Castro Directive (16 page)

Coconut Grove had once been a picturesque village of quaint, tree-shrouded cottages and homey storefront shops, a Bohemian haven. Now, thanks to developers like Ray Andrews, it catered to the chic and trendy. The new Grove thrived on wall-to-wall consumerism and high-rise, high-ill cost living. You could buy a half-dozen brands of designer ice cream on the central streets of the village, but you'd have to look hard to find a loaf of bread or a hammer. Struggling painters, sculptors, and performing artists now struggled elsewhere.

Andrews was nowhere in sight, so he walked into a clothing store and casually priced some of the items. Two-ten for a shirt, ninety-five for a tie. In a couple of years, a thrift shop could use the same price tags on the item just by changing the dollars to cents. He wandered over to a rack of socks marked at forty dollars a pair. No basement bargains here. Nearby was a kid, about ten or eleven, who was coveting a pair of designer pants.

"They're only a hundred and fifty, Mom."

"You just got a pair last week, Avery."

The kid threw his head back in a nonchalant gesture. "I'll put it on my card."

Wonderful, Pierce thought as he turned and headed for the door. As he did, he spotted a familiar face, which quickly disappeared from sight. He was sure it was Neil Bellinger, but by the time he stepped through the doorway, the not-so-plainclothes cop was nowhere in sight. Scared off by the prices, maybe.

He didn't have much time to think about it, because Andrews was standing with K.J. by the fountain. He walked over and greeted them.

"What do you think of the place?" Andrews asked as K.J. stepped back from the two men.

"Pretty impressive. Now I know what they mean when the press says you're one of those responsible for turning the Grove into a yuppie theme park."

He said it as a joke, but Andrews didn't laugh. He gave him a once-over, taking in his casual khaki pants and cotton pullover. He adjusted his yellow tie and smiled. "All that hippy-dippy shit is history, Nicholas. The Grove is upscale living."

Profitable, too, I bet, he thought. "Well, looks like business is flourishing."

"I won't deny that. The square footage rental cost is at the top of the scale for commercial property, and we've had full occupancy since the second month of operation. I've got an office here myself."

"You've got the Midas touch, Ray."

Andrews nodded. "It's a shame when myths are adopted for commercial use, isn't it? You can't mention Midas or the Wheel of Fortune without a modem-day image imposing on the myth." Then he turned to Pierce, smiled, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You see, I've got concerns about protecting the past as well as improving on the present."

He gestured across the plaza toward a gleaming brass-and-glass elevator. "C'mon, let's have some lunch."

A chill nipped at Pierce's lower back as they moved toward the cage. It was the sensation he always felt when he considered riding in an elevator. "I think I'll take the stairs and meet you."

Andrews looked nonplussed. "Wait a minute. You mean, you still don't ride elevators?"

"I like the exercise," Pierce hedged, and glanced at K.J., who was staring suspiciously at him.

"Oh, c'mon, Nicholas. It's a roomy glass elevator. You've got to experience it. And I promise we won't get stuck. Christ, we're only going up one floor."

Pierce stared at it. One floor. It can't be that bad for just one lousy floor, he thought. "Okay, let's go."

"I'd forgotten about that time in the library," Andrews said as they stepped into the elevator.

Pierce barely heard him. He watched the doors whisper shut and stared straight ahead. He tried not to think about the incident Andrews had referred to, but the memories marched through him with impunity.

Andrews had used one of the conference rooms in Columbia University's library as a meeting place when his Latin American suppliers were in town. While they'd bargained about the cost and number of shipments, Pierce had studied at a desk outside the room and kept an eye out for anyone approaching the door or acting suspicious. On this particular Sunday night, the negotiations had lasted until a few minutes before the library closed.

Pierce signaled Andrews, tapping his watch. The Colombians left by the stairs, while he and Andrews took an elevator on the other side of the building. When it stopped between floors, there was no one around to help.

