Deal with the Dead (28 page)

Chapter Thirty-nine

“You pissed that guy
off pretty good,” Russell Straight observed. They were back in Driscoll’s Ford now, pulling out of a spot in front of the Federal Building reserved for the U.S. Marshal. Driscoll slipped a printed pass off his dashboard and handed it over to Russell.

“Put that in the glove compartment, will you? Try not to bend it.”

Russell examined the pass, then shook his head. He opened the glove compartment and glanced inside. “What else you got in here? Dolphins tickets, maybe?”

“Who cares about the Dolphins, with Marino gone?” Driscoll said. “Just put that thing away.”

Russell did as he was told. “So, is that the secret to being a good private eye? Be sure and piss everybody off?”

Driscoll gave him a look. “Guy wasn’t going to tell me anything, no matter what, okay?”

“Then why’d we go there?”

“Because
that
is the secret to being a good private eye, Russell. You make every call, you knock on every door. You never know when you’re going to get lucky.”

Russell thought about it. “Sort of like hitting on women, then.”

Driscoll sighed. “I suppose so.”

“But you’d have to have the right kind of personality.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“I’m just saying,” Russell replied.

“The guy’s on notice, and I’m on tape,” Driscoll said. “If he wants to, he can let somebody else down the food chain know it’s okay to let it slip to Driscoll what he wants to know. All sorts of things can happen.”

Russell nodded uncertainly, then turned to stare out the window as they passed through the downtown shopping district. The sidewalks were starting to crowd with a motley assortment of pedestrians. Office workers in their power suits, roly-poly
señoras
with their netted shopping
bolsas
,
Nordic-looking tourists in shorts and T-shirts and leather sandals. Most of the signs in the shop windows were printed in languages other than English, and not all Spanish either. Chinese, French, German, even a couple Driscoll couldn’t be sure of. It was like being in Casablanca, he thought, with a few professional sports franchises thrown in.

He saw the sign for the bank looming up ahead and glanced behind him, cutting the Ford in front of a delivery van. No blast of horns, no gunshots in their wake. Maybe Miami
was
mellowing out, Driscoll nodded.

He eased into the entrance of the adjoining parking garage, cranked down his window to take the ticket that scrolled from the entrance stanchion with a buzz. Russell Straight gave Driscoll a look as he tucked the ticket into his shirt pocket.

“Don’t you have some kind of a freebie for this place, too?”

Driscoll raised an eyebrow as he swung into a space marked “Bank.” “Yeah,” he said, pointing at the sign. “They call it validation. Something they came up with just for private detectives.”

“You
are
a funny dude,” Straight said, and followed him out of the car.

***

“I’m afraid Ms. Acevedo isn’t in today,” the receptionist told them. “She’s attending a training session in Orlando.”

What could they train you for in Orlando, Driscoll wanted to ask, outside of how to wear your Mickey and Minnie ears? But he kept the question to himself.

“What about the old guy?” Russell asked. “The one who worked here since forever?”

The young receptionist cut her glance at Russell. Maroon silk blouse and a gray wool skirt that offered a plentiful view of her slender legs. Glistening black hair and a look that wouldn’t be out of place on the cover of a magazine that discussed a dozen ways to enjoy sex without dinging your nails.

A flaming YUCA, Driscoll thought—a young upwardly mobile
cubana
—being hassled in her place of business by a black guy she didn’t know, didn’t owe a thing. He was waiting for her to cut him dead, maybe even go for the letter opener on her desk or a can of mace in her purse, when she did something that astonished him.

She smiled. She’d run her gaze over Russell’s physique and honey-colored features, and had actually smiled.

“You must mean Mr. Nieman,” she said, her gaze holding Russell’s.

Driscoll did a double take, wondering if she’d mistaken Russell for a
compadre,
but he knew it wasn’t possible. A moment of harmony between a Cuban and a black in Miami? Things were changing indeed.

