Bone Key (20 page)
“I thought we were meeting at a restaurant,” Deal called up the long cabin as the limo made an unexpected left on Truman Street. They were headed eastward now, away from town.
“
Sí
, Forty-nine,” Balart replied.
Deal stared at the driver. “Forty-nine? Is that some kind of code?”
“Is a restaurant, Forty-nine,” Balart said. “Is new. And very good.”
“There’s a restaurant out this way?” Deal asked, his tone doubtful. They were turning onto the isolated Beach Road now.
“Oh no,” Balart said. “Not the restaurant. The chef. He is coming to
do
the dinner.” Balart turned with an earnest glance.
Deal started to say something else, then gave up, settling back against the leather seat. It seemed there was indeed a destination in mind and that food would be involved. He would let it go at that. There had been a second beer waiting for him when he’d finally forced himself out of the guest room shower, and he was still feeling the last of its buzz.
“You look pretty good in the dude’s clothes,” Russell observed.
“Glad to hear it,” Deal said.
Malloy had brought him a pair of linen trousers that were a little loose in the waist, but his belt took care of that. He’d also had his choice of shirts: a crisp white oxford with long sleeves—meant to hide the scratches on his arms, Deal supposed—and a vivid green Hawaiian print with yellow parrots that seemed to shimmer in and out of view like holograms, depending on the light. In Miami, Deal reflected, he’d have almost certainly gone with the button-down, but here in Key West, he’d barely hesitated before donning the garish Hawaiian print, further proof that familiar gravity was losing its hold.
As they made another turn onto White Street, heading southward at last, light spilled inside the limo’s cabin from a street lamp, and he caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the window. He’d read a short story in one of his college English classes, he recalled, in which an escaped convict had disguised himself in such a shirt, then murdered an old woman who’d spotted him.
Was that what he was doing? Deal wondered idly. Disguising himself? But from whom? And for what purpose? At least there hadn’t been blood on his shoes, a fairly new pair of Top-Siders that went well with his borrowed ensemble, he thought. He felt comfortable in his own shoes. Anchored, even.
He blinked, forcing himself out of his wildly leaping thoughts. Another one of those dragon-blood beers and he’d have been dreaming himself into a plot by Wagner.
The limo was purring down Beach Road now, headed in the opposite direction from the one he and Russell had jogged along just a couple of days before. It was too dark to make out the spot where they’d tussled with Conrad, and the calm, reef-protected waters were hidden as well, but Deal found himself oddly comforted by all that darkness that stretched away on his right. Out there lay the unknown. He could deal with that. It was the here and now that was tough to get a handle on.
Just short of the glow that hovered above the island’s airport and its surrounding facilities, the limo swung across the opposite lane of the lonely highway and jounced over the shoulder into a parking lot that had seen better days. As they pulled to a stop, Deal saw the shadow of a dark Town Car off to one side, and a light-colored panel truck parked beside that.
“What’s this?” Deal called to Balart, as the engine died.
“Where the boss say,” the driver answered.
Russell sat unmoving, glancing dubiously out his window. “I don’t suppose the good counselor slipped any heat into a pocket of those pretty-boy slacks,” he said.
“Relax,” Deal said. He was already halfway out his door and had caught sight of the familiar tower that Stone envisioned as the centerpiece of his new development silhouetted against the faintly glowing skyline. There was a staggered procession of flickering tiki torches that outlined the coral pathway to the tower’s entrance and the sounds of jazz drifting above the faint crash of waves in the distance. “We’re having dinner now,” he added, and followed Balart by torchlight.
***
“If a picture is worth a thousand words,” Franklin Stone was saying as a waiter set their plates before them, “then how would you judge the power of this?” He finished with a sweeping gesture that encompassed the swaying palms and the other-era battlements in the background, all of it illuminated from this side by discreetly placed landscape lighting.
“At least a dictionary’s worth,” Deal said, glancing around the newly constructed terrace where Stone envisioned a series of outdoor parties meant to tout the project once the winter season was in high gear. Even in August, with the sun down and the light breeze off the ocean, it was a heady place, Deal thought.
“I’d say the whole damned encyclopedia,” Russell Straight added.
“And the food?” Stone prompted with an eager smile.
