The Seadragon's Daughter (9 page)

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Authors: Alan F. Troop

BOOK: The Seadragon's Daughter
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“Hardly,” Claudia says. “He sent me.” She opens the briefcase and takes out a small tabloid newspaper. “Pops thought you might want to see this week’s
Dish
. I told him there was no way I was going to ride out here in a dress and heels.”
Chloe takes the paper first, studies it and then passes it to me. “Nice picture,” she says. “You think we could get the original?”
Frowning at her, I say, “Funny.” This time, instead of the picture taking up most of the front page, it covers only the middle third. Instead of Henri and me, the photo’s a closeup of my face, taken, I guess, with a telephoto lens as I guided my boat into Monty’s marina.
Above the picture a headline blares,
WE WILL NOT BE INTIMIDATED!
Below the picture another headline asks,
WHAT IS THIS MAN TRYING TO HIDE?
“There’s an editorial inside, on page two,” Claudia says. “It tells all about them being threatened by Ian’s letter.” She takes the paper back, opens it and points to the section of the editorial. “Read how he ends it.”
One would think, if Mr. DelaSangre is as innocent as his attorney claims, he would be demanding to speak to us and to anyone else who would listen rather than threatening those who ask legitimate questions. If he would like to visit with us and tell us his side of the story, we’d be perfectly glad to hear him out.
No one at this newspaper has any interest in any of our stories mistakenly blackening anyone’s reputation. But if Mr. DelaSangre insists on siccing his legal attack dogs on us, he’ll find our appetite for legal battles to be every bit as keen as his and our pockets every bit as deep.
 
I shake my head and pass the paper to Chloe. “Ian said this might happen,” I say.
Claudia says, “Surprisingly, Ian’s not gloating. He really doesn’t like the guy. He wants to know if you want him to send Pepe Santos a letter threatening suit too.”
“Have you located him?”
“That and more,” Claudia says. “I really love working with Toba Mathias. The woman had both men’s contact numbers, cellphones, addresses, even E-mail addresses, by the day after our meeting.”
Chloe says, “That doesn’t sound very hard to do.”
Claudia nods. “No, but then Toba started E-mailing the freelancer, Andy Malcandado, telling him she admired his investigative report, that she always wanted to be a writer. Asking him questions about writing?”
“And that worked?” I say.
“Not until she E-mailed him one of her pictures. She called me a couple of days ago to tell me they finally made a date to meet—a breakfast date for seven-thirty at the Brickell Emporium.”
“I couldn’t resist.” Claudia smiles. “By the time I got there, about seven-fifteen, Toba was already waiting by the restaurant’s door, decked out in a tight pair of red shorts and a skimpy halter top.” She laughs. “I went inside and took a table by the front window—where I could watch. You should have seen the look on that poor guy’s face when he pulled up in this old battered Pinto and saw her waiting by the door. He went beet-red. I swear!
“When they came inside, they sat fairly near to me. Toba didn’t miss a trick, all wide-eyed, asking questions, batting her eyelashes, flashing her cleavage, touching his arm, his shoulder as they talked, barely giving him any chance to ask questions of his own, finally looking at her watch, telling him she had to go and then rushing out of the restaurant.
“After he drove away, she came back in and joined me at the counter and told me what he said. I have her written report in the briefcase if you want.”
“Just tell me,” I say.
“Toba said, ‘It’s easy with a writer. Just ask them about their writing and let them talk.’ She said he’s thrilled with the play
The Dish
has given him . . . and the money. He’s been trying to make it as a freelancer for years. Now he thinks he’s finally broken through. Andy said his luckiest break was running into Pepe Santos at John Martin’s during happy hour. He told her he almost went broke buying the guy drinks. But it was all worth it. His editor’s asked him for at least two more follow-up stories. Toba said the guy couldn’t stop bragging about the money.”
Claudia shakes her head. “She said Andy insisted his old beat-up Pinto and the crummy one-room efficiency he rents on the outskirts of Overtown were sacrifices he made to be able to pursue the truth. But now that he’s found it, he swears it’s time for him to cash in. When the story’s all done he wants to find an agent and try for a book deal.”
I shake my head and say, “Not that
that
will ever happen.”
“When’s the next story coming out?” Chloe says.
Claudia grins. “We have some time. He told Toba he has most of it written but he’s been having a little trouble tracking down any of the witnesses from when Maria Santos disappeared. He finally got a line on a wino named Sam Pratt, said the man was washing dishes at the Half Moon Raw Bar in Key West. He’s planning to go down and interview him this coming weekend.”
I start to say something but Claudia continues, “Pop has already been on the phone to someone in Key West. He told me to assure you that Mr. Pratt will be moving on again. This time maybe to California or Hawaii.”
“What are we going to do about the rest of it?” I say.
“Malcandado’s the easiest part of the problem,” Claudia says. “We can probably buy him off with an out-of-town job offer. There’s an ex-Herald editor working at a paper up in Washington who owes Pop some favors. And we can turn Toba loose on that Pepe Santos character. Her plan is to start going to John Martin’s on Fridays for happy hour. See if she can meet up with him and find out what he’s about. . . .”
“And Jordan Davidson?” I say.
Claudia sighs. “Ian was right. He’s tough. He doesn’t hang out with anybody. He lives alone, on the water in Gables on the Bay. He’s a fishing nut. He keeps a fishing boat at the house and goes out at least a couple of nights every week by himself.”
“What about what Ian said, about his being gay?”
“We had to go outside for that. None of our guys are gay. We hired a real honey by the name of Prescott Boyd. The guy knows everyone in town and at all the clubs. But it turns out Davidson doesn’t frequent any of the gay hangouts. The man may be openly gay, but he’s real private about whatever relationships he might have. Prescott said he mostly uses male prostitutes. He met one that told him about some pretty kinky sex. It seems Mr. Davidson likes to make believe he’s a killer. He actually insists on using a loaded gun as part of his sex play. Prescott assures us the prostitute can be counted on to talk with anyone we want—as long as the money’s good. We’re trying to confirm his story but haven’t found any other male prostitutes yet willing to give us anything we can use.”
“What about the other problem?” I say.
Claudia looks at me. “Derek?”
“Derek?” Chloe says, staring at me.
I nod. “I asked Claudia and Arturo to keep an eye out for your brother—in case he’s here.”
Chloe waves a hand toward the bay and the nearby patrol boats. “You don’t think he’s responsible for all that?”
“I think we don’t know where he is, and I wouldn’t put it past him,” I say.
“Well, whatever you guys think, we haven’t seen any sign of anyone like him,” Claudia says. “In the meantime you need to tell me whether or not you want Tindall to write that letter to Santos.”
I shrug. “Sure, tell him to go ahead. Worse comes to worse that jerk Davidson will just write another editorial.”
9
 
