Castro Directive (13 page)

"That's not what I'm talking about. I want you to see what you can come up with on the connection between Paul Loften, the dead museum director, and Raymond Andrews."

"Oh, going after a big fish," Fuego said as he approached the window.

"Yeah, the guy who hired me. Just want to cover my ass." He opened his billfold, peeled off several bills, and stuffed them in Fuego's back pocket.

"You're getting very friendly there, amigo," Fuego said, turning his head.

"Yeah, sure. A friendly payment. See how far you get on four hundred, then get back to me. Good luck."

Pierce bought his quiniela box and rejoined Elise. As they sat down again, she touched his shoulder. "Tell you what. I'll let you in on half my winnings for three bucks."

"Ha. I'll stick with my bet." He regarded her a moment. "You're catching on fast."

As the game began, he wondered if everything for Elise was so black and white. She thought like a man, that's what it was. She'd come here with him, but betting his way wasn't part of the deal. Now she was cheering her teams and glancing between the court and the scoreboard. She'd caught on, all right. She wasn't the type who'd stay in someone else's court for long.

By the middle of the game, Pierce's teams were faring poorly. Elise, however, was still in it, but the baffled look on her face told him she wasn't even aware of that fact. "Hey, Pierce," she said excitedly as the end of the game neared, "I think I'm winning."

He glanced up at the scoreboard. "You're right. If Six beats Two, you got it. Eight, Six, Three."

"C'mon, Six, kill the bastards," she yelled at the top of her lungs. Her shout was lost among the clamor of the crowd, but he'd heard it clearly, and it gave him pause. Less than a minute later, it was over. Elise leaped to her feet. "I won, didn't I?"

Pierce shook his head, amazed at her luck. "You sure did."

They walked over to the betting area and waited as Fuego collected their winnings.

"God, I've never bet on a game in my life. I can't believe it."

Her enthusiasm was contagious; he couldn't help smiling. "You were right. You went with the expert."

She leaned close to him. "Now you know why I went after you."

Her blue eyes sparkled inches from his own. He inhaled the scent of her perfume. Either this was part of her game, he thought, and she was doing her best to entice him, or this was just how she was. He wasn't in the mood to find out which.

As they drove away from the fronton, Pierce considered what he should do next. He was interested in finding out whatever she would tell him about the crystal skull and her interest in it. If she was involved in the theft and wanted to keep his suspicions to a minimum, she probably would have a story ready for him. He would have to judge it for himself.

"What're you thinking?" she asked.

He wasn't sure what to say and simply shrugged. "Guess I was just thinking how odd it is that I ended up taking you to jai alai."

"Why? Because I won and you didn't?"

"Yeah." He chuckled. "That must be it." But that wasn't it at all. He knew it, and so did she.

He could feel her eyes on him. "Did anyone ever tell you that you look like you're lost in a daydream sometimes? Something about your eyes."

"Maybe it's because I'm a little confused."

"Confused? About what?"

"About why you're so concerned about this crystal skull, and what it is that you've got against Andrews."

"I already told you. I think he stole it."

"What else? There's something more."

She looked down at her hands, didn't respond, then turned her gaze out the window.

"You want to know about Andrews. Let me tell you about him." Her voice was curt, and the edges of her mouth turned down as she spoke. "Your buddy Ray Andrews enticed my father into a business deal a couple of years ago that ruined him."

Pierce glanced over at her, then back to the road. "What kind of business deal?"

"It involved the production of Mayan replicas, mostly ceramic reliefs using the theme of Quetzalcoatl. Each one came with a copy of the legend of the cultural hero. Dad felt the story of the Plumed Serpent should be as well known as the deeds of Zeus. That's why he entered the venture."

"What happened?"

"Andrews and his sales team convinced thousands of people in South America, Europe, and the Orient to pay as much as a hundred grand each for the replicas."

"C'mon, I find that hard to believe."

"No. It happened. The sales pitch was that Mayan shamans had placed spells on the replicas, and that if you bought one you'd be protected from natural disasters or attacks by enemies."

"I must have missed that scam."

"That's because there was very little promotion or sales in the United States, which Dad thought was the main point. Then he was astonished when he found out how much people were paying for them and learned about the phony sales pitch that went along with it."

"He hadn't known about it?"

"He had nothing to do with the sales end, and didn't make much himself. Yet, I've seen evidence that total sales exceeded a hundred and sixty-five million dollars."

"Jesus." Pierce slowed for a light. "Well, if Andrews was involved, it's possible. He's always had the Midas touch. So what did your father do?"

Her resentment bubbled like hot soup. "It's not so much what he did, but what happened to him. There were complaints, and investigations in several countries. Everything was in Dad's name. Andrews was never touched, but Dad's reputation was ruined. He lost his credibility, and was driven from the field."

He turned onto Grand Avenue from U.S. 1 and entered Coconut Grove. "Where were you when all this happened?"

"Teaching in Chicago. If I'd known what was going on, Andrews would never have taken advantage of him."

It was guilt and revenge that was driving her, Pierce thought, and maybe that was what the theft was about. Neither spoke as he mulled over what she'd said. As he pulled into her driveway, he had another question. "How did your father meet Andrews?"

"Through Bill. You see, he introduced . .

Her voice faded, stopped. She leaned forward, her body tensing as she stared at the house.

"What's wrong?"

"I didn't leave any lights on. I'm sure of it."

A light was on in the living room, another illuminated an upstairs window. "Anyone else have your keys?"

"No. Except— It better not be him."

"Who?"

"Steve. My ex-husband."

He turned off his engine. "Let's take a look."

