

It's relatively well known for its elaborate sundaes --- some of which take a family of four to consume --- but Felix loves the place because it stocks some obscure brand of Italian ice that he enjoys. The times I've been with him, he's not been shy about ordering two or three at a time and then eating them all at once. "It saves walking back and forth," he once explained.

I had a small dish of fudge swirl ice cream. Felix sat across from me, two empty cardboard dishes at his elbow, working steadily on a third one that contained a lemon type of ice. We both had free cups of ice water, for the owners of the Conquerin' Cone realize that odd fact of nature: eating ice cream makes you thirsty. Felix had on a white tank top and faded blue shorts; the tank top was loose around the shorts, hiding from everyone except me the fact that he was carrying a weapon.

"Well, it seems like things are coming to a bit of a head," Felix said, scooping another little pile of yellow slush into his mouth. "I exchanged postcards last week and the meet seems to be on for sometime this week. Maybe Wednesday or Thursday. Exchange of the paintings for some money --- a hell of a lot less than what I was asking for --- and then that phase of the business is over with."

The ice cream had real chocolate fudge in its swirl, which made for a fiercely loyal group of customers for the Conquerin' Cone. I said, ''And what happens with the second phase? Does hunting season open up?"

Felix nodded, scraping a bit more ice. "That's true, my friend. Hunting season opens up. Damn thing is, though, I don't have names. Just postcards and that shooter with a mask that took care of Tony Russo. Besides that, I have nothing. It's going to take some work trying to catch the tracks of this one. No names, no faces."

I waved at him with my spoon. "I've got two names, and two faces. I can't guarantee that they mean anything, or that they're connected with what's going on with you, but they are making things curious for me."

"Go on," Felix said.

"Head of security for the museum is a guy named Justin Dix," I said. "Seemed to be a straight shooter, until I did some research. Turns out he's a man who's run up a number of debts. Even had his car repossessed once. Perfect in for someone who wanted to steal three paintings and get away with it. Money in exchange for assistance."

''And the second guy?"

"Craig Dummer. One of two guards on duty that night. His partner, one Ben Martin, a former Manchester cop, conveniently died a few years back. Craig wanted to be a cop, but the museum theft took care of that. That's not the kind of thing police hiring boards are thrilled to learn about. I talked to him yesterday, after he skipped out from his place up in Bainbridge. He used to have the same debt problems that Justin had. Now he claims he's paid everybody off and he made a reference to someone looking out for him, maybe a sugar daddy or something. He's living in Exonia, and he won't say why."

Felix nodded, finishing up his Italian ice. He looked slightly amusing, hunched over the stained picnic table, studiously eating his treat with a tiny wooden spoon, but I wasn't about to laugh and I don't think anybody within eyeshot would either.

"Connection between the two?"

"Justin was Craig's boss. And there was something odd, back when I started poking around this, Felix. Justin implied that Craig was still under suspicion, that his address and whereabouts were always known, but he gave me a bum address for Craig in Bainbridge. When I went there, Craig had moved out a couple of weeks earlier. So either Justin was sloppy in his record keeping --- which didn't seem apparent at the time --- or he was helping out Craig."

''Anybody else?"

I paused, and said, "There's Justin Dix's secretary. A Cassie Fuller. But I don't think she had anything to do with the theft. She had only been at the job for a few months before the paintings were stolen. I don't think that's enough time to check out how the security system was working."

Felix seemed to consider all of this as he reached out and crushed the three empty cardboard containers with his right hand. "Nice information, Lewis, but I've got a problem with what you're saying. Care to guess what it is?"

I finished off my own treat. "It's apparent. It's too obvious."

"Exactly." He wiped his hands clean with a napkin and looked over at the people at the Conquerin' Cone's windows.  Seemingly satisfied that there were no assassins in line, he looked back at me and said, "It's too damn obvious, Lewis, that a security guard or his boss or anybody there would be involved in the theft."

"Then again, maybe that was their perfect cover. No one would suspect them simply because it was so obvious."

He shrugged. "That sounds too much like philosophy, and when someone mentions philosophy, I usually reach for my semi-automatic.”

"I think someone famous said that once, but I'll let you keep that quote. Felix, I know it's obvious, but it's something. Look.  Every thing started happening the minute you got those postcards. Your cousin gets killed. Tony Russo gets killed. Justin Dix loses track of Craig Dummer, and Craig Dummer suddenly ends up in Exonia, with a full bank account. That's too much weirdness, even for something like this."

Felix tossed the containers into a trash barrel, and I heard him whisper, "Three points," and then he said, "This whole thing has a taste of the weird. I don't like it, not at all. Too many shadows and hidden messages. I like things direct, out in the open. This ain't doing it, and I'm not going to be happy until it's all there, laid out before me."