“He was old.” Russell shrugged. “Kind of stooped-over.”

“He’s such a sweet man,” the receptionist said, nodding. Her gaze seemed to question whether Russell Straight might be sweet himself.

“Could we talk to this Nieman?” Driscoll cut in.

She turned, her businesslike demeanor regathering itself. “I’m afraid Mr. Nieman’s not in today, either.”

“He went to bank school, too?” Russell asked.

She turned. “Of course not. He’s not really involved in the day-to-day of the bank any longer. It’s a shame. He really loves it here. Even though they don’t give him much to do, he hasn’t missed a day of work since I started.”

Russell nodded. “Maybe you could give us his phone number, then,” he said. “We just wanted to ask him a couple of questions.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and the tone of her voice suggested she
was
sorry. “I can’t give out that information.”

Russell nodded sympathetically. “Suppose
you
were to give him a call, see if he’d be willing to talk to us.”

Driscoll glanced at Russell, who ignored him.
A man doing his own thing,
Driscoll thought.
And not so badly, either.

“I guess that would be all right,” the receptionist said. She swiveled her computer monitor to make sure they couldn’t see the display, then punched some buttons on her keyboard. She scanned the readout, found what she was looking for, then picked up the phone and dialed, her eyes still on Russell.

“I’m sorry,” she said, after a moment. She gave Russell a look that seemed more pouty than dismayed. “He’s not answering.”

She placed the phone back in its cradle. “If you want to leave your number, I’ll have Mr. Nieman call you. And Ms. Acevedo, if you want—”

“Sure,” Driscoll said, handing over one of his cards.

She scanned it quickly, then looked up at Russell. “And you are…?”

“My name’s Russell. Russell Straight.” He nodded at Driscoll. “I’m his partner.”

Driscoll opened his mouth to say something, but decided to let it go.

“Do you have a card?”

“Not with me,” Russell Straight said.

“I want to thank you for your help, Ms.…?” Driscoll said.

“Ruiz,” she said. She turned to Russell. “Carolina Ruiz.” She was extending a business card between two of her perfectly manicured fingers.

Russell glanced at Driscoll then took the card with a nod. He seemed to be fighting a smile all the way out to the bank’s lobby.

“You forgot to get your parking ticket stamped,” he said to Driscoll.

“I’ll spring for it,” Driscoll said, not bothering to look at him.

“I suppose if I’d pissed her off, she’d have given me the guy’s number right away?” Russell said mildly. He held open one of the swinging doors that led out to the entryway where the building’s elevators were stationed.

Driscoll didn’t say anything. He waited for an elderly woman with a cat under her arm to come through the open door, then made a beeline toward a bank of phones in the outer lobby.

He dropped some coins, punched in a number, and stood waiting, ignoring Russell’s quizzical expression. “Osvaldo?” he said, when the connection was made. “Yeah, it’s Vernon. Uh-huh. Well, you need better lighting in that parking lot, that’s one thing. Right. I’ll tell you about it later. Meantime, how about you run this number on the reverse directory?”

He recited the ten digits, then tucked the phone under his chin and dug a pad and pen out of his coat pocket. He leaned back against the marble-clad wall as he waited, staring in a noncommittal way at Russell.

After a moment, Osvaldo’s voice was buzzing in the receiver again, and Driscoll turned to write down something on his pad.

“Sure,” he said, as he finished up. “Go ahead and run the name, see what you can turn up. I’ll get back in a while.” Then he hung up.

He glanced at the notes he’d made, then looked up at Russell. “Klaus Nieman? Seventeen twenty-nine South Bayside Avenue? That sound right to you?”

“We didn’t get into first names,” Russell said. “How’d you get the phone number, anyway?” Then his expression shifted as it dawned on him. “You watched her dial, didn’t you? Damn!”

Driscoll gave him a look he’d used on a number of his dimmer suspects during his days on the squad. “Rocket science, Russell. This business is nothing less.”

