Thick as Thieves (28 page)

Carr sighs. Something loosens in his chest, but it tightens again when he looks at Dennis. “There are a lot of qualifiers in what you said, Dennis—‘for the moment,’ and ‘from what I see.’ They’re not particularly reassuring.”

Dennis’s fingers drum faster on the table. “They shouldn’t be. I can’t see too far into their network without hitting trip wires, but I’ve seen enough to know that their environment is changing. They haven’t fixed the hole that we want to climb through yet, but I’d say it’s just a matter of time.”

Carr sighs again, but there’s no relief in it. “How much time?”

Dennis shrugs. “Ask Kathy Rink.”

Tina’s hotel room overlooks a garden, with lavish beds of jacaranda, frangipani, and hibiscus massed around a weathered stone fountain. The garden is empty and the flowers are limp and restless in the humid breeze. Carr turns from the window.

“You should be smiling,” Tina says from the sofa. “It’s all good.”

“You call it good; I call it fucked up, though maybe not completely fucked up.
Maybe
not. There’s a difference.”

“Semantics.”

“Call it that when it’s
your
ass hanging out.”

Tina chuckles and unfolds herself from the sofa. She wears a simple gray skirt and a short black T-shirt, and her white-blond hair is pulled into a short ponytail. She pads barefoot across the room to refill a glass of ice water from a pitcher.

“Come on, Carr—the system stuff hasn’t changed, security’s tighter but still manageable, and your prints came back to Kathy Rink with Greg Frye’s record attached—and only his record: that’s good news.” Carr looks at her and raises an eyebrow. “What?” Tina says.

“I’m just wondering how you managed it—the fingerprints, I mean.”

“
I
didn’t.”

“Boyce, then.”

“I don’t ask, and he doesn’t tell.” She smiles at Carr but he doesn’t return it.

“This is more than just ordering off-menu—more than calling in a
favor here and there. This is pulling some serious weight, and I have a hard time believing you don’t know shit about it.”

Tina returns to the sofa, folds her white legs beneath her, and smooths her skirt. “I know about gift horses, and where not to look.”

“I’m serious, Tina.”

“So am I. I’m not talking about this anymore, and if you’ve got half a brain you won’t either.” Her eyes are flat and icy and unwavering, and finally Carr turns back to the view of the garden. “How’s Bessemer holding up?” Tina asks.

“He’s pickling himself in gin.”

“He going to keep his shit together for Prager?”

“Mike was worried about the same thing. He will.”

“And Mike, and the rest of your crew—how’re they doing?”

Carr takes a deep breath and turns around. Tina’s eyes have lost some of their chill, and that makes it easier. “I found out what happened to Bertolli’s money,” he says, and he tells her about Bobby’s confession, and about the afternoon he spent in Miami, walking up and down Brickell Avenue. Tina is perfectly still; her face is without expression while Carr speaks and in the squirming silence that follows. Finally, she clasps her white hands together and puts them in her lap. Her voice is soft.

“Well, they’re busy beavers, aren’t they? Maybe you’re not giving them enough to do. Too much time on their hands.”

“I’m sure that was the issue.”

Tina frowns. “There’s plenty here for me to be pissed at—like the fact that I’m only just now hearing about this—but I’m doing my best to rise above it, and so should you.” Carr nods and Tina continues. “Assuming Bobby’s not full of shit, this explains where some of the money went—though not all of it.”

“Bobby said Declan had the rest. If he did, then it went up with his van.”

“Maybe. You buy that Bobby and Mike had only half the cash?”

“Why lie about that? He’s no more of a shithead for walking off with the whole take than he is for walking off with half of it.”

“Maybe,” she says again. “And what about tipping off Bertolli? You don’t think those two had anything to do with that?”

“I think Bobby was telling the truth about that.”

“And you’ve proven to be such a good judge.”

Carr bites back his first response and rubs his chin. “They sell Declan
to Bertolli, they sell themselves in the bargain. They were all getting shot at together.”

“If you buy Bobby’s version of events.”

“What about your witness—Bertolli’s runaway gunman—did he have orders to shoot at only two out of four guys?”

Tina shakes her head. “Maybe Bobby and Mike were willing to roll the dice—warn Bertolli and take a chance that in the ensuing shit storm Declan would get iced and they could split with the cash.”

“That’s a hell of a chance, Tina. Takes large brass balls to make that bet, or a tiny little brain.”

