Night Moves (6 page)

I was confused. “Second time what has happened? In another plane, you mean?”

“No. But I still had to change shorts.” He lowered his voice. “I feel like I have a bull’s-eye tattooed on my ass. Hell, you and Danny almost bought the farm just through association. Second time in a week I almost died.”

I said, “What in the world are you talking about?”

The last three nights, Tomlinson had stopped at the lab, for one reason or another, and this was the first he’d mentioned a close call. “On your boat? Where?”

From the seaplane, Dan Futch’s voice hollered across the sawgrass, “Guys!
Guys.
Get over here. I want to show you something!” His tone had the sound of discovery.

Tomlinson looked toward the plane, then at me. “It was in your lab—under it, actually.”

Now I was totally confused. “What the hell are you saying?”

Futch called, “You gotta see this bullshit!”

Suddenly uneasy, Tomlinson turned and began walking toward the plane. “He sounds pissed off. I’ll tell you about it later.”

I said,
“Tomlinson . . . ?”

“Doc, it wasn’t a huge deal. The night you got called to Tampa, I was messing around near your fuse box and almost got electrocuted. That’s why I’m not flying out of here, man. Flipping fate the bird is something I’ve learned not to do. Trust me, the details can wait.”

I was staring at the man’s back. I said, “
Electrocuted
 . . . Geezus,” while my brain tried to make some sense out of what he’d said. The previous week, I’d told my marina neighbors I had to go to MacDill for a couple of days. Because I didn’t know how long I’d be gone, I’d arranged for a friend to check on my aquaria and feed whatever needed feeding. Janet Nicholes, who lives in an apartment above the marina, was my regular helper. But she, her husband, Jeth, and toddler son had gone to Key West for a week. So I had imposed on my new workout partner to help, a tall, athletic, and oddly attractive woman named . . .

Hannah Smith.

When Hannah’s name flashed into my head, I suddenly understood why my old buddy was reluctant to share details. I started after him, calling, “Wait until later, my ass!” The man flinched when I grabbed his shoulder, then demanded, “What were you doing in my lab? You knew damn well I was away for a few nights. Just like you knew Hannah would be there—didn’t you!”

Sex addiction is a pseudo malady, in my opinion, a term coined to excuse infidelity, but Tomlinson’s behavior does border on pathology. It wouldn’t be the first time he had broken the first tenet of male comradeship.

“Now, Doc,” Tomlinson said, holding his hands up, “you two aren’t dating. That’s what you said at the pool bar, remember? Then a few days later, in the lab, you told me, ‘I’ll never lose another good workout partner to the bedroom.’ Or something close to that. And Hannah told me the same thing—more or less, anyway.”

“
Hannah
told you,” I said, glaring. “So it’s true! You tried to ambush another one of my women . . . and in my own damn house.”

In any confrontation, there is a sly device Tomlinson employs to gain the advantage. He pretends to be patient, empathetic, and eager to understand—which is maddening. He used the finesse now. “I won’t bust you by mentioning ownership to Hannah . . . it was just a slip of the tongue, I’m sure. As good as forgotten, so, you know—like, float on, man!”

Float on
, his new favorite phrase to wish people well or to avoid responsibility, often both. So I warned him, “You’re going to be floating faceup if I hear that again before this is settled.”

“Whoa,” he said, “you got to get off the violence train, ol’ buddy.” But then saw the look on my face, so conceded, “On the other hand, you do make a decent point about the shittyness of using another man’s bed—”

“Decent?”

Tomlinson put his hands up, palms out, and began to back away. “Hermano—have you forgotten what a putz I am? I can’t even keep track of my own schedule, let alone yours. Or Hannah’s! Besides, I’m too shaken up to think right now . . . Plus, that night’s all a little too foggy—”

“Don’t give me that ‘I was drunk’ crap,” I snapped. “I’ve warned you for the last time, pal. You ever try to seduce another woman I’m dating, a plane crash will be a blessing compared to—”

Which is when Dan Futch silenced us both by saying, “Knock it off, you two! I’ve got some news, if you’re interested: Someone’s trying to kill us.”

4

TOMLINSON ASKED DAN, “WHO’D WANT TO KILL A
sweet guy like you, Danny boy?”

