The Hound of the Sanibel Sunset Detective (25 page)

“Maybe Johnny Bravo,” Devereaux said. “He would certainly benefit from having Vic Trinchera out of the picture—and Manteau, too, for that matter.”

Tree thought of Johnny at lunch with Shay Ostler and Melora Spark. None of it made much sense. All that drew everyone together was a dog named Clinton.

“What about a dog? Any of your underworld informants mention a dog?”

“You keep asking about this dog,” Devereaux said, sounding confused. “I can’t imagine how a dog fits into any of this.”

“Yes, you’re probably right,” Tree said. “Thanks for your help, Jim.”

“Keep in touch,” Devereaux said. “I’m not sure what you’re up to, but be careful.”

________

Tree called Kelly Fleming. “You’re on your way to pick up Rex?”

“Did you talk to him?” she asked.

“Just now,” he said.

“And?”

“Don’t hold me to this, but I believe in his irascible way he knows he has to do something, so he can stick around, and I can continue to make his life as difficult as possible.”

“I hope he listens to you,” she said.

“That story you’re interested in,” Tree said.

“Have you got something for me?” There was an undertone of tension in her voice.

“I might, but listen to me, Kelly, there is a certain amount of risk involved here.”

“Oh, goody,” she said.

“That you can’t tell Rex about. At least not for now.”

“Okay,” Kelly said. “I won’t say anything. Now what?”

“You have a camera?”

“I know where to get one,” she said.

“Just you and a camera. No one else.”

“Sure,” Kelly said. “That’s fine.”

“Then here’s what I need you to do.”

39

A
nastasia Avenue was quiet and empty, the houses lining either side of the street in darkness.

As soon as Tree got Clinton out of the car he was a dog transformed: panting excitedly, straining at his leash, and seeming to know exactly where he was headed—toward Vic Trinchera’s elegant Mediterranean-style bungalow.

With Tree running to keep up, the dog veered up the drive onto a pathway running alongside the house.

Clinton came to a stop at the rear of a screened-in lanai. He raised a paw and started scratching at the screen door. Tree rattled the door and found it locked. He got his American Express card out of his wallet and slipped it between the doorframe and the latch. On cheaper storm doors usually the locking mechanism only held the latch in place. He wiggled the card around. To his surprise, the latch clicked and he was able to push the screen door open.

Curiously pleased with his successful attempt at breaking and entering—his dark, criminal side at work—he allowed Clinton to pull him across the lanai into the sitting room.

The dog made excited whimpering sounds. Tree had never seen him like this. “Easy boy,” he said, “Take it easy.”

He released Clinton from the leash. As soon as the dog was free, he charged out of sight down a hallway. Tree hurried after him into a master bedroom. Someone had gone through the drawers, pulling them out of the dresser occupying most of one wall, strewing their contents across the floor and the king-size bed.

Clinton, his tail slicing furiously back and forth, clawed at a closet door. Tree opened it up to reveal a rack of workout costumes in shades of navy blue and black. Vic had apparently decided to reduce his wardrobe to the essentials he found most comfortable. The track outfits formed a curtain behind which suitcases and nylon overnight bags were piled. Clinton pawed at the suitcases until Tree pulled them out of the closet. Now Clinton sniffed eagerly at something against the wall—the same brown and white kitty plush toy he had in his mouth when Tree met him. The kitten looked surprisingly lifelike, down on all fours with big, happy eyes. Tree picked it up and went into the bedroom where he placed it on the floor. Clinton swatted his paw at it, and immediately it sat up on its haunches and began waving its paws.

Clinton yelped, retreated a few feet, and then attacked the plush toy. This time the toy issued a meowing sound, and bounced back down on all fours. Clinton pounced, grabbing the toy in his mouth, shaking it vigorously—revenge for daring to wave its paws at him. And then with the toy firmly in his mouth, he bounded out of the bedroom.

Tree followed Clinton into the sitting room where he found him having the time of his life shaking his kitty nemesis around. Tree managed to pry the toy out of the dog’s jaws. Clinton was not happy about this. He jumped up on Tree, demanding the return of his toy.

Tree turned it over in his hands. Its fake fur was slick from Clinton’s drool. On the underside of the plush toy, a plastic trap door was visible. Tree snapped it open and found four double-A batteries inside. He removed the batteries.

That’s when he saw the folded piece of paper. He removed the paper and opened it up. Someone had used a felt-tipped pen to scrawl words and numbers:

TODAY IS THE DAY

1225

368

________

Tree floated through the velvet night, Hank Williams singing on oldies radio. The silence of a falling star lighting up a purple sky. You got it, Hank, Tree thought. The saddest song ever written, a sad man listening, lost in the dark, his dog pressing his snout between the seats, in need of a reassuring pat. Hank Williams should have had a dog. But then, mused Tree, if he had a dog, he probably never would have written that saddest of all songs.

He stopped for gas at a Chevron station. He was dead tired as he punched in his debit card PIN number, waited until his purchase was approved, and then stuck the gas nozzle in the tank and began to fuel up, taking deep gulps of the early morning air to keep himself awake.

Clinton watched him through the rear windshield, the solemn expression that revealed nothing, yet said everything about unconditional love and the certainty that somehow Tree would keep him safe. Don’t worry, my lovely dog, Tree thought, I’ll keep you out of harm’s way. If it’s the last thing I do, I will do that.

I
am
so lonesome I could cry.

Suddenly, unaccountably, he found himself choked with emotion. A large woman in baggy shorts at the next pump gave him a strange look. He turned away quickly, taking in more air, ordering himself to pull it together. This was no time to start breaking down.