Russell nodded, hurrying after Driscoll, who had already turned toward the parking garage. “Don’t you want to call him yourself?”

“Didn’t you hear the lady inside?” Driscoll called over his shoulder. “The man’s not answering. We’re just going to drop by, make sure everything’s all right.”

Chapter Forty

It was shortly after nine when Deal heard the whine of the dinghy motor approaching the anchored Cigarette. The fog had burned away somewhat, enough to turn the atmosphere around them from lead to a milky shroud, but Deal still couldn’t see more than twenty yards into the stuff.

Some time before, Rhodes had gone below with an offhanded wave, a cellular phone tucked at his chin. There’d been a series of muffled conversations, that much he could make out, but Deal hadn’t been able to distinguish any specifics beyond a random yes or no.

Basil, meanwhile, had kept his station near the controls, his arms folded, his gaze hooded but steady.
Patient as a gangster Buddha,
Deal thought. Kaia Jesperson had remained on the deck as well. She was sitting in a padded seat that ran across the transom, her legs drawn up under her, staring quietly, intently, out into the swirling mists as if she might be reading runes there. If she noted the distant whine of the dinghy’s motor, she gave no sign of it.

As a matter of fact, Deal thought, maybe he’d been wrong. The sound of the motor seemed to have died away now, replaced by an unearthly quiet: nothing out there moving apparently, not a thing going on. Pale air and milky sea joined into one indistinguishable prospect, as if time had stopped and the earth were gearing up for another go even as he watched.

And that’s how
he
felt, he realized. As if he were reconstituting himself on the very edge of an unknown continent, trying to find the right jumping-off point for an unknown life ahead. Given all the things Rhodes—or Halliday—had told him, why should he feel otherwise?

In one way, he supposed, he was in the very position that Talbot Sams had urged or wished upon him just a few days ago: get next to this target of a federal manhunt, deliver proof that Michael Halliday, notorious felon and fugitive from justice, was still alive. And though their discussion had not reached that point, he’d been surely meant to assist in the apprehension of the man.

Sams could hardly have anticipated how well it would work out, Deal thought, casting his gaze at Basil’s glowering presence. Developments so convenient, in fact, that they made any present thoughts of cooperation seem largely theoretical, even if Deal were so inclined. In one respect, he had turned up precisely where he was supposed to be.

But beyond his own resentment at Sams and his methods, there was the matter of why the government agent had not shared everything he knew about Rhodes/Halliday at the outset. Could it be possible that Sams was unaware of the connection between Barton Deal and Lucky Rhodes? It seemed unlikely, but then again, all that had gone between the two men had taken place so many years ago—even Deal himself had lived a lifetime unaware.

Yet if Sams
were
aware of it, why keep quiet? Did he worry that some strange genetic predisposition existed that would make Deal automatically sympathetic to any member of the Rhodes criminal clan? Did he think that Deal might, in fact, recognize Richard Rhodes as some long-lost prodigal?

If Sams had read his Bible stories properly, Deal thought, there was nothing to worry about on that score. The brother who stayed home, who played the game by the rules, felt no compelling need to take up the cause of his wayward counterpart. Things just didn’t work that way. Or maybe Talbot Sams had skipped Sunday school.

No, there was simply no way that Sams could have anticipated what Richard Rhodes would have to tell him, Deal had concluded. Nor that Deal, instead of delivering Rhodes up to justice, would be on the verge of leading him to a fabled pot of gold.

And yet if it was there, that is exactly what he intended to do. Whatever the truth was, he would hand over the money to Rhodes, break the last link to the lowlives and suspect action that his father had ever forged. As far as the issue of crime and punishment went, that was Talbot Sams’ job, not John Deal’s.
Let Rhodes run, let Sams chase,
Deal thought, none of this was his concern, though gazing at Kaia Jesperson certainly had its appeal.

