The Dragon Delasangre (18 page)

“You have to understand my sister is . . . was very important to me,” Santos says, lowering his voice, looking down as he speaks. “After my father died—when my mother was too busy grieving, we took care of each other. We never stopped. I could always tell her anything. I could always count on her support. She could always count on me too. When she disappeared, it was like somebody stole a part of my heart. . . .”

Casey Morton leans forward, stares at me, her pale blue eyes hard. “Two men said they saw a tall, blond man meet Maria on the dock. She left in his boat. No one has seen her since.”

“And how many tall, blond men are there in South Florida? How many more vacation here?” I ask, then turn my attention to Santos. “I understand your grief. From the
small interaction I had with your sister, she seemed to be a sweet person. But I have to tell you I resent the implication of your questions.”

“Mr. DelaSangre, where were you on the night of March eighteenth?” Casey Morton asks.

“At home, on my island.”

She glares at me. “Do you have any proof?”

I feel a flush rise on my face, and wonder why her questioning bothers me. It's not her place, I decide. The matter of Maria belongs between Jorge and me. “First,” I say, returning her cold stare, “I agreed to meet with Mr. Santos and answer his questions. I agreed to nothing with you. You are here as a guest and an observer. I suggest you let Mr. Santos handle his own questions from now on. Otherwise, this meeting will be at its end.

“Second”—I look at Santos, lock eyes with him—“I'm under the impression you've been quite active in investigating me. If you have and if you've been in the slightest bit competent, then you know I prefer to live a fairly secluded lifestyle. I spent almost all my nights at home last year, alone. And no, I can't prove that.”

Santos nods, ignores Morton's stiff posture, her red face and tight lips, and leans toward me as if we have a game of chess going and he's about to move another piece. “Have you ever owned a classic wood runabout? A Chris Craft or one like it?”

I lean forward too, smile at him. He forces a grin in return, both of us acting like old friends, deep in discussion. “Once again, I have to refer you to your own investigation. Haven't you checked what boats I have registered?”

Santos nods.

“And what did you find?” I ask.

“A Grady White,” Santos says.

I lean back in my chair, swivel so I can look out the window to the bay. “Mr. Santos, do you boat?”

“I sail.”

“Do you know where my island is out there? How far offshore it is?”

He nods.

“Have you ever been caught out there in a storm?”

“Of course I have,” Santos says.

“Then you know how wicked it can get. Do you think I would care to use anything as unseaworthy as a runabout when I own a wide-beamed, deep-V hulled boat with twin, two hundred Yamahas that was built to handle the worst the ocean can throw at it?”

“Some people use different boats for different purposes.”

I turn back. “And I use mine for transportation.”

Santos shrugs. “You could still have more boats than you've registered.”

“I could, but I don't. Mr. Santos, your sister may have been abducted by a tall, blond man in a wooden runabout, but she wasn't taken by me.”

Shaking her head, Casey Morton shoots up from her chair, her small blue bag spilling from her lap, the purse landing by Elizabeth's feet. The blonde slaps both hands, palms down, on the desk, and spits out, “Then why the hell have you been so tough to get hold of?” She glares at me. “Where the hell have you been for all these months?”

Jeremy Tindall cuts into the conversation. “Miss, who do you think you are? Sit down. The man told you to stay quiet. Do you have a hearing problem or comprehension difficulties?”

She turns toward him, the veins in her neck visibly throbbing. Before she can answer, Santos places his hand on her forearm and says, “Casey, honey, relax, sit down, let me handle this.”

“It's a fair question to ask,” he says to me as Morton sits.

I shrug, watch my bride from the corner of my eye as she bends over, and picks up the blonde's purse, Elizabeth's
charm falling out of the dress top as she does so.
“Careful!”
I mindspeak. But it dangles for only an instant before she tucks it back in with one hand while she hands the purse to Morton with the other.

Santos shows no reaction, gives me no sign that he noticed. He continues speaking, his voice and expression the same as before. “Max Lieber told me he saw you months ago at Detardo's and gave you my phone number then. You never called.”

“No, I didn't.” I look at Santos and his woman and marvel at the difference between them. His questions are polite, his tone noncombative, while she almost vibrates in her chair. Her breath exudes the acid tinge of the bile building in her stomach. “I had a marriage and a honeymoon to think of,” I say. “I think you'll understand my desire to focus on those things first.”

Santos nods and examines Elizabeth. “Sure, if Maria was only a waitress you met once. I guess I can understand. But, if you don't mind my asking . . .” He points to Elizabeth. “Just how old is she?”

Elizabeth glowers at him.
“Why don't we just be done with these two?”
she mindspeaks.
“I don't understand your patience.”

“Just a few minutes more, then they'll be gone.”

I turn my attention to Santos. “I'm not sure what this has to do with this conversation, but Elizabeth's twenty-one. She's also, as you may notice, a little miffed to be listening to someone suggest her husband had an interest in someone else shortly before he married her. Which, once again—I must insist you believe this—I did not.”

“You told Lieber, Maria was far too young for you.”

“I didn't want to say anything unkind.” I look at Santos and see the resemblance to Maria in his eyes and mouth. I wish I could tell him how much I had wanted not to harm his sister. But, instead, I go on. “Nor do I want to be rude to you.
I had no interest in your sister for a number of reasons which I prefer not to list, not the least of which were my plans to marry the woman I love.”

Jorge Santos nods, looks at his girlfriend, then looks at Elizabeth. “My apologies if this is difficult,” he says to her. “I'm almost done.

“I'm not sure what I expected to find out today,” Santos says. “Mr. DelaSangre, I know you're rich. Obviously, you're a powerful man. The police certainly don't want to take you on. Your two protectors here can't come cheap. But I have a missing sister to worry about and so far, you're the only possibility I've found.”