Futch was glaring at my hipster pal. “That’s exactly what I’m wondering. I’ve known Doc a long time, but all I know about you are stories. Lots and lots of stories, and most of them not exactly PG-rated. So maybe you already know the answer.”

I brushed past Tomlinson and was soon peering into the seaplane’s aft inspection port, seeing springs, a simple pulley system—the elevator bell crank—and several cables that branched toward the tail fin, trim tabs, and the elevator. The cables were secured to the main pulley, all except one. That cable lay curled on the deck, its crimped eye loop intact, but the line had pulled free for some reason.

“See how they did it?” Dan asked.

I wasn’t sure. “Why would someone sabotage your plane?”

“Murder,” Dan said. “A first-degree scalp hunter.” He reached across the tail and took the stub of free cable in his hand. “See this? This should be bolted to the bell crank—just like the others. And it
was
. How am I so sure? Because I bolted the goddamn thing myself. Sprayed it with LPS 3, then snubbed her tight. Some asshole backed the nut free, removed the bolt, then replaced it with
this
.”

Now in his wide fingers he held a twisted two-inch loop of wire fishing leader. The loop had snapped in the middle. “Whoever did this knew planes. The asshole knew the wire would hold long enough to get us into the air. Under any serious pressure, though, the first little bit of turbulence, and
BANG!
This breaks.”

Furious, Dan started to toss the wire away, but then reconsidered. Instead, he looked at it for a moment, then placed it in his billfold. “That’s what we heard just before we went into a dive. I thought at first a bullet hit the fuselage.”

“Jesus,” Tomlinson muttered. “Crazies have taken over the planet. It’s been coming for a while.”

Dan ignored him by addressing me. “I’m surprised the wire held as long as it did, truthfully. I can’t find the missing nut and bolt, either, so whoever did this was worried I might do a quick inspection. Military A-N cadmium steel hardware—thank god, I carry extras. So I can have this fixed in five, ten minutes, but I want to ask you something first.”

Futch motioned toward the tail and looked at us. “This was intentional. It could’ve happened night before last while my plane was docked at Boca. I had smooth air yesterday when I flew to Sanibel, and it’s only a quick hop. Or it was last night, someone snuck into Dinkin’s Bay and . . . hell, it would only take ten minutes.” The pilot paused, his attention inward, before he asked, “Either one of you have any serious personal problems? Somebody you owe money? Or a husband so mad he’d kill us all just to take you out?”

Giving Tomlinson a sharp look, I said, “That is a
possibility
, I suppose. What about it . . . Quirko?”

Instead of being offended, Tomlinson became thoughtful. “I’ve been seeing a married lady, sure. From New Jersey. Her husband graduated from an engineering school. She’s a quality person; not the screw-around type normally, just lonely, plus some personal issues. And ten years older than the guy she married. That information doesn’t leave here, by the way. Understand?”

Tomlinson has some maddening flaws, but compromising a lover’s secrets isn’t among them.

Dan’s eyes swung to me. I told him, “A mechanical engineer wouldn’t have trouble figuring out how to sabotage a plane even if he wasn’t a pilot. Depends on how hard he took the news that his wife was screwing around.”

Tomlinson said, “No, she says he doesn’t suspect. His family has money—they’re big-time developers—and he’s made a pile more by investing in Florida real estate. So she spends a week down here every month on business—it’s just part of her normal routine. And he’s not the physical type. There are a couple more married women on the islands I have a history with—but we’re still good friends. Same with their husbands.”

“How’d you manage that?” Dan asked. He was sorting through a box of cadmium nuts and bolts, already back at work but paying attention.

“Shameless lies of omission,” Tomlinson replied, “and good eye contact. Not that I’m proud of it, but life happens. If everyone knew the truth about their spouses, the world would either be crazy serene or there would be crazy fighting in the streets. Honesty is risky business when it comes to love.” Tomlinson glanced at me before adding, “That’s why Doc has all sorts of rules when it comes to women and honesty . . . especially married women. So no worries about a homicidal husband in
his
closet.”

Dan missed the double meaning and the insinuation. The insinuation was that I don’t take
anyone
into my confidence.