She turned then, as if she were well aware of Deal’s gaze, giving him something of a smile. “I was just thinking about the lotus-eaters,” she said. “That it might have been a lot like this on their little island.”

“They had Cigarette boats and guns?”

“Surrounded by this fog,” she said, undeterred. “The sense of being anywhere and nowhere at once. The incredible feel of this air…” She trailed off.

Deal thought about it briefly. He was used to such balminess, this time of year anyway, the temperature often holding at that perfect balance point where bracing gave way to comfort. Is that what it was, he wondered, the thing that had brought everyone stampeding into Florida never to go home again—the hustlers and the pioneers, the pirates and the aging and the refugees and all the just-plain-folks? The lotus-eaters’ temperature, stay here with us forever?

“I read the story in college,” he said to her at last, “so maybe my memory’s fading. I still don’t remember the part about hanging out with con men and their bodyguards.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “That seems harsh, after all you’ve heard.”

He shrugged. “Why should I believe it?”

She fixed him with her expressionless stare. “Who could make up such stories?”

“That’s probably what all those people Rhodes fleeced were saying to themselves. ‘He seemed like such a nice young man’ and all that.”

“Perhaps he is.”

Deal shook his head, thinking about appearances. Looking at Kaia, for instance, someone might find
her
the picture of innocence. “How’d you come to be part of all this?” he asked her.

She gave him a speculative look, then seemed to make a decision. “I met Richard in Turkey,” she said, glancing at Basil. If the big man was interested in the conversation, he didn’t show it. His chin had lowered to his chest, and his eyes had closed. It was the sort of pose that invited some foolish move, Deal thought. He was this close to solid land. He could bide his time.

“There was a man who owed me money,” she continued, “but he wasn’t willing to pay. Richard was kind enough to offer me passage back to the States.”

Deal nodded. “And now you’re finally here.”

“So it would seem,” she said.

He glanced in the direction of shore. “Is this where you get off, then?”

She shrugged. “Richard’s in love,” she said, as if she were discussing a medical condition.

“How about you?” he asked.

She gave him a thoughtful look. “That’s a rather personal question.”

He shrugged. “I’m just making conversation.”

“You don’t seem the type.”

He thought about it. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m not.”

“But you
are
interested.”

He stared at her. “You’re an interesting person.” It was true, he thought. He’d met his share of attractive women, had found himself attracted, in turn, in passing at least. Especially since all the trouble had arisen between himself and Janice. It was normal, he’d always assured himself. But it had been a long time since he’d felt an unaccountable tug like this. And it was more than her physical attributes, though those were not to be discounted. Something about that juxtaposition of apparent innocence with an underlying wisdom, goodness side by side with evil. Who wouldn’t be intrigued? he wondered.

“I think I’ve never been in love, actually,” she said.

He gave her a skeptical look. The sound of the dinghy motor was back, much closer this time. Perhaps the boat had been in a cove, the engine noise screened by the ever-present mangroves.

Kaia ran a hand through her thick hair, gave it a toss. She glanced in the direction of the sound. “Perhaps there was the illusion of it once or twice, when I was a schoolgirl,” she said.

“That seems like a waste,” he heard himself say.

“I haven’t wasted anything,” she said, pursing her perfect lips. “But
in love,
that’s a different matter.”

Deal nodded. The door to the cabin opened then and Rhodes appeared, his cell phone tucked away. He glanced at Deal then at Kaia. If he’d heard anything of their conversation, his expression didn’t reflect it.

Basil was back to full-alert, his eyes dutifully on his boss. “That’s Frank?” Rhodes asked, nodding in the direction of the approaching motor.

“It better be,” said Basil.

“We’re on our way, then,” he said

He turned to Deal. “Let me make something perfectly clear, Mr. Deal. You are free to go. Say the word, I’ll have you set on shore, you can proceed as you wish.”

Deal stared back. “You don’t think I’d go straight to the police?”

Rhodes shrugged. “And tell them you’ve been consorting with a dead man?”