Chloe spots the girl just before sunset, just after Henri and I have set up a pre-dinner game of chess on the dining table in the great room of the third floor of our house. “Peter, come look at this,” she says, squinting out the window, one hand up to block the glare of the setting sun. “I think there’s a young girl down in the water.”
I groan at the thought. “The last thing we need is more attention,” I say, Henri and I both getting up, joining her.
My mate points toward a shallow place near the end of the channel where a sandbar always appears at low tide. The late-afternoon sun’s rays, joined by the reflected brilliance from the water, burn through the window and obscure my view. Even squinting I can only make out the shape of a female sitting cross-legged on the sand, staring out across the water.
“I don’t think it’s a girl,” I say. “It looks more like a small woman.”
“Don’t you think we should take the boat out? See if she needs help?”
I squint out at the woman again. “She doesn’t look like she’s in any distress.”
“She could be dazed. She could be from one of those boats where everybody disappeared,” Chloe says.
I sigh. “I’ll take the Donzi. It’ll be quicker. There’s no need for all of us to go.”
Chloe nods.
Looking at Henri, I say, “Want to come? You can steer.”
“Sure, but she won’t be there when we get there,” Henri says.
Chloe and I both stare at him. “How do you know that?” she says.
The boy studies his feet, always a sure sign he expects to be in trouble. “I’ve seen her before,” he mumbles.
“Where? When?” I say.
Henri points to the end of the channel. “Not out there,” he says. He moves his hand to point at the windows on the side of the room, the ones that face north, toward the Wayward Island Channel. “Over there, on the rock.”
I nod. I know the rock well. It juts out into the channel, a perfect spot for a young boy to stand and throw things into the current without getting wet. When Henri was smaller he would spend hours throwing leaves and twigs into the water and watching them float away. I did the same when I was little. “You saw her there?” I say.
The boy nods.
“When?”
“Different times,” he says. “Usually for a few seconds. Then she wouldn’t be there anymore.”
“Did you see her go? Did she dive into the water or hide?” Chloe says.
Henri shrugs. “If I batted my eyes or looked away, she wasn’t there when I looked again.”
My wife looks at him. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
Eyes down, the boy shrugs, says nothing.
I squint through the glare again. The girl or woman turns, seems to face in my direction. Her image shimmers in the late afternoon’s light and I realize I can’t make out any sign of clothes on her body, not even the lines of a skimpy bathing suit. “Was she naked, Henri? Is that why you didn’t tell us about her?”
My son nods.
“What did she look like?” I say.
“She had long, black shiny hair,” he says. “I thought she was pretty.”
 
By the time we reach the end of the channel, only the last tip of the sun shows above the mainland, and the sky has turned gray, almost dark. We find the sandbar empty, the water lapping around it, and we sit with the Donzi’s motors in neutral, the boat bobbing with each passing ripple.
“See. I told you she’d be gone,” Henri says.
I nod, search the water around us.
“She’s gone,”
I mindspeak to Chloe.
“I know,”
she mindspeaks.
“I was watching her while you were going out the channel. She was there one moment and gone the next. She must have slipped into the water.”
“It doesn’t make any sense,”
I say, frowning. I motion for Henri to throw the motors in gear and turn for home. As soon as he does so, something large splashes behind us. I whirl around, find only a few rings of ripples expanding in the darkening water.
10
 
Boaters disappear the next three nights in a row. So many Coast Guard boats and Marine Patrol boats crowd the bay that Chloe and I find we can’t take our boats out without being stopped at least two or three times.
One of the evening patrols starts to take special interest in circling our island and shining his searchlights directly at our windows as he passes. “There’s no call for that,” I say to Chloe.
“Just ignore him,” she says. “He’s only on duty until midnight. None of the other boats bother us.”
I nod. Still I venture out the channel a few times in the next few nights, just to be stopped so I can see who’s on board the boat and note the numbers on the bow.
 
Ian Tindall calls at the end of the week. “Everything’s ready in Jamaica,” he says, his voice low, almost unsure.
“What’s wrong, Ian?” I say.
The man sighs and I can picture the gloom on his face. “Well, I have to tell you sooner or later.”
“Tell me what?”
“Those lawsuit threats you had me write look like they’ve really pissed off Jordan Davidson. And I’m sure Andy Malcandado telling him he was leaving for a new job in D.C.—for Arturo’s editor friend—didn’t help either.”
“So?” I say. “Sounds like we’re starting to pull his teeth like Arturo and you planned. Now if Toba Mathais can find a way to get Pepe Santos off my back.”

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