Castro Directive (9 page)

Just in case Simms knew his car, he parked it around the corner. He passed under a streetlamp just as the light blinked on for the night, and his shadow veered out in front of him.

Pebbles crunched underfoot. As he approached the house next to Simms's place, he took out his notepad, rang the bell. When the door opened, a man in his early thirties, wearing suspenders and a tie, greeted him with a questioning look. "Can I help you?"

"Evening. My name's Tracy Holmes. I'm a private investigator. I'm just doing a routine insurance company check on your neighbor, Elise Simms. Can I ask you a couple of questions?"

"You got a card?" Suspenders asked warily.

Pierce patted his shirt pocket. "Just gave out my last one. Sorry."

He hadn't used his real name because he didn't want Suspenders warning Simms if he didn't manage to talk to her this evening. He always used Tracy Holmes, because it sounded vaguely familiar, like someone you'd heard of. No one, to his knowledge, had ever realized it was a combination of Dick Tracy and Sherlock Holmes.

"Look, I don't know her very well. We've only lived here a few months. I've said hello once or twice. That's about it."

"She have any friends in the neighborhood?"

Suspenders frowned at him, obviously interested in ending the conversation. "You might ask across the street. The old lady keeps tabs on everyone."

Over the, years, he'd developed his own interviewing technique, and usually knew just what balance of authority and friendliness to use to get a person talking. With suspicious types, like Suspenders, he looked for leads while assuring them he'd be on his way any moment now. He noticed the man's smug smile when he mentioned the neighbor lady. Either the woman was going to beat him with a broom, or she'd talk nonstop about everyone on the block. He was hoping for the latter.

He thanked the man, started to turn away, then stopped. "Has Ms. Simms caused you any problems?"

"Like I said, I don't know her well. She's a good neighbor as far as I'm concerned. She's quiet. Real quiet. Like a mouse."

"Seen any visitors over there?" he asked, making one last effort.

"Can't say I've noticed any. But I don't have a good view with all her trees and shrubs, and I really haven't paid much attention. Now if you'll excuse me, my dinner's getting cold."

Pierce walked across the street. Suspenders had been a disappointment, but there were plenty of neighbors, even if he struck out with the old lady. Unlike most of the others on the block, the house the man had pointed out wasn't encased in tropical shrubbery. The front windows offered a clear view of the street, and he could detect a shadowy figure watching him as he stepped along the walk. He glanced over his shoulder as he approached the door; he could see Simms's driveway and part of the house.

As soon as he knocked, an outside light came on. He read the name on the mailbox just as the door opened. He wouldn't have been surprised to see a woman in a loose shift and gray hair tied in a bun, wearing pointy-rimmed glasses—the prototype neighborhood gossip. Instead, he was looking at a spindly woman whose shoulder-length silver hair was streaked with pink. She was dressed in a gaudy outfit with black tights, tennis shoes, vibrant green mini- skirt, and paint-splattered baggy white blouse. She might've been dressed by a granddaughter on bad drugs. Her lips were smeared red; she was a nightmare.

"If you're selling something, I've already got one. Or I don't want it."

Pierce smiled, shook his head. "I'm not selling anything, Mrs. Johnson." He told her who he was and what he was interested in talking about. He caught a glint of interest in her eyes. She nodded.

"Well, you look like a nice young man. If we're going to talk, let's not do it on the front step. Please come inside, and you can call me Fanny."

She led the way into a living room that was furnished like a boudoir. She stopped in front of a plush pink couch. "Sit down. You're lucky you caught me. I was just about to leave for the movies. Can I get you a drink?"

"No, I'm fine." He felt a little uneasy as she sat down next to him on the couch.

"Now who'd you say you were with, Mr. Tracy?" She laughed. "This is kind of exciting. Like the movies. Did you see Dick Tracy?"

"It's Holmes. Tracy Holmes. Like I said, it's simply a routine check for an insurance company."

"Was it a home invasion? I haven't seen any police cars out here."

"No, it's nothing like that."

"Oh, just a burglary?"

Pierce knew it was important to feed her some information to encourage her to reciprocate. "She's a key witness in a case going to trial, and—"

"Murder?" the woman's eyes widened.

"No, no. It was just a car accident. The insurer wants to know who's going to be on the witness stand to testify against his client."

She gave him a disappointed look. "Oh, what do you want to know?"

"Whatever you can tell me about her, Mrs. John—Fanny."

"Well, she's an odd one."

Pierce nodded. Look who's talking, he thought.

"Know what she does for a living? She's one of those bone diggers."

"An archaeologist," he said evenly.

"Divorced, too. Think she kicked him out. Such a shame. You know, when I was young, it was terrible to have your husband leave you. Now, it's a goddamn ritual. But you know, I still see him poking around the place once in a while. Makes you wonder."

"Notice any other visitors, a boyfriend maybe?"

"There's one." She cackled, reached for his forearm and squeezed it, and gave him a conspiratorial look. "This old fart's gotta be in his seventies, a white-haired man. Long white hair. More my type than hers. Wonder where she dug him up." She laughed again and slapped him on the arm. "Get it? Dug him up?"

Pierce smiled. "Yeah. Maybe it's her father."

"Nope, not her father. A while back, she stopped over here and asked if I'd keep an eye on her place while she was visiting her father. Said he lives somewhere overseas and she hadn't seen him in a while. Think she said her mother is dead. Suppose she doesn't see much of her, either." She cackled.

"So when did you last see the white-haired man?"