"Might have a long wait."

"I'm patient."

"Except when you're hungry," I pointed out.

"Yeah, well, everybody has their faults." His expression changed slightly, as if he was looking at me differently. He said quietly, "I don't know why I'm going to ask you this, but I am. It just makes sense, as odd as that sounds. Closing the circle. When the exchange happens, do you want to be there?"

"Still looking for my calming influence?"

Felix shrugged. "Maybe I am. You do have something there. Maybe it's your calming influence, or the way you're looking at things. All I know is, I'd feel better if you're there."

"No more meets at restaurants?"

"Nope. Restaurants are for eating."

And I don't know why I said it, except it did make sense. ''All right. I'll be there."

Felix looked pleased. "Good. Look, why don't we go up to Porter, to the Diamondback Lounge. We can catch the afternoon Red Sox game, get a couple of beers, see if there are any nubile fans who need to learn about the infield fly rule…"

"Sorry," I said, getting up from the picnic table. "I have a doctor's appointment."

''A doctor's appointment? On a Sunday afternoon in August?"

As I walked away I said, "He's a special kind of doctor."

For a special kind of case.”

An hour later I was in the Cambridge office of Dr. Jay Ludlow. I sat naked on his examining table as he poked and probed the scars on my knee, back and left side. He asked me the usual questions, from weight gain or loss to sleeping habits, and he looked intently at a file folder I guessed belonged to me. He wore tan slacks and an open-necked shirt, and he ran his hands through his thinning curly hair on a few occasions as he did his job.

Then he nodded and said, "You can get dressed," and so I did.

I joined him in his office, which had a big wooden desk and the standard medical school certificates, and he opened my file and said, "I'll tell you two things, Lewis. One is that you're doing well in your recovery. The incision is healing nicely, and I couldn't find any signs of a recurrence of your tumors. Which leads me to my second point."

"Which is that you can't predict if and when another tumor might appear."

"That's very true," he said, leaning back in his big swivel leather chair, rubbing at his eyes, looking tired. "One good piece of luck is that none of your growths so far has proven to be malignant. But that doesn't mean your luck is going to hold. It also doesn't mean that the next one won't be malignant. Hell, even another benign tumor like the one I pulled out of you could hurt you. All it would take would be a tumor growing in a space that can cause some serious damage. Like your spinal column. Or  your stomach. Or your brain. What it does mean is that you should be concerned about your health, about your future."

Doc, I'm concerned every damn day."

He had a wry smile. "Sorry for the lecture. It's just frustrating, working this case, Lewis. And I won't go into explaining that again."

At that moment I felt sorry for him, a doctor who had gone to a fine school and had probably hoped for a fulfilling and satisfying career, and instead, because of something he had done once, had ended up m the debt of some men in Washington who had long memories and even longer resumes. This debt, like all debts, had to be paid off, which is why he was in his office on a perfectly 1ovely August Sunday afternoon, dealing with a man with a spook past who couldn't answer any questions that would help in his work.

I cleared my throat. "One of the last times I saw you at the hospital, Doc, I told you what happened to me was a hell of a story. Like to hear part of it?"

He sat straight up, as if he had discovered he had been sitting on a tack. "It's not necessary, but if you'd like…." '

'Agreed,'' I said. ''A story, probably one that won't help your questions, but might help you in understanding me. It's a story about a  section of the Department of Defense. This section analyzes issues and concerns that are too hot or too weird for other groups, other subdivisions. It's a fairly close-knit group, and one particular man counts a woman he loves very much and his best friend among his co-workers. One day they're sent out to a government range in Nevada, on its yearly field qualification tests, to prove that the group could operate in adverse conditions if it had to. But it wasn't much of a test. It was just day after day of monotony, climbing up and down piles of rocks and sand. Through the incompetence of its leader, this group then discovers it's lost. It finds itself in a restricted part of the range. It finds itself near a pen holding sheep. And before anything can happen, before hardly anything is said, two Huey helicopters roar overhead."

I stopped for a moment, conscious that I was breathing faster and that the room seemed to be getting warmer. ''Am I keeping your attention, Doc?"

He slowly nodded, as if he didn't want to disturb my concentration. "Go on, Lewis. It's an interesting story."

I found with disgust that my voice was beginning to waver. "The helicopters are modified with outriggers, like crop dusters. They begin spraying the ground, they begin spraying the sheep, and they begin spraying the Department of Defense section that wasn't supposed to be there. And you can guess that the spray isn't a new form of insecticide. These Hueys weren't on loan to the Department of Agriculture. Nope, these Hueys are just like the section --- how ironic --- and they were testing a new biowarfare agent. The test proves to be quite successful, except for one point. All of the sheep and all of the men and women in that section die, save for one man."