I’d just finished a two-hour immersion course. Holderness had used Biz-Speak to relay her dissatisfaction without once looking me in the eye, or saying a single true thing.
My “core competencies” were “below the curve,” which suggested I might benefit from a personal “repurposing,” or perhaps an “offline skills transfer.” But that would require increased “face time” and “boots-on-the-ground” attention from Ms. Holderness herself.
When she told me that, I smiled. Yes, the woman had fallen for Tomlinson’s carefree hippie act. She was creating a reason to return to Sanibel.
Her underlings wrote notes. I did, too. They approved of my conscientiousness and let me know it-but only because they didn’t see what I was writing.
Bottom line… on the radar… try it on… at the end of day
… empowerment, multitasking, warm-and-fuzzies, synergistic… ping (to explore), the Ten-KPerspective (overview), deep-dive (verb-to explore a problem in depth).
Despite my poor evaluation, Holderness backpedaled when I suggested we terminate our contract.
“Don’t be overly sensitive, Dr. Ford. Your actual work product is superb.”
I replied, “Well then, that’s the bottom line, isn’t it?” moving to the door to show them out.
End of meeting.
From my office desk, I called and got an update on Corey Varigono. Her condition had been changed from critical condition to serious but stable. She was going to make it.
Shay sounded better, too, although we didn’t talk long. Tomlinson had paid her a visit. Now Ransom was with her-stopped on her way to town. My cousin has an earthy stability, and a no-bullshit approach to life. It was good they were together, and I was tempted to ask Ransom to let Tomlinson ravage Seattle on his own for a few days. But Shay was going to be okay, and Ransom would be back in time for the rehearsal dinner Friday night.
After I hung up, I turned my attention to the cell phone and derringer I’d taken from Vance Varigono. For the first time, I took a close look.
The derringer wasn’t a lighter. It was a stainless steel over-and-under that opened like a double-barreled shotgun. He’d loaded the thing with. 38 caliber hollow-points-man-stoppers engineered for maximum damage. The quasi soldier-of-fortune types buy them at gun shows.
Damn.
Varigono could have killed me if he’d pulled the trigger. A small entry hole but a grapefruit-sized exit wound. It made my stomach knot to replay the encounter, but I did it, taking note of mistakes that I didn’t want to repeat. I’d underestimated him, then played it way too close. The steroid freak had a big mouth but shaky hands. Surprising the gun hadn’t discharged accidentally. Hollow-points are indifferent. They would have displaced the same amount of flesh.
I removed the cartridges, pushed the gun aside, and opened his phone.
Vance had been in a talkative mood between the hours of 1 a.m. and 3 a.m. I checked the recent calls menu and saw that he’d dialed eight different numbers, including Michael and Elliot, whose names were logged on speed dial. There was also a number I knew well. Mine. He’d tried several times-probably confirming I wasn’t home.
The calls were local except for an international number with the prefix 4-1-0. I checked the computer: Switzerland.
The time log indicated that Vance had gotten nothing but voice recorders until he tried Beryl’s fiance. Someone had answered, presumably Elliot, but the conversation was brief, only three minutes.
It explained how Elliot knew what he knew. Michael Jonquil, too. But three minutes wasn’t enough time for Vance to go into detail about what he’d found on his wife’s computer.
Would he tell them the rest? Of course. I’d scared him, but Vance was a type, and his type recovered fast. If the cops found him, though, it might be a couple of days before Vance had free time to spend with his fraternity brothers. Detectives would question him about Corey’s bruises and her overdose. How would he explain where he was between the hours of 3 a.m. and 5 a.m.? He couldn’t use me as an alibi, so he would lie. Good cops always know. Could be that Vance was sitting in jail right now, nursing his dislocated elbow.
I toggled back a few days into the call log and found the four-digit code he used to retrieve voice mail. I called and used it.
All messages erased.
From my office-supply cabinet, I selected a fresh spiral notebook, reporter-sized. I can tally the number of trips I’ve taken by the number of similar notebooks stacked in my file drawers, or hidden away. Each trip gets its own, no matter how sparse the notes.
I retuned to the desk and wrote Medusa on the cover. Medusa is the free-swimming, predatory phase of animals in the phylum cnidarians. Medusa-the rare jellyfish found off Saint Arc. Research would be my excuse for returning to the island.
I sat for a few minutes making notes about yesterday’s trip to Saint Arc. After leaving the Bank of Aruba, I had followed the blackmailer’s bagman to a bar called the Green Turtle, then to a parking lot where he got into a Fiat. I had noted the license-plate number on a business card. I found the card, copied the number into the notebook, then flipped to a back page where I copied numbers from Vance’s phone.
When I was done, I thought for a moment, then slipped the phone into my pocket, power on. It might be interesting to monitor the man’s calls.
Vance had come way too close to killing me not to pay attention.
9
Gear for my trip to Saint Arc was on the bed: two semiautomatic pistols, ammunition, a dive knife, Rocket fins, two masks, a compact spear gun, black watch cap, military face paint, handheld VHF radio with built-in GPS, two false passports, a satellite phone, Triad flashlight, infrared Golight, an envelope containing $10,000 in euros …
I had the hidden floor locker open. The collection grew as I moved between the bedroom, the lab, and