They moved swiftly toward the house, their feet whispering through the grass. He tried the door and found it locked. Prowlers rarely entered through a front door, but it wasn't uncommon for them to leave that way. An intruder could still be in the house. She handed him the key and he slipped it into the lock. He turned the knob, pushed open the door. He heard her suck in her breath, and a shiver fanned across his back as he glimpsed the wreckage. The place had been ransacked.

Books and bits of pottery were strewn across the floor, and two armchairs were overturned. Cushions had been torn away from the chairs and couch, and records and tapes had been tossed around. Elise's Mayan calendar lay amid the clutter; it was broken in half. Next to it, a television set lay on its side.

"Oh, God, my pottery."

"Stay right here," he hissed. "I'm getting my gun." He ran to the car, opened the trunk. He took his new .38 from its box and fumbled with the cartridges as he loaded it.

"Hurry," Elise called to him.

"Hold on. Be there in a second."

He hurried to the house and moved in ahead of her. He gripped the gun with both hands as he stepped over piles of books, shattered ceramics, records, and tapes. Holding the gun above his head, he moved carefully toward the back of the house.

He stopped, listened. He heard the honk of a distant horn and the hum of an electrical motor from the next room. He moved ahead, into the kitchen. The refrigerator and freezer doors yawned open, yellow light spilling out over lumpy pools of shadow on the floor and table. He found the light switch, flicked it on. The pantry shelves had been swept clean, and the floor was covered with boxes of pasta and oatmeal dumped over canned goods and bottles of cooking oil and vinegar. Chicken, hamburger, and leftovers were spread across the table.

He stepped over the food and closed the refrigerator and freezer doors. He knelt down and picked up an ice cube tray. The cubes were melting, but still filled the compartments. The place had been trashed within the hour. He set the ice tray down on the kitchen table, walked over to the back door, and turned the handle. It was unlocked.

"Nick!"

Elise stood in the doorway. Her eyes were wide with fear, her voice was a dry croak. "Upstairs. I heard something."

He closed the back door and followed her to the bottom of the staircase. She stopped, her hand lightly touching the railing. "There. Did you hear that?" Her voice was a whisper.

"What?" He froze, listened. Then he heard it, a ripping noise, like clothing being torn apart, coming from upstairs. The bastard's still here.

He peered up the shadowy staircase, heard the noise again. It grated at him. Quietly, slowly, he mounted the stairs, the .38 pointing the way.

"Nick," Elise whispered. "Be careful."

He patted the air with his hands and continued up the stairs. He stopped a couple of steps from the top. Maybe this isn't such a good idea.

He glanced back over his shoulder and frowned as he saw that Elise was gone. In some odd way, her presence at the foot of the stairs had impelled him forward, had kept him moving toward the noise. Now his courage deserted him. He listened, then heard her voice from somewhere in the living room. She was speaking low, giving her address. She'd called the police.

Just then, a scratching sound drew his attention back to the dark hallway. What the hell's he doing? Ripping her clothes? The fucker's crazy.

Cautiously he took another step.

He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry.

He pressed his back against the wall at the top of the stairway. There was a room to the left. The door was open; the room was dark. Quickly he bobbed his head forward and back. The hall to the right was dimly lit and empty. At the end of it, light seeped from under a closed door.

If you're going to do it, then move it.

He crouched low, gripping the gun above his head. He'd rush the bastard, catch him off-guard. But which room was he in? He glanced around the corner again, and was about to rush down the hall toward the light when he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. He pulled back, pressed against the wall; his heart pounded. The intruder was in the dark room at the top of the stairs. Just a few feet away.

Pierce's muscles tensed; his palms sweated against the grip of the .38. He waited, but nothing happened. Had he imagined it? Cautiously he poked his head out again.

He's coming.

Pierce aimed, then lowered his gun. "Jesus, cat! You scared the shit out of me!" A furry orange tiger cat sauntered out of the room and down the hall. He took a deep breath, exhaled, then moved down the hall. He stopped outside the room with the light on, turned the knob, inching the door open.

What if the cat wasn't the only one up here? He leaned forward, glimpsed a bedroom with dresser drawers upturned. Clothing—shirts, jeans, blouses, underwear—littered the carpet. Shoeboxes and more clothes were piled on the bed. He pushed the door further open. It squeaked. And just then Elise shouted his name.

Her voice shredded the silence and sliced through him like a hot blade. He turned and raced for the stairs, bounding down them two or three at a time. He spotted Elise backed against a wall next to an open closet door. Her mouth was moving, but nothing was coming out.

"Christ, what happened?"

"He was here. In the closet."

"When? Just now?" He glanced around.

"No. Before. Look." She nodded toward the open door. He peered into the closet and saw clothes and boxes. Then he saw the inside of the door. Scrawled in red crayon was : YOU CUNT. Below it was a crude, childlike drawing of a woman with her legs spread, and between them a kitchen knife was jammed into the crimson red, oversized lips. Pierce jerked the knife from the wall. "I'll wash it off."

"No, we better wait for the police." Elise touched his shoulder. "They'll be here any minute."

"All right."

Just then, the orange cat pranced into the room. "There's your upstairs noise. He was scratching a chair or something."

"Mouser, what are you doing in here?" She knelt down and held out her hand. "It's the neighbor's."

The cat took a couple of tentative steps toward her, stopped, hissed at her, then scooted across the room, leaping over a pile of books. Mouser jumped onto a window ledge and disappeared through the opening in the curtains. Pierce walked over, spread the curtains. "Here's where the creep broke in. He went out the back door." An upper pane of the window was broken and the window was open.