Bone Deep (25 page)

“Well . . . But just because your hippie pal heard some gossip about—”

“His name’s Tomlinson,” I said, “and he’s worried about your daughters. He says they’re nice women, just a little naïve.”

“Now he’s a behavioral expert, too, huh? I don’t remember asking his opinion.”

“Leland, come on. We can talk honestly or not, that’s up to you. But let me straighten you out on a few things. I asked what the biker looks like because it’s the same guy who threatened to shoot that
elephant out there. The description matches, and so does the torching your house part. On the phone, he threatened to use gas rags and set Tomlinson’s head on fire. That was . . . four days ago. And on Saturday, in Venice, a friend of Tomlinson’s died in a house fire. They don’t know yet if it was murder, but, let’s face it, this guy’s dangerous.”

Leland, suddenly nervous, said, “Jesus Christ . . . are you sure?” He reached for the Smirnoff.

“I met him. He’s brain-damaged from a motorcycle wreck—or maybe was always nuts—but one thing I’m sure of, he’s bad news. No . . . two things: he’s dangerous and he’s not working for some small-timer like Ricky. Not for five thousand, he’s not. Are you saying you didn’t suspect he came to collect Owen’s gambling debt?”

“Jesus Christ,” Leland said again and walked to the window. Stood there a while, then said, “You have no right to make accusations about my family.”

“Let’s hope I’m wrong. You were afraid of hurting Owen’s feelings, weren’t you? I can relate. Last thing you want to do is alienate a son once he starts to come around.”

“My
stepson
,” Leland corrected, but said it as if he’d hoped for more. “Sure . . . the gambling thing crossed my mind. But when I talked to Owen this morning, he agreed that Ricky was behind it. The kid feels badly enough about investing in that damn franchise. Five thousand is his max without getting my okay and he knows he screwed up. Personally? I suspect Ava was nudging him along. She can manipulate without saying a word—I should know.”

“You didn’t ask Owen about gambling debts, though.”

“He’s been clean for almost a year. It would have been a . . . breach of trust, I guess. But, wait a second . . .” Leland placed a hand on the chair between us. “This biker, he threatened to set your friend Tomlinson on fire? Why didn’t
you
call the police?”

I didn’t answer right away, so he jumped ahead. “Is there something going on between Tomlinson and Ava that you’re not telling me?”

I shook my head as I used an index finger to move the stone rib, then two meg teeth, neatening them like chess pieces among the other fossils. “It’s all about these,” I said. “Did you find them?”

The man shrugged. “It’s an old habit. If I see something, I pick it up. But what’s that have to do with this crazy person threatening people?”

“Money,” I said. “I understand fossil hunting, the attraction, I really do. Owen told me the same thing: Everyone in the phosphate business becomes a collector. What I’m getting at is that list of names you gave me. I didn’t expect to see your father’s name, but what about men like Dalton Sanford? There had to be others in his circle.”

Leland’s reaction: nervous, same as when I’d asked about diving the pond. “If you’re insinuating I own those stolen carvings, you’re wrong.”

“I’m not,” I said. “At first, I thought it was a possibility, thought that’s why you offered me a job—to monitor my progress. People do that sort of thing. But not people like you.”

“Thanks . . . I guess. But I still don’t see how this is any of your business.”

I had made an observation, not offered him a compliment, but let it go. I swung my chair around. “Do you want some brain-damaged hit man to burn your house down? He not only threatened Tomlinson, he threatened me. You need to wake up before this gets out of hand.”

“Well . . . sure. But why bring up Dalton’s name?”

I said, “Someone is paying the guy. He showed up in Venice a
couple of weeks ago, supposedly from out west. Nevada, I heard, and Owen told me about his trips to Vegas. Him and Harris Sanford. So some pissed-off Vegas loan shark could be behind it. Or someone local could’ve made a few phone calls and hired outside help, a pro at collecting debts, but also crazy enough to kill someone. Maybe the person knows it, maybe he doesn’t, but he’s still responsible.”

Leland didn’t want to believe me. “I covered Owen’s outstanding debts after he agreed to go through a twelve-step program. So you’re wrong. I have no idea about Harris and don’t much care. Harris is . . . Well, he’s always been a bad influence.”