Deal nodded, glancing after the departing white-jacketed server. It was just the three of them at the linen-clad table that had been set up by the caterers, an operation conducted by the chef and owner of the aforementioned Forty-nine, who’d been on hand only briefly to supervise the preparations for the evening.
Though Deal had caught only a fleeting glance of Boussier before the man had departed, it had been more than enough. As they’d arrived, the man—a looming, hawklike presence—had been loudly berating his employees, a trio of white-jacketed men huddled before a workstation tucked away behind a screen of palms. Stone had noticed and deftly intercepted Deal and Russell, escorting them on a tour of the nearby grounds while the restaurateur concluded his tirade and stalked away toward the parking lot.
Boussier had defected from New York’s Danielle to come south and open up his own place on the island, Stone had told them, and was using the summer doldrums to work out “the kinks” in his new establishment’s operations before the seasonal hordes descended.
“François is a bit high-strung,” Stone was saying, “but he’s a marvel in the kitchen. We’re fortunate to have lured him here. Just one more jewel in the Key West crown, Johnny-boy.”
Deal nodded absently, though he suspected there might be a flaw or two in that particular jewel. He wondered idly if Stone might be backing the restaurant enterprise.
As far as the quality of the food went, however, he could hardly complain. They’d worked their way through an appetizer of delicately spiced crab cakes, followed by a fresh mozzarella salad sliced tableside by an assistant. Now, Deal found himself staring down at a version of the yellowtail dish he’d had at Louie’s what seemed like aeons ago, this rendition topped by a sauce that suggested béarnaise without the threat of angioplasty and surrounded by artfully carved rosettes that he realized were actually bits of lobster meat.
His only disappointment concerning this dinner had been the absence of Annie Dodds. Deal assumed she was onstage at the Pier House, but when he’d asked—innocently enough, he thought—Stone had said she’d begged off at the last minute with a headache. His manner seemed to suggest it happened often enough, and Deal didn’t press the matter. He supposed it would have made for something of an awkward dinner:
“
So, Franklin, Annie and I were screwing our brains out earlier over at the Pier House, then someone tried to kill me. You know anything about that?
”
“More wine?” Stone was asking, his practiced smile glowing as he hoisted a dripping bottle from the silver holder at tableside. He’d sent a glance at the cuts on Deal’s forearms, but hadn’t commented. Was that because Conrad had already given him a full report? Deal wondered.
Deal held up his hand. “I’m more into the reds, myself,” he said, watching Stone carefully.
Stone seemed perplexed. He raised his eyebrows, glancing from the fish plate before him, then off toward the preparation table, where the chef, waiter, and assistant all seemed busy on a dessert that promised to surpass imagination. “I chose white with the fish, but I’m sure we have something,” he said, a note of apology in his voice.
“Forget it, Franklin,” Deal said. “I’ve had more than my share this evening.”
“But I’d be happy—”
“Really,” Deal said. “I’m fried as it is.”
Stone nodded finally, replacing the bottle of white in the perspiring bucket. “All this romping through paradise finally getting to you?” he said.
The remark sounded innocent enough, Deal thought, as he nodded agreement. Or maybe Russell was right. All this was by way of softening him up for the hit. In a moment, the chef would pull a Mac-10 from under his toque, there would be a burst of silenced fire, and he and his new crew chief would be sleeping with the fishes.
“Your father was a great champagne drinker,” Stone was saying, his gaze drifting off momentarily.
“I don’t recall,” Deal said.
“Oh, yes,” Stone said, coming back. He gave Deal a smile. “Scotch was his signature drink, but Barton never turned down a good bottle of champagne.”
Nor much of anything else, Deal thought. His old man had had the constitution of a Ford truck, right up to the end.
“Times have changed, of course,” Stone was saying. “Now there’s all this interest in wine…” He drifted off, shaking his head.
“And you’re not interested?” Deal asked.
Stone turned back to him as if startled by something in Deal’s tone. “I’ve come to a new appreciation, along with many others,” he said. “I was just thinking about how tastes change over the years, that’s all. When I was a child, it was hard to find a nightspot that didn’t use a martini glass in some aspect of its signage or decor. But by the seventies and eighties you never heard the word ‘martini.’ Now it’s all the rage again: martini hours, martini bars, chocolate martinis…good God.” He shuddered with distaste. “James Bond must be rolling over in his grave.”