I stand up and offer my hand. “I hope you realize how improbable a possibility I am.”

He stands and shakes my hand, a good firm grasp. “Well, at least I don't feel any more sure today than before I came. . . . Maybe . . .” He pauses, tightening his grip on my hand. “Do you think it would be possible for me to come out to your island and scout around a little—just to get rid of any remaining doubts?”

“Certainly not!” Jeremy Tindall says. “Mr. DelaSangre has been more than gracious enough already. As his attorney, I recommended against this meeting in the first place. . . .”

“Enough, Jeremy.” I disengage from Santos's grasp. “You must understand how much I value my privacy. I'm sure your research has shown you how reclusive my family has always been. We are very wealthy and that always keeps us in danger. We've found that seclusion protects us best. For these reasons I must refuse your request.”

Jorge Santos smiles at me, nods his head in a slight bow toward Elizabeth, everyone standing now. “And you must understand, because of your refusal I can't throw out the possibility of your involvement in Maria's disappearance.”

“We all do what we must,” I say, walking from behind the desk. “I just hope one day you'll come to believe me.”

Santos nods. “The eyes . . .” he says, looking from Elizabeth's face to mine. “Maria raved about your emerald-green eyes. Her's are the same color.”

“They run in my family. Elizabeth's a distant cousin.”

“Oh,” Santos says, examining Elizabeth again, focusing this time on her lower neck. “I think I saw something before. May I?” he says, reaching toward the thin, gold chain she's worn since our wedding day, grabbing it, pulling up, untucking the gold charm, examining it.

“Do I have to tolerate this?”
Elizabeth backs away, her movement jerking the charm from his hand.

“No!” I say, moving forward, shoving him back. “You forget. That's my wife you're bothering.” I push him again. “Leave her alone!”

Santos says nothing. He allows the momentum of my second shove to knock him off his feet, drop him to his left knee. Crouched, glaring at me, he pulls up his right pants' leg, yanks his Glock automatic from the ankle holster underneath and points it at me. “Where did she get that necklace?” he growls.

Casey Morton throws open her purse, rummages through it for her pistol. Before she can produce it, Arturo presses his chrome automatic to her temple.

“What the fuck do you all think you're doing?” Jeremy asks. “This is a meeting, not a Goddamned gang war.”

Santos glares at me, continues to point his pistol.

“Peter?”
Elizabeth mindspeaks.

“Don't worry. We can survive far worse than this gun,”
I reassure her, smiling, glad I'd gone shopping at Dadeland Mall in June. Pleased to have a safe answer to his inquiry.

“Stop looking so damned smug and answer my fucking question!” Santos stands, approaches me with his arm outstretched, bringing the Glock within a foot of my head.

“Back off!” Arturo says, grabbing Morton with his free arm, pinning her arms, pointing his pistol at Santos.

Santos shakes his head. “I'll put down the gun when he answers me.”

“That's hardly the way to ask me a question,” I say, “but in the interest of peace I don't mind telling you—I found it in the Dadeland Mall, at Mayer's, back in June. They had it in their window. It cost me four hundred fifty dollars plus tax. I paid cash. If you give me a couple of days, I think I can search through my stuff at home and find the receipt.”

“You're bluffing,” Santos says. He continues to aim the gun at me. “I gave Maria a chain like that on her
Quince
 . . . with the same clover charm, the same emerald in its center.” He shakes his head. “This is too much of a coincidence.”

“Call them now.” I point to the telephone on my desk. “Ask them if they carry anything like that.”

I follow him to my desk, allowing him to keep his pistol targeted on me while he dials and talks to a sales clerk at Mayer's. Finally he says, “Thank you,” and hangs up. Then he lowers his pistol.

“Put yours down too,” I tell Arturo. He frowns at me but does as he's told. Casey Morton rushes over to stand next to Santos. He ignores her, keeps his eyes on me.

“They don't stock them anymore,” Santos says. “But she said they sold quite a few pieces like I described over the past few years. She said she thought some of the other stores might still have a few. I think I might owe you an apology.”

“I believe you do.”

“I still want to see the receipt.”

“I'll have Arturo bring it to you, but I won't let you keep it.”

Santos nods.

Jeremy comes over, stands directly in front of the Cuban. “Mr. Santos, you know you could be arrested for this firearms display today,” he says, pointing his long, bony
finger at him. “Someone shot at Mr. DelaSangre earlier this week. Fortunately they missed. After your little demonstration today, I would say you're the most likely suspect. I think the police would agree. I strongly suggest you keep your distance from the DelaSangres and this office from now on. If you don't, we'll have you in court, or worse, do you understand?”

Santos looks at me. “For a shooting victim you look real healthy. Trust me, if I was the shooter, you'd be a corpse.” The Cuban pauses, stares at Jeremy. “Tindall's your name, isn't it?”

Jeremy nods.

“Then Mr. Tindall, watch out who you fuck with.” He pushes Jeremy out of his way, takes Casey Morton's hand and walks to the door with her. He stops there, looks back at Elizabeth and me.

“I don't know,” he says, shakes his head. “I have this feeling about you two.”

“Feeling or not, you're wrong. I wish you well, Mr. Santos.”

“Why do I doubt that?” he says, forcing a grin, his tone false friendly. “Look, you don't have to sound so damned formal. I just held a gun to your head. I think Miss Manners would say that means we've achieved some degree of intimacy. Call me Jorge.”

“And you can call me Peter,” I say, my tone and smile equally insincere until I spit out my final words to him. “But I think from now on, you should consider that the warning you gave to Jeremy cuts both ways.”