He finished filling the tank, returned the nozzle to the pump, and then leaned against the Hellcat punching out a number on his cellphone. It took only a couple of rings before Sonny Trinchera came on the line, sounding wide awake. “Yeah, what is it?”

“What are you doing up at this time of night?” Tree said.

“I never sleep,” Sonny said. “That’s how I keep ahead of everyone else. Tell me what you got.”

“The results you’re looking for,” Tree said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’ve said as much as I’m going to say over the phone,” Tree said. “I need to meet with you.”

“When?” Sonny said. “Where?”

________

Tree was turning onto Collins Avenue when he reached Johnny Bravo on his cellphone. He sounded wide awake, too. “Monsieur Detective,” he said. “I was just thinking about you.”

“Doesn’t anyone sleep?” Tree said.

“I’ll have plenty of time to sleep when I’m dead. Right now I am very much awake and thinking of you. Your twenty-four hours are just about up.”

“I know that,” Tree said. “It’s why I’m calling—to set up a meeting.”

Johnny paused before he said, “You’ll be bringing the dog with you, of course.”

“Put it this way,” Tree said. “I will provide you with what you need.”

“Yes? And what exactly is that?”

“What you don’t need is the dog. You need what I’m going to give you.”

Another pause before Johnny said, “And you’ve found it, is that what you’re trying to say?”

“Something like that,” Tree said.

“Then by all means, we must meet.”

“I thought we should settle a couple of things first.”

Johnny Bravo said, “What kind of things?”

“The price, for example. Now that I see what you’re after, I believe my asking price is too low.”

“There is no renegotiation. The price we agreed on is the price to be paid.”

“Let’s suppose at this meeting there’s only the two of us. That could change the asking price, could it not?”

The pause this time was so long, Tree thought he might have lost the signal. But then Johnny Bravo said, “What have you in mind?”

40

T
he blocks of warehouses were ghostly shapes in the predawn light. The Hellcat’s headlights swept a massive mural featuring gray men in gray concrete cubicles topped with coils of barbed wire—the horror of life outside art.

Tree parked at the curb. He sat there for a few moments, gathering his thoughts. He breathed deeply four or five times and then opened the glove compartment and took out Rex’s Glock 17. He shoved it into the waistband of his pants and got out of the car. He pulled Clinton out of the back.

Together, they made their way along the street to the converted garage formerly occupied by the late Crimson, aka André Manteau. He got out the notepaper he had found in the cavity of the kitty plush toy and keyed 1225 into the panel on the side of the sliding door. An electronic whir sounded, the garage door groaned at the thought of having to open at this time of the morning, but then it slowly lifted, exposing the dark interior.

Tree led Clinton inside, feeling his way uncertainly across the studio until he reached a wall and found a light switch. A patch of light flared, illuminating TODAY IS THE DAY in bold letters near a huge American flag. The flag hung over workbenches, trestle tables, and metal racks that housed the dozens of oils and collages Crimson churned out before his gangster past caught up with him.

Tree studied the other number printed on the notepaper: 368.

He went along the racks, inspecting the artworks they held. Each piece was numbered. In the second bin he looked through, he found 368, a small canvas, bubble-wrapped for protection, tucked between two of Crimson’s massive collages. He pulled the canvas out and carried it over to one of the benches. He heard a sound and turned to see Melora Spark materialize out of the gloom. She was dressed in jeans and a V-necked T-shirt. Like so many of the people he had encountered lately, she pointed a gun at him.

“I don’t suppose you have a gun, do you, Tree?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Tree said.

“Then why don’t you put that canvas down and take out your gun and slowly put it on the floor?”

Tree placed the canvas on the bench and then took out the gun and bent down to drop it to the concrete floor. Melora moved over and kicked the gun away. It skittered across the concrete. She kept her gun on Tree and glanced at the canvas.

She said, “So, you found it.”

“Yes,” Tree said.

“Vic was dumb about a lot of things,” Melora said. “But he was a crafty old monster, I will give him that. He hid it in the last place anyone would think to look.”

Clinton bared his teeth and uttered a low, threatening growl. Melora showed a flash of fear. “Keep that dog away from me or I’ll shoot it.”

“Don’t,” Tree said.

Clinton’s head snapped forward accompanied by a loud bark. Melora responded by lifting the gun higher. “I’m warning you,” she said.

“I’ve got the dog,” Tree said. “He’s not going to hurt you.”

“I don’t like dogs.” Her voice rose and broke into ragged notes. “I will shoot that dog. I will.”

She took a deep breath. Tree could see that she was on edge.

“Funny,” Tree said. “All along I thought it was Clinton everyone was after. But really it was this painting. This is why you left the Mounted Police and why Max Hesselgesser retired early from the FBI. It’s what brought Johnny Bravo to town, and it’s what got at least three people killed.”

Tree began to tear away at the bubble wrap.

“I don’t think you should do that,” she said, raising the gun higher.

But he didn’t stop. Still holding Clinton, he managed to strip away the bubble wrap to reveal a somber oil of thatch-roofed cottages nestled among a copse of trees.

“A painting,” Melora said.

“By Rembrandt,” Tree said.

“So you do know,” she said.

“A long time ago, Vic Trinchera stole it,” Tree said.

Melora nodded. “Vic was a smalltime hood in Montreal in 1972. Then he decided to break into the Montreal Museum of Fine Art.”

“Along with a couple of lowlife kids, André Manteau and Johnny Bravo,” Tree said.

“Trouble was, they couldn’t cash in their stolen property. It was too hot. Manteau and Johnny Bravo decided the robbery was a bust. But Vic knew he had something invaluable. All he needed was patience. He sat on the painting for years, brought it down to Florida when he moved here. When his world started to fall apart, everyone coming after him, what scared him the most was the thought of losing his Rembrandt.”