Castro Directive (23 page)

Bellinger glanced at Pierce and rolled his eyes. The old fart isn't playing with a full deck, said his expression.

"Nine B. Nine B. Right here, gentlemen." He pulled open the drawer and uncovered the face with the care of a mother lovingly turning down a bed sheet for her child.

Pierce glanced at the stone-cold corpse The face was distorted, bloated; the skin a faint blue. The right eye was shattered as if it had exploded from the inside. Bellinger picked up the edge of the sheet and carefully turned the head with it. A jagged scar was visible on the jaw.

"Please, don't touch the corpse," Charlie admonished, sounding like Mr. Whipple talking about his Charinin. Bellinger ignored him, glanced at Pierce. "This him?"

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Positive. He drowned?"

Bellinger's laugh was short and quick, like a cough. "Yeah, after he was shot in the back of the head. He was fished out of a canal last night."

Pierce stepped back. He'd seen enough. Bellinger motioned the attendant to put him away.

"Nightie-night," Charlie said, covering his face and pushing the drawer back in place. He moved past them, back to his desk.

"Who was he?"Pierce asked.

"Bad guy from Tampa with a long record. Guess he won't bother you anymore."

"Why do you think he was killed?"

"Probably became a liability for someone."

That someone, Pierce guessed, carried a badge. But was the cop carrying out someone else's orders or acting on his own? He suddenly remembered that his first thought about the case after Elise played him the tape recording was that the cop Loften hired had taken the matter into his own hands. Maybe he'd ordered the murder and theft and now he'd gotten rid of the perpetrator, the link to his identity.

"You don't look so good, Pierce," Bellinger said. You feel all right?"

"Just tired."

Bellinger pulled a .38 from his sports jacket. His eyes gleamed as he pointed it at Pierce. "Watch this, Nick. This'll wake you up."

He spun the gun a half-dozen times on his index finger. He pointed it again at Pierce, said "Bang," then gave it a half spin and handed it to him by the barrel. "All yours," he said cheerfully.

Pierce took the .38 which Carver had confiscated, and kept his eyes on Bellinger. "Fancy moves, Neil. Bet you could get yourself in trouble with that bullshit."

Bellinger raised his hands, laughed. "Give me a break, man. Just a little early morning exercise for the trigger finger. No harm done."

"Yeah, I suppose." But maybe Bellinger had revealed more by his trigger-finger antics than he'd intended. Maybe he was something more than the happy-go-lucky charmer who offset Carver's hard-line tactics. Pierce looked at the gun, uncertain what to do with it, and at the same time alarmed by the possibility that he might be standing in the presence of the killer. He pulled out his shirt and jammed the gun in the waistband of his pants.

"Jesus, I wouldn't do that, Nick. Safety comes off, you could blow your balls off. Give it to me."

Pierce handed the gun back to him. They walked out of the morgue and down the hall to the attendant's desk. Charlie was sipping coffee and reading the paper. "Can I get the sports section from you, Charlie?" Bellinger asked.

"Take it. I never read it," Charlie said, without looking up.

Bellinger picked it up and folded it around the gun. "Here you go. Gift wrapped. Just don't walk any further than your car with it or you might get busted, unless you've got a concealed weapon permit."

Bellinger laughed, but Pierce's throat was too dry to join him. "Thanks."

"One more thing," Bellinger said as Pierce started to walk away. He reached into his pocket, then dropped six bullets into Pierce's palm. "Guess you wouldn't have shot your balls off, after all."

"Guess not." Pierce took one last breath of formaldehyde-scented air and headed down the hall.

"See you around," Bellinger called after him.

The light was blinking on the answering machine as he walked into his office an hour later. The first message was brief. It was from one of Raymond Andrews's assistants, who asked him to call his boss. Andrews obviously was back in town. The second one began with the sound of soft breathing, sniffling, and he knew immediately who it was.

"Nicky, do we have to go through this over and over again? Can we just be friends? I am sorry that I stormed away, but it upsets me when you say things like that. You know we have a lot in common. We have a history. You and I should not be mad at each other. Okay? You know, you never call me Tinita anymore. Call me."

A heavy, sickening feeling settled over Pierce. It was the same old story. Get angry, make up, then act like nothing had happened, that everything was all right. But everything wasn't all right. It was all wrong. This time it was going to be different. She could leave all the messages she wanted. He wasn't returning her calls. He'd already told her how he felt. Sooner or later, she'd realize he was serious.

He felt a twinge of guilt as he rewound the tape and argued with himself.

We're divorced.

(She means well).

The hell she does.

(She loves you).

Bullshit.

It was just easier to stay in the past than to cut loose into an uncertain future. If she wasn't going to make the move, he would. Adios, Tina.

He sat down at his desk, cleared his mind, and punched Andrew's number. The same voice he'd heard on the recorder answered, and when Pierce identified himself the man said he would transfer the call to the mobile phone. As he waited, he imagined Andrews sitting in the back of a black stretch limo that was as cool as Iceland inside and whispered across town, gliding through traffic as if there were nothing to it. He'd probably be talking to an aide, and K.J. would be at hand.

"Nicholas, how are you?"

"Hi, Ray. How was your trip?"

"Everything went as planned."

What kind of plans? Was the trip related to Noster Mundus?
"Glad to hear it. We've had some developments here." He explained about the break-in at his apartment and the body he'd viewed less than an hour ago. Andrews listened until he'd finished, then asked how he was feeling. "I'm fine. Got a shiner, but it's already starting to fade."

"That's too bad, but you're obviously better off than the other guy. Listen, I had a visit first thing this morning from Lieutenant Carver. He seems to think that you might be taking Simms seriously."