“I suppose so,” Deal said. “But 007 knew a little about wines, too, as I recall.”
Stone gave him a wicked smile. “Mr. Fleming’s creation was an aficionado of many pleasures.” He waved at the scene around them, then turned back to Deal. “He would have been right at home here, don’t you think?”
Deal kept himself from glancing at Russell, wondering if Stone was dodging, if there might be some hidden message in those apparently casual remarks. “Who wouldn’t enjoy it?” Deal said. He was looking in Stone’s direction, but all he could see was the vision of Annie glancing up at him from her place at poolside, her lips parted, her long legs crossing in a motion that never seemed to end.
“Someone told me you collect wines,” Deal said, forcing himself back to the point. “Château Margaux, Lafite-Rothschild, Haut-Brion…”
Stone paused to stare as Deal lingered on the last. “Who told you that?” he asked mildly.
Deal shrugged. “A man named Gonzalo Fausto,” he said. “I dropped in to buy a bottle, and your name popped up.”
Stone nodded thoughtfully. “You were shopping for some rather expensive wines, Johnny-boy.”
Deal shook his head. “I went in for a six-pack. Somehow Gonzalo and I got to talking about rare wines. Nineteen twenty-nine, vintages like that.”
Stone considered Deal’s words, then turned to stare off thoughtfully into the darkness. After a moment he turned back to Deal. “Did Gonzalo tell you about the Cherbourg consignment, then?”
Deal stared blankly. “He must have skipped that part.”
Stone raised his brows. “If you were talking about the ’twenty-nines, I’m surprised he didn’t mention it.”
Deal glanced at Russell. “Why don’t you fill me in,” he said, turning back to Stone.
Stone had a sip from his glass. “It was one of the greatest wine thefts in history, that’s all.”
Deal glanced again at Russell. “When did this take place?”
“Oh, a long time ago,” Stone said, waving his hand. “Shortly after the vintage had been released in the early 1930s. A shipment of Haut-Brion on its way to London was hijacked from the Cherbourg docks, some three hundred cases of one of the finest wines ever produced.”
“Who took it?” Deal asked.
Stone shrugged. “No one knows. The thieves were never caught, nor was the wine ever found.”
“How do we know that?” Deal asked.
“Each bottle was numbered,” Stone said. “Stamped on the label as if it were currency.” He shrugged and gave Deal a look. “It might have been rebottled and sold as something else, of course…but then why go to the trouble of stealing it in the first place?” He raised his palms in a gesture of uncertainty. “Or perhaps it was consumed by the person who stole it.” He smiled. “This would have been a very contented man, to be sure.”
“Three hundred cases?” Deal repeated, trying to do the math.
“And that from barely ten thousand produced,” Stone continued. “A loss that makes what few bottles are left all the more valuable.”
Deal nodded, thinking about the implications. “Have you ever had any of this stuff?” he asked.
Stone gave him a smile. “I can say that I tasted the Haut-Brion ’twenty-nine once, and it was excellent.” He glanced away for a moment as if savoring the memory, then finished the glass in his hand. “I like my wine, there’s no doubt, but spending that kind of money just seems foolish, wouldn’t you say?”
Deal stared back, trying to decide whether Stone was oblivious to his suspicions or simply toying with him. Suppose Stone had come into possession of a stolen case of wine and that Dequarius Noyes had somehow gotten his hands on it, pegging Deal as someone with enough money to take it off his hands? Would Franklin Stone have killed Dequarius to get his wine back and cover up the fact that he’d been trafficking in stolen property?
Interesting questions, but hardly the kind he could blurt across the table. He’d get back to Malloy in the morning, find out if there was some kind of international black market in rare wines similar to that in stolen art.
“But enough rambling,” Stone was saying. “It’s time we got down to business.”
He tossed his napkin on the table, glancing at Deal’s untouched plate, then at Russell, who was just lifting his last bite of yellowtail to his mouth. “Come on, Johnny-boy, eat up, then let me take you inside the tower and show you a few things.”