"Oh, not long ago. Yesterday, the day before. Can't remember now. These pills the doctor gives me for my nerves get me all confused." She tilted her head, listening. "Wait a minute." She walked over to the window. "That's her now. I always recognize the sound of her car." Pierce joined her at the window and watched as a slender woman stepped from the white Cabriolet and headed toward the house. It was dark and she was far away, but he knew it was Monica. Elise Simms.

"You've been very helpful. I want to thank you for your time. I hope I didn't keep you from your movie."

"No, not at all, Mr. Holmes. I'm just going to rent one from the video store tonight. You're welcome to join me if you'd like. I make great buttered popcorn."

He couldn't help smiling. "I bet you do. Maybe some other time."

"By the way, Holmes, you ever seen The Seven Percent Solution?"

Time to retire Tracy Holmes, he thought. He wished her good night and headed across the street, preparing to confront Simms. He glanced down the quiet street, preoccupied with his thoughts.

He didn't notice a dark blue Mercedes parked on the street, and even if he had, he wouldn't have been able to see the man behind the dark-tinted window.

T
he chain lock stretched as far as it would go and an eye appeared at the narrow opening. "Yes?"

"Evening, Dr. Simms. It's Nick Pierce. I'd like to talk to you."

The door slammed shut in his face. Damn, so much for the direct approach, he thought. He was about to knock again when he heard the metallic jangle of the chain being removed. The door swung open, and the woman he'd known as Monica stared at him.

She looked the same, he thought, lean, sleek, short hair the color of bitter chocolate, high cheekbones. And yet, there were small things about her that were different, nuances in her expression, in the way she stood, as though her physical appearance had been altered to refit the persona of Elise Simms.

If she was surprised, she didn't show it. "Hello, Nick." She paused. "I'm impressed."

"Why?"

"You found me before I even had a chance to contact you."

"I didn't buy your tourist story," he said, stepping inside. The living room was decorated with brightly colored

Guatemalan tapestries. There was a bookcase and a fireplace with ceramic pots and a couple of amethyst clusters displayed on the mantel. On the wall above the fireplace was a circular piece of wood carved with glyphs like he'd seen inscribed on the stone tablets at the Mayan exhibit. "So you're a professional grave robber as well as a liar."

"Listen, I'm sorry I misled you, but I had to take precautions. I needed to find out more about you before I asked you for help."

She caught him off-guard. "What do you want from me?"

"Have a seat. I'd like you to listen to a taped telephone conversation between Paul Loften and my friend Bill Redington."

Pierce remained standing and watched her walk over to a bookshelf; her slender hips fit perfectly into a pair of white shorts. Her legs were tawny, long, shapely. She picked up a tape cassette and inserted it in a player. "This was recorded three days before Paul Loften was killed."

She pressed the play switch, walked over and took a seat. Pierce eased down into a chair across from her as he recognized Loften's voice.

"I think Raymond is up to something. He told me he thought you've found the other skull."

"Ha. Wish I was so lucky."
Redington sounded gruff, almost surly.
"Ray is just frustrated."

"He wants me to hire a private investigator, an old friend of his, to watch you."

"
Let him watch,"
Redington barked.
"He'll get very bored."

"Well, that's not all. He was asking about the security of the skull in the exhibit. I think he's going after it."

"For Christ's sake, Paul, I can't see Raymond stealing it. He's got too much to lose."

"Believe me, there's more to his interest than you know."
Loften's voice was hushed, serious.
"We should get together to talk. There're some things I need to explain to you."

"Fine. About time. How about Saturday evening for dinner at my place?"

"Good. But listen to my plan. Bill, I'm going to hire the detective, but arrange for someone to steal the skull while he's in my office—a simulated robbery. That way we'll be assured Andrews won't get it."

"
My God. How in the world did you come up with that wild-ass scheme?"

"I'm working with a well-placed contact in law enforcement. He's going to set up the whole thing. It's like a sting, but nobody gets arrested or hurt."

"Who's this well-placed contact, anyhow?"

"I don't want to be any more specific right now. He's doing it as a favor."

"Jesus. Well, it's clever. But won't the skull be in the exhibit?"

"My plans are not to show it until the official opening Friday evening. I'll meet the detective that afternoon during the preview. The skull will be in my office safe. I'll take it out to show him, and that's when the robbery will take place. The detective will be my witness."

"You sure you want to go to all this trouble?"

"I do, because I feel partially at fault for accepting your offer to exhibit the skull. I should have known better."

"What'll happen to the skull after this fake theft?"

"Simple. A few days later it'll turn up with some stolen goods in a warehouse. Then it'll go back to its owner."

Simms stopped the tape, ejected it from the machine. "Of course, we know it didn't work out that way," she said, speaking with her back to him. She turned, crossed her arms. "Well?"

"Is that what a consultant for a Mayan exhibit does? Tape conversations?"

"I didn't tape it. Bill did."

"You want to know what I think? It sounds like whoever the cop hired to steal the skull took matters into his own hands. He stole the skull and shot Loften."

"And the cop?"

"Keeping a low profile. He was probably acting outside of regulations to make an extra buck, but the whole thing blew up in his face. If he tells what happened, he turns himself in, he loses his job, and could even serve some time as an accessory."

She walked over to the fireplace, adjusted the Mayan pottery on the mantel. "I don't think it's simply a case of a renegade hired hand."

"What do you mean?"

She turned, met his gaze. "I think the cop set up the murder as well as the theft . . . and he's working for Raymond Andrews."

He noted the caustic tone in her voice when she mentioned Andrews's name. "Why?"