Damn that Carver! "Listen, Ray, I'm well aware that she could be behind the whole thing. But there's another possibility. It could've been the cop Loften hired acting alone."

"What makes you think that?"

"Well, it makes sense. He knocks off Scarjaw to protect himself."

"That's a possibility, Nick. But why didn't he have Scarjaw kill you?"

"I don't know," Pierce conceded.

"You see, that's why I think it's Simms's game."

"I can understand how Simms might have turned the blame for her father's problems on you, but why would she have Loften killed?"

"Nicholas, I think she was so set against me that she was ready to consider anything to keep me from owning the skull. She probably knew the cop Loften was hiring; maybe she'd even introduced Loften to him."

"And you think she talked the cop into going along with her scheme?" Pierce shook his head. It didn't feel right. "That seems extreme. She'd be taking a big chance." He realized he didn't like that idea any more than he liked it the other way, with Andrews behind it. He wanted the whole thing to be the cop acting alone.

"Not if she was close to the cop. Besides, she is an extremist. I've had one of my lawyers make inquiries about her. He's come up with some interesting bits of information. Some of her colleagues say that in the last few years, she's gone off the deep end."

The deep end . . . Hell, that could mean virtually anything. "Did these colleagues give any specifics about what they meant?"

"Simply that she's lost her scientific perspective in favor of some way-out ideas. She's done things like using a dowser on digs to try to locate buried artifacts."

"You mean a dowsing rod?"

"That's right."

"I thought that was for finding water."

The phone line crackled with Andrews's chuckle. "You'll have to ask her about that. Mahoney, her father, is the same way, but worse. From what I understand, getting involved in the practices of a culture you're studying is not necessarily an unacceptable method of study, but he apparently lost his perspective. Probably drank some concoction the shamans made and never fully recovered."

"I see."

"That's not all. Have you had a chance to look into her financial status?"

"A bit. Not much."

"Did you know she withdrew twenty-five thousand dollars from a money market account last week?"

"Looks to me like the cop's fee for services."

Maybe Andrews was right. It was hard to imagine Elise spending twenty-five thousand dollars on a shopping spree.

When Pierce didn't say anything, Andrews went on. "So where do we stand? Does she still trust you?"

"I'm not sure she's ever trusted me, but she's still interested in working with me."

"Good. Have you seen Redington?"

"Yesterday, but just briefly."

"He's basically a good fellow," Andrews said, "but he's somehow gotten all caught up in Simms's web. I wouldn't doubt that he actually believes she had nothing to do with Loften's death. That's why I was a little worried by what Carver said. The woman must have a talent for gaining sympathy."

"She hasn't fooled me." He sounded more confident than he felt.

"Well, enough said. I trust your judgment. I know that for you to make any inroads you have to act like you're working with her. Go ahead. Tell her you're on her side."

"But what's the point?"

Pierce listened to the slight buzzing on the line. "I thought I made that clear." A sternness had entered Andrews's voice, as though he were a teacher addressing a troublesome student. "The point is finding the skulls. Getting back the stolen one, and finding out what she knows about the other one."

"Okay. I'll see what happens and let you know."

Pierce hung up. For the first time in weeks, he felt like taking a walk on the beach. He needed to sort things out. He kept a swimming suit, T-shirt, and sneakers in a locker in the corner of his office for just such occasions.

He stood up and took two steps toward the locker, when the phone rang again. The recorder was still on, and he waited.

"Nicky, pick up the phone. . . . Pick up the phone. I know you are there. Your line was just busy."

"Fuck you," Pierce barked, without making an effort to answer the phone.

"Nicky, talk to me. . . . Please.. . . Suit yourself. I will call Gibby and see if he can tell me why you will not answer your phone."

"For Christ's sake." He snapped the receiver out of its cradle and turned off the recorder. "What the fuck do you want?"

"That is no way to talk to me. I do not deserve that. Not after the way you acted in the restaurant."

"The way I acted? You're the one who stormed out."

Softer now: "Nicky. I do not want to fight with you."

"Tina. We're history, and I'm tired of history repeating itself."

"Oh, that is so cute. You are so clever, and so damn stubborn."

"Is that all you wanted to say?"

"Look, I am sorry if I embarrassed you at the restaurant. I still have the envelope with the articles and copies from the books."

"Send it to me. I knew your library's not a mail house, but you could've given it to me at the restaurant."

"No, I want you to come and get it."

"I'm busy." He started to hang up.

"Either you come over here, or I will call Raymond Andrews and have a talk with him about you."

"Leave him out of this, Tina," he said, gritting his teeth.

"I am sure he will be interested in knowing that I have information for his case and you do not have time to pick it up because you have another girlfriend."

Oh my God.
He took a deep breath, exhaled, then spoke slowly and calmly. "I'll be there in half an hour."

He slammed down the phone. "Bitch." His anger and frustration propelled him out his chair, out of the office.

He knew she would follow through on her threat if he ignored her, and he didn't need that complication. He would pick up the envelope and tell her . . . . He didn't know what he would tell her, but he would figure out something that would shut her up, something that would get his message through to her.

As he drove across the causeway to downtown, his anger became a crescive ache at the back of his eyes. He kept hearing Tina's voice on the recorder. "Pick up the phone Nicky. I know you are there." Her precise, accented English, which he'd once thought cute, now was a burr rubbing his skin.

As he veered around a slow-moving car, his Smith & Wesson rattled in the glove compartment. He glanced into his rearview mirror and noticed a dark blue Mercedes with tinted windows shift lanes. Was it the same one he'd seen at the Coral Castle? And the same one he'd seen parked in front of his apartment the day of the break-in? He remembered a car honking; now it came together. The driver of the Mercedes had been trying to signal Scarjaw that one Nicholas Pierce was coming home.