Tina shrugs skeptically. “Mike and Bobby don’t fit that profile? Well, you’d know better than I.

“But what about Fernando—what the fuck is he doing with these guys? Last I heard he was slapping up condos in Cabo or something. Guess the real estate market’s driven him back to a life of crime.” She shakes her head. “And Valerie in on it too—who’d have guessed she couldn’t be trusted?” Tina looks at Carr and smiles thinly.

“I don’t know what she’s in on, or since when.”

“Ask her—I’m sure she’ll give you a straight answer.”

Carr looks at the garden again. The wind has picked up and the flowers are shaking their heads at the darkening sky. “You don’t think she would?”

Tina’s laugh is like a blade. “It’s what you think that matters. Do you trust her—do you trust any of them—to do their jobs? This late in the game, that’s what it comes down to: honor among thieves.”

“Fuck trust—I’ll have their money. They need me if they want to get paid.”

“Now
that’s
a working relationship,” Tina says, nodding. She shifts on the sofa, stretching out her legs. “And speaking of which—what about our little project down south?”

“What about it?”

“The unanswered questions—who tipped Bertolli, and what happened to the rest of the cash—you want to spend more money on them? Should I keep asking around?”

There’s a rumble of thunder outside, and fat drops of rain against the glass. The garden is dark, the flower beds a uniform gray.

“Keep asking,” Carr says.

*    *   *

The wind is gone and the rain falls straight and heavy; the short sprint from parking lot to lobby leaves Carr soaked. He shivers as he steps into the elevator and presses the fourth-floor button. He’s alone in the car and the door is nearly shut when a hand slides in and bumps it open again. And then Valerie is there, wet from the rain. She presses the button for three, waits for the door to close, and presses her mouth against his.

Howard Bessemer is a vision in seersucker: clear-eyed, pink-cheeked, hair slicked and shining—an altogether healthier vision than his recent diet should allow. He sits erect and alert in the passenger seat, scanning the approaching coast, the whitecaps, the immaculate sky, as Carr bears left off Frank Sound Road onto North Side Road. Bessemer’s window is down and his face is turned into the salt breeze, and he reminds Carr of a dog out for a ride.

“Day like today, you see why people move here,” Carr says.

Bessemer smiles. “Wait till you see Curt’s place. It’s not quite San Simeon, but it’s a hell of a spread.”

Carr nods. “Prager live there all by himself?”

“Him and the staff. Every now and then he sets up a girl in the guesthouse.”

“Girl as in girlfriend?”

“As in hooker,” Bessemer says, smirking. Carr lifts an eyebrow. “Always pricey, though. Very high-class.”

“No doubt,” Carr says.

They ride on in silence, Bessemer watching the sea, and Carr, despite their destination and the mounting tension, failing to keep his mind from the night before. Lack of sleep casts a dreamlike scrim over his memories of the evening—burnishing the images and shuffling their order.

Even from across the room, Valerie’s voice was close in his ear. “You want this job done, and so do I. I did what I had to do.”

Her hands were cold under his shirt. Her hair was wet and smelled like lilac and an airplane cabin.

“All I know about what happened down there is what Bobby and Mike told us. The first Mike said anything to me about euros was the day before we went to Miami.”

Her mouth tasted of airline wine, and it seemed to be everywhere at once.

“Bobby and Mike talked about Nando sometimes, and so did Deke, but I never met him until that day in Miami.”

Her dress was wet, and it peeled away like a shedding skin. She left it in a pile beside the minibar.

“Amy’s gone for two days, up in New York. I’m booked on the first flight back to Boca tomorrow morning.”

Her legs were smooth and slick, and the hollows of her neck were full of rain.

“Mike was going to pull out of the job if I didn’t help him wash his money—and he was going to take Bobby with him.”

Her room was on the third floor, overlooking treetops and a loading dock. She kept the lights off and opened the drapes.

“Bobby told Mike that you knew, and Mike told me, and then I got on a plane down here. I didn’t want to talk to you about this on the phone.”

Her lips were searing.

“The e-mail from that coffee bar? That was to Nando. He said no cell phones—messaging only. He was superparanoid.”

In the dim light, her skin was like matte gold.

“That afternoon, with Mike, that was the only time. You want this job done, and so do I. I do what I have to, and I’m not going to apologize for it.”

The rain grew heavier, and it made a tearing sound as it fell through the leaves.