Deal thought that one over. Another shadowy figure inviting him to cry wolf. First Sams, now Rhodes.

The damnable part was its truth. Ordinary cops would probably react just as Rhodes assumed they would. What proof did he have of Rhodes/Halliday’s existence? A bump on the head? If anything, that might argue the other way. As for Talbot Sams,
he
might find the news intriguing, but Deal had already thought that one through. There would be no helping Talbot Sams. Given the choice between Sams and Rhodes, there was simply no contest.

“What’s to keep me from going after the money myself?”

Rhodes shook his head. “That’s one thing I’m
not
worried about.”

“If I’m as straight as you seem to think I am, maybe I’d just hand it over to the cops.”

Rhodes considered it, then met Deal’s gaze full on. “It’s a matter of honor, Mr. Deal. I’ve been straightforward with you—”

“This once in your life?”

Rhodes paused. “My father was a gambler, but he wasn’t a cheat.” Rhodes stared at him defiantly. “I carried on his practice…and his methods as well. My clients demanded certain things from me, then complained when they suffered reversals. It’s the modern way. No one feels they deserve a setback. There’s no such thing as bad luck. There’s no ill in a privileged life that can’t be cured with an orchestrated wave of accusations, followed by a stiff lawsuit.”

Which may have accounted for the zeal of the Gullickson Prep crowd, Deal thought, but not for that of Talbot Sams. Sams, the representative of law and order. The public servant, bent on chiseling another notch in his moral gun, so intent on serving justice, he’d commit any moral outrage to get the job done.

What a position to find himself in, Deal thought, glancing off into the mists. He could see the vague shadow of the approaching dinghy now, and considered again the option that Rhodes had presented him with. Step into the little boat, have himself ferried by Frank back to shore, go on his merry way. Call Janice, reassure her he was all right, worry about everything else later.

He wondered briefly what his own father would have done in the situation, but he didn’t ponder long. Unlike Rhodes, he had no such source of moral authority, ambiguous as it might seem to others, upon which to lean. If Rhodes was to be believed, his father had been an honorable man. He might have been murdered by criminals, but in Rhodes’ mind, at least, he was always there to point the way, to posit what was right from wrong.

And Deal might have had the same. He’d heard all the legendary stories about Barton Deal, had seen the man in action close up. And there had been a time when there was nothing more important than to carry on—in whatever pale fashion of his own—his father’s awesome legacy.

But the suicide had changed all that. Proven the rumors and the whispers and the accusations true. Even if he hadn’t done all the things that business partners and rivals and bank examiners had alleged, he hadn’t stayed around to fight. And while Deal could never forgive Talbot Sams for his part—placing Barton Deal in the middle, in the position where no man, no saint could have resisted the temptations placed before him—still, it had been his father’s decision to make.

And it was not that Deal lacked compassion. His heart ached when he thought how lonely, how bereft of hope, his father must have been when he pulled that trigger. But one thing was certain: that action had taken away his father forever, at least in the way he would have welcomed his memory now.

What would you have done, old man?
That was the eternal question. One to which there would never be an answer.

“Are you all right?”

It was Kaia Jesperson’s voice, bringing Deal back. He blinked as if surprised to find himself standing on the deck of a mist-shrouded boat in a cove on the ragged South Florida coast. Her expression was concerned, and he wondered for a moment how long he’d been silent. But Rhodes stared back at him without alarm, as if he knew something of the enormity and number of the thoughts that had been streaming through his mind.

The dinghy emerged from the fog. Frank used a boat hook to draw the smaller craft near. Deal felt the tug and the shudder of water beneath his feet, felt the nudge as the two boats met.

“So what do you think, Mr. Deal?” Richard Rhodes asked.

Deal looked at him. “I want to give you your money back,” he said. A decision. One he’d made all by himself, no ghost of Barton Deal hovering over his shoulder. He knew there was no other way.