I said, “Maybe he still is. He and Owen grew up in phosphate country and they know people in the business. I assume Ava does, too. Put it all together. The relics trade is a multimillion-dollar business in Florida. It pays in cash, tax-free. If someone wanted to make a lot of money, fossils and artifacts are a lot safer than dealing drugs.”

Leland, skeptical, said, “You and the Indian, the drum shaman, you’ve been looking for those carvings less than a week. How do you know so much?”

I indicated the chair, saying, “Leland, have a seat. It’s what
you
know that can put the bad guys in jail.”

•   •   •

IN THE STORAGE ROOM,
isolated between two steel doors, Leland opened the first antique gun vault and pulled out several drawers, which were oak and lined with gray velvet to cushion expensive firearms. Instead of guns, they contained megalodon teeth and other fossils, no apparent order.

“No one’s touched them,” Leland said, exhaled his relief—
Phewww!
—and stepped aside. “Look for yourself.”

I did, inspected the largest shark tooth, while he commented, “I hate opening these old safes. It’s been a year since I bothered. No . . . two years. We switched insurance companies. That was the last time I looked.”

Leland avoided the gun vaults for the same reason he seldom visited the ranch: They reminded him of his late father. That’s why it had taken a while to convince him we should open the safes. Inside was what remained of the family’s relics collection.

“Which isn’t much,” he had warned. “My father was a drunk. I think I mentioned that. Toward the end, after he’d screwed up everything else, he sold or lost our best pieces to finance his drinking—or on get-rich-quick schemes. He told my mother that the collection was stolen, but I never believed him for a moment.”

I had countered, “Don’t be so sure,” to tempt him.

Leland had set his drink aside, then pushed the bottle away, when I told him the house of another major collector, Finn Tovar, had been robbed.

Tovar
—Albright recognized the name but didn’t interrupt.

“Owen is the fourth generation,” I reasoned. “A gambling habit instead of whiskey. It could be that he’s dealing in relics to pay for his losses. If he is, someone else is involved—one of the Sanfords, probably Harris, not Dalton. I could be wrong about that. And . . . well, I’m wondering about your wife, too. A stranger shows up on a motorcycle and Ava says she can handle the guy? There’s something wrong there.”

It was enough for Leland—Henry Leland Albright III—to decide, “Well, there’s an easy way to find out.” Then he had led me into this room where twin antique vaults, both a faded green with bright gold leafing, were bolted to the wall.

Now, here we were, looking at several hundred fossils jumbled on gray velvet, and I felt foolish—until I reexamined the tooth in my hand.

“Owen wouldn’t steal from me,” Leland said. “Ava, though, she’s a different story. That’s the only reason I bothered opening this safe.”

He reached to move me aside, but I said, “You’re the expert. What do you think of this?” I handed him the megalodon tooth, then removed two more from the drawer.

“It’s from a prehistoric shark, for christ’s sake. You expect a guided tour now?”

I said, “Take a close look.” Owen had lectured me on the importance of coloring and common flaws, such as chipped serrations and splintered enamel. The specimens I had just selected were both chipped. Five teeth and a jawbone later, Leland was finally convinced.

“Good lord . . . I see what you mean. On this one, part of the root lobe is missing . . . the bourlette is barely visible. My grandfather, even my dad, wouldn’t have kept junk like this in the collection.”

I said, “If you think that one’s bad,” and handed him two more.

Slowly, at first, Leland sorted through fossils in the top drawer, then opened the other drawers in a rush, pawing through each, before moving on. At the bottom of the safe were two oversize doors that required a key. He said, “I’m almost afraid to look,” but opened them anyway.

They were empty.

“I can’t believe Owen would do something like this,” he said, then stood, more dazed than angry.

I asked, “What was supposed to be in there?”

“Someone took the collectible stuff and replaced it with worthless crap. But wait . . . Maybe it wasn’t Owen.”

“Who else has the combination?”

He had to think about it for a moment. “No one. Not the twins, not Owen, nobody. The only place it’s written down is in my estate papers and they’re sealed until my death.”

I asked, “Is your attorney Dalton Sanford?”

The inference troubled him at first, then irritated him. “No. Well . . . Dalton was our attorney, but I moved our business to another firm after my father died.”

I was wondering if Leland had changed the vault combinations, too, but asked, “What about the property manager?”