“Have you thought any more about afterward—where you want to go, what you want to do? ’Cause if you haven’t, I’ve got ideas.”

North Sound Road becomes Rum Point Drive, and Bessemer clears his throat. “We’re coming to it,” he says, and a surge of adrenaline drags Carr from his reverie.

Prager’s property announces itself to their right, with a wrought-iron fence and high, dense shrubs that obscure the ocean view. A while longer and they reach the gate.

It’s tall and steel and topped with cameras, and adjoined by a green pastel bungalow. There are two men inside and Carr recognizes one of them from the airport tail. The man comes out wearing a trained smile and a Glock on his hip. He’s carrying an iPad and Carr sees two pictures on the screen: his own and Bessemer’s. The guard glances at the photos and at them and rests a hand on the car roof.

“Mr. Frye, Mr. Bessemer, welcome. Mr. Prager will meet you at the main house. Just stay on this drive—you can’t miss it.” As he speaks, the gate opens and he steps aside and waves them in.

The drive is crushed shell and it’s bordered by close-cut lawns and ironwood trees sculpted by the constant winds. It curves gently west and rises up a hillside that he knows, from the broader topography, must be man-made. Another curve and they’re at the top, where the drive empties into a wide circle of pavers, set in a herringbone pattern. There’s a fountain in the center, marble, pale pink, like the inside of a baby’s ear. A marble fish stands on its tail within, and the braid of water falling from its mouth makes a prosperous sound. Across the circle is the house.

Its architectural pedigree is indeterminate—an uneasy hybrid of Italianate, Spanish Colonial, and Georgian—with
big
the only unifying principle. Beneath the tiled roof, its stone walls are yellow—goldenrod in the main parts, going to a butter color for the arched colonnades and the ornament work around the windows and doors. There is a portico in front, and two glossy black doors. They stand open, and Curtis Prager is in the threshold, in sandals, linen trousers, and a pale pink polo shirt. Kathy Rink is at his side, in a green golf skirt and with a smile fastened on her face.

Carr glances at Bessemer, who is smiling oddly and humming softly, tunelessly. Carr wonders if he’s taken something. “Shit,” Carr whispers, but when he pulls up to the portico, Bessemer sharpens.

Bessemer is out of the Toyota before Carr has switched off the engine, a big smile and a big hand extended. There’s a clumsy hug and biceps squeezing, and then Prager holds Bessemer at arm’s length. He’s taller than Carr expected, with more ropy muscle on him. He seems to dwarf Bessemer.

“Jesus, Bess, you look like shit. What the hell have you been doing to yourself?”

Bessemer grins and ducks his head almost shyly. “Just the usual misdemeanors. But what about you—you keep a special portrait in the attic, or something? Drinking pints of virgin’s blood? You look twenty years younger.”

“
Virgin’s blood.
” Prager laughs. “That’s the pot calling the kettle. I just do a day’s work once in a while, and then I get on a tennis court or in a boat. Get some oxygen in my blood, instead of pure ethanol.”

Prager claps Bessemer on the shoulder once more, and Bessemer ducks his head again, and it occurs to Carr that he’s witnessing a sort of theater: an imitation of camaraderie, an acting out of Bessemer’s subordination. He’s not sure who the intended audience is. Maybe himself. Maybe they do it for each other.

There’s a final lockjaw laugh, and Prager turns to Carr. His eyes, in his lined, brown face, are the color of sleet. His hand is cool and wiry. “And you must be Mr. Frye—at long last. Sorry for the scheduling screwup, but this week has been one fire drill after the other.”

“There are worse places to kill time,” Carr says. “And call me Greg.”

Prager nods. “I’m Curt. Now, I hope you’ll bear with me a bit longer, Greg, before we sit down.” He looks at Kathy Rink, who looks inside the house and beckons.

Two men appear, both stocky with crew cuts, one holding something that looks like an old-fashioned walkie-talkie. He smiles politely and approaches Bessemer, while his partner waits, eight feet off.

“Mr. Bessemer, if you could spread your feet apart and hold your arms straight out from your sides, I’ll sweep you down real quick. Mr. Frye, you’ll be next.”

There are platters of shrimp, crab legs, and scallops on crushed ice, a tureen of ceviche, bowls of gazpacho, frosted pitchers of iced tea, and plates of sliced fruit, all on a linen-covered table, under a wide awning. Beyond the awning, there are trees with songbirds in them, and a hillside descending in terraces to the beach and the swaying sea.