The pilot shook his head. “No husbands for me, but some crazy fisherman, that’s a different story. I’ve guided tarpon for thirty years and there are more pissed-off boat captains every season—especially in Boca Grande Pass. Doc knows what I’m talking about. When your study on tarpon snagging comes out—in two weeks, right?—there’ll be a lot of people pissed off at you, too. But at least Tallahassee will finally understand the bullshit they’ve let go on too long.”

I nodded, even though the study was already being circulated on the Internet—there’d been a leak when the document was sent out for peer review comments. That wasn’t unusual, although I didn’t like the fact that an uncorrected copy was out there. I take my work seriously, had invested a lot of effort in getting the project
right
. The data had been collected over six weeks in that unusual deepwater pass during tarpon season; thirty-two consecutive days working with research assistants on a hook placement census—
where
a tarpon is hooked says a lot about
how
it was hooked. Our findings were at odds with a badly flawed study done by the Florida Fish and Wildlife Commission, so it would be controversial despite the convincing data we had collected. Tomlinson already knew something about the project, so I gave him a look that said
I’ll explain later
because Dan wasn’t done.

“Some of these tournaments I fish, the prize money is big. When the purse gets to be five hundred grand, there’re guys out there who’d cut their mamma’s throat to win. Outsiders especially. The so-called jig fishermen and us Boca Grande tarpon guides have been in a sort of war since the eighties—that’s what’s going round and round in my head all of a sudden. What do you think, Doc?”

I nodded because animosity between the two groups had spiked the previous season. I said, “You’re a high-profile guy. You’re president of the Boca Guides Association, and I see you quoted all the time in fishing magazines.”

“This jig-fishing thing,” he said to Tomlinson, “it’s actually snag-fishing, which we’ve known all along, but Doc’s study actually proves that—”

“The data we collected is strongly suggestive,” I interrupted.

“Same thing,” Dan said, then continued. “See, what’s at stake is some big-money people started a tournament series, an organization calls itself Silver King Pro Circuit. We hate what they do and they’re on my ass all the time for trying to make lawmakers understand. Because they know Doc’s hook placement study might convince Tallahassee, they’ll be all over his ass, too. You just wait. When there’s big money involved, some people don’t give a damn about the truth.”

His talk about tarpon fishing caused me to fixate on
how
the plane had been sabotaged. “The fishing wire used on the bell crank, it looked like the good stuff,” I said. “Is it Malin’s?” Malin was a well-known tackle manufacturer.

Futch touched fingers to his billfold pocket and nodded, aware of my meaning.

“How many tournaments have you won the last few years?”

“That’s something else I’m thinking,” he replied. “Somebody wants me out of the picture. My boat took the two biggest pots last season, and we almost always place pretty high. One tournament, my anglers split a quarter million dollars between the four of them. And I went home with fifty thousand cash just from the calcutta. Get rid of me, some idiot might picture himself moving up a few rungs.”

The calcutta was an auction-style event in which fishermen bid on the different tournament teams. At the end, the winning bidder got a payout from the pot.

Futch couldn’t come to terms with the idea, though, and began shaking his head. “I don’t know . . . it’s just too damn hard to believe. We get our share of hard cases and assholes fishing that pass, but I don’t know anyone who’d do something as crazy as this. Hell, if there’d been rough air when we crossed over Naples, we could have killed a houseful of people. Or that field where we saw all those kids playing soccer? Imagine what would’ve happened!”

Tomlinson had an alternative ready, one I would have never considered. “Maybe it has to do with Flight 19. Think about that. How many people know we’re looking?”

“Nahhh,” Dan replied. “There’s no money in finding those Avengers. The government owns them. Because men died, the sites will be protected—nothing to sell. There’d be some fame, maybe, but who cares about that?”

“Almost everyone not
already
famous, that’s who,” Tomlinson answered. “Maybe some military kooks afraid we’ll beat them to the spot. Or just some right-wing freak with an obsession.”

Futch mulled the idea over while he checked the other cables, ratcheting the nuts tighter. “Well . . . I sure haven’t tried to keep it a secret. At the marina last night, how many people were listening when we talked about flying today? There were a bunch when Quirko told the telegram story. And the fishing guides at Boca Grande, they’ve known for years I’m hot to find those planes. So, I guess—”