Leland said, “Old Cliff? No, his health has been so bad the last couple of years, I keep him on out of loyalty.” He stared at the other gun vault, already worried. “My grandfather’s most valuable pieces are in there.” He turned, his face mottled. “You mind waiting in the office while I check?”

I was sitting, my canvas briefcase in my lap, when Albright came through the door. One look and I knew, before he said, “Everything’s gone. Whoever did it didn’t even bother with fakes in the other safe. Fakes would have been so obvious.”

In my hand was an envelope containing wide-angle shots of the mastodon tusk, but I waited. “What’s missing?”

“I just told you—
everything
.” Which sounded condescending, so he added, “Sorry, Ford. Uhhh”—his eyes found the mini-fridge, where he’d placed the Smirnoff—“I would’ve never found out if it wasn’t for you. Screw the dollar value, what was in there was all that was left of my grandfather’s collection. Irreplaceable, some of those pieces.” He started toward the fridge but reconsidered, saying, “My father, of course, pissed the rest of it away.”

“The bottom of a bottle can be a long fall,” I agreed.

Leland tested that for criticism, then decided, “Yeah, a hell of a
waste.” He turned away from the bottle and the fridge, saying, “Guess I better call Owen.”

I carried my briefcase outside, through the gate to my truck, and removed unnecessary gear from my dive bag. Some of it was still damp from diving with Mick and his clients. I put the envelope containing mastodon photos in the bag, plus the spectrophotometer and some filter flasks for water samples, and left my briefcase in the truck. Leland was standing at the window when I returned.

“Did you get ahold of Owen?”

“I left a message,” he replied, “but I didn’t mention the safes. He’ll know from my tone I’m upset, though.” The man sounded exhausted, and didn’t ask why I was carrying a different bag. He added, “I was trying to remember if Owen was here the day the insurance agent inventoried the collection.”

I said, “Two years ago, you said. Think Owen might have memorized the combinations?”

“I’m pretty sure he didn’t, but maybe. He’s got a first-rate memory, that kid. His mother was the same way.” He looked across the room while his mind worked at something. “The other night, you struck me as a pretty solid guy, Ford. I’m curious about something. Did you really ask your pal Tomlinson if he was screwing Ava?”

I replied, “Yes . . . but only to protect myself. When I lie, it’s usually for the same reason.”

Leland nodded. “Then I was right about you.”

Photos of the mastodon tusk.
I was thinking about them while he tried to collect himself by rehashing what had happened, then finally admitted, “I asked you to leave the room because I didn’t want you to see what was inside that safe.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“I think it would’ve been okay.”

Rather than ask, I said, “You can’t be too careful.”

“But I tend to overdo it. Having money—not that we have much left—and owning a piece of Bone Valley attracts all sorts of crazies. So, for me, it’s easier to shut out everyone. I’ve . . . never felt comfortable around people. Which was okay until the last few years. Don’t most men have friends to call when everything goes to hell? I can’t tell the twins, and I sure as hell can’t go running to Ava.” He made a sound of frustration. “Hell . . . maybe I should have taken up golf or something like everyone else my age.”

His admission had the flavor of adolescent angst, and I pictured Albright as a towering, clumsy kid, the easy target of pint-sized bullies. Because he was wealthy, his shyness would be mistaken for aloofness. Now the towering adult was still a loner and was still an easy target—an ex–fashion model was proving that.

I tried to lighten things up. “You’re welcome to call Tomlinson. He’s a lot of things, including a Zen Buddhist master. He’ll talk you to death if he doesn’t cure you first.”

The man chuckled, a weary sound, without turning from the window, but then did turn and wasn’t smiling. “The biker who threatened Esther, what did you mean I’m the one who can put him in jail? If you’re right about Owen, I can’t get the police involved.”

“Put the
bad guys
in jail,” I corrected, then explained that Quirt was already in jail.

“Well . . . that’s great,” he said, then appeared puzzled. “What’s his name again?”

I told him.

“
Quirt?
That’s a strange one. When this was actually a ranch, a couple Florida cowboys worked for us. A quirt is a small whip with
knots tied in it so it cuts what it hits. That’s what they called it, a quirt.”

“The name fits,” I said, “even if he made it up. Our next move—and this is just a suggestion—it all depends on what’s missing from your gun vaults and how long it’s been missing.”