Pierce vaguely remembered sitting on the floor, listening to Andrews boast about his deal as they waited for someone to show up. The new scheme involved transporting the twenty or thirty kilos of marijuana a week by boat from Santa Marta to Cartagena, where they were loaded in suitcases aboard a cruise ship that stopped for several hours to fill its water tanks. When the ship docked in New York, crew members slipped the extra suitcases through customs, which at the time was lax. No one, after all, suspected that tourists spending a few hours in Cartagena would make drug deals. The cargo was then sent by truck to a warehouse and distributed to a network of dealers.

Andrews, who never touched the pot or made direct payments, told Pierce that he was no longer needed to convey messages. Instead, he wanted him to deliver cash to a contact in Bogota. He could make one trip a month and he'd make enough so he could quit his part-time job and live better than most students. But Pierce just wanted out; smuggling was a dead end, and he sensed trouble. He didn't care how easy Andrews told him it would be. If it was so easy, he could do it himself, and he told him so.

They'd argued—but that was all he could remember. He didn't even recall how they'd gotten out of the elevator; all he knew was that since then he'd never been comfortable in one. But at least Andrews had never asked him to go to Colombia again.

The glass box whispered to a stop and they stepped out. "There, that wasn't so tough, was it?"

Pierce's breath caught in his throat, his legs were rubbery, and he felt as though he'd been in suspended animation while shifting from one time frame to another. But he hadn't let the panic take over, and he hadn't passed out. He could still breathe. On top of it, Andrews had been with him. Maybe that was all he needed, maybe now his fear of elevators had been vanquished forever.

At the entrance of the restaurant, the host greeted Andrews by name. Even though several people were waiting to be seated, they were immediately ushered to a corner table; Andrews was at home in his kingdom.

Twice during the meal, a waiter handed King Raymond a fresh linen napkin and removed the old one, which still looked clean to Pierce. At one point, the tine of Andrews's fork touched the tablecloth and he asked for a replacement. Before allowing the waiter to pour his wine, he held up the Waterford crystal glass and carefully inspected it for water stains. He did the same with his water glass.

Pierce still vividly remembered Andrews's pickiness and his fanatic concern about cleanliness during their year as roommates. He'd changed his bed sheets daily, put name tags on his towels, washed his hands a couple of dozen times a day. He'd even told Pierce that when he was wealthy he'd put on new underwear every day, wear it once and once only, and throw it away.

Andrews chatted throughout the meal, talking about an office building he'd bought in London, a banquet he'd attended in Paris. Pierce nodded, offered a few comments, and across the table K.J. listened to it all, eating his meal and watching. He wondered if there were any women in Andrews's life. He considered asking, but decided against it. If there were, they obviously weren't a big part of it. Something else occurred to him. He recalled what Elise had said about the man's apparent interest in time, and he was curious about what he would say about the topic. When there was a lull in the conversation, he commented on Andrews's watch, an expensive Rolex.

Andrews looked down at his wrist and shrugged. "I've had this one for a few years now. Let me tell you a secret, Nicholas. When you have enough money that you can have anything, you tend to lose your desire for personal material things."

If that was true, Pierce thought, why the hell had he offered three million dollars for a crystal skull? Pierce could see it: the skull on a shelf next to Andrews's clocks, a maid dusting it twice a week. On second thought, maybe Andrews saw the skull as something other than a material possession. "I noticed you had a lot of clocks in your apartment."

Andrews gave him an odd look, a defensive one, Pierce thought, then it was gone, and he was smiling. "I've picked them up here and there over the years. Some people collect coins or stamps. My thing is clocks."

Not until after they finished their meal and coffee and tea had arrived, did Andrews bring up the investigation. "I had a chat with a police detective named Carver this morning. I guess you've met him."

"He knows you hired me."

Andrews lifted his tea bag from his cup. "He said I hired a suspect."

"What does he think, I shot Loften and knocked myself out?" Pierce laughed. "Where's the gun?"

Andrews looked amused, unconcerned. "Don't feel bad. He implied that I was involved, too. Let's not worry about Lieutenant Carver. Tell me what you've found. Maybe we'll give him a lead."

Pierce wiped his mouth with his napkin and set it aside. "You ever heard of a woman named Elise Simms?"

Andrews sat back in his chair and shook his head. "Who is she?"

He told him what he knew about her: her career; her association with the museum's Mayan project; how he met her as Monica; who her father was. He told him about the tape and how they'd returned from jai alai to find the house ransacked. All he left out was her suspicion that Andrews was behind the break-in and her hatred of him.

Andrews twisted the gold band on his finger as he listened. But his face remained inscrutable. Pierce might as well have been telling him the plot of a movie Andrews had already seen. He interrupted once to ask why they'd gone to jai alai.

"It just worked out that way. It wasn't anything I planned."
Jesus, what about everything else I just told you?
he thought. Andrews hadn't even remarked on the accusations on the tape. Pierce wanted an explanation. He needed one.

Andrews shifted himself in the chair, moving closer to Pierce. "So she knows you're working for me. That's good. What about Redington?"

He touched briefly on his visit to the professor. "He told me he gave the cops a copy of the tape."

"Well, that explains why Lieutenant Carver visited me, but he didn't say anything about a tape."

"Redington also told me that John Mahoney wasn't interested in selling the skull."

"Unfortunately, he has been very reluctant to sell. Until recently, that is."

"What do you mean?"

Andrews brushed a speck of food off the tablecloth in front of him. "A few months ago, we reopened negotiations. We were finally close to a deal. We were keeping it quiet, and I didn't think anyone knew. Then this Loften thing happens. I think you can appreciate my concern and understand why I hired you."

Since Andrews was finally loosening his tongue, Pierce pressed him. "But why did you want the skull?"

"It's more than just unusual, and I can afford it. And its value will continue to escalate. Besides, I wanted to end this silly argument with Mahoney."

"You're saying the fraudulent sales of the replicas never happened?"

Andrews waited as the waiter refilled Pierce's coffee cup and poured fresh water for Andrews's tea. "Sure it did. It was a scheme by a few of the sales reps overseas. I had no idea what was going on."

Pierce crossed his arms over his chest. "Simms thinks it was your idea. She says you ruined her father's reputation."

"He ruined it himself!" Andrews snapped. "He spent so much time studying the Mayan shamans that he adopted their beliefs. He lost his perspective."

Andrews stirred his tea a moment. "Don't let her fool you, Nicholas. I didn't recognize Elise Simms's name, but I knew Mahoney had a daughter. The last time we talked about the skull, he told me she was after it. He said they hadn't talked to each other in years, then suddenly she wants the skull. I think she's behind the theft—and set up the ransacking of her house to protect herself. She wants the cops to think I was behind it."

Pierce shifted his eyes to K.J., who was doing some sort of isometric exercises in his chair, first pressing his hands down on the armrests, then pulling up on the bottom of the chair. When he saw Pierce's gaze, he immediately stopped. Pierce flicked his eyes back to Andrews. "She must really have wanted the skull, to go to that length."

"She's only told her side of the story. My association with her father and Redington goes back to when I formed a service organization called Noster Mundus."

Pierce nodded, realizing that in recounting everything else, he'd forgotten to mention the organization. "She said something about it, but not that her father or Redington were associated with it."

Andrews smiled and leaned back in his chair. "They were charter members."

"What exactly is Noster Mundus?"

"It's basically an international goodwill group."

"Simms called it a secret society," Pierce said.

Andrews laughed and looked over at K.J., who was doing his isometrics again. "We maintain rules of secrecy, sure. But that's traditional for many service organizations. The truth is, most of us in the group take advantage of our contacts for business as well as goodwill purposes. In fact, that's how Mahoney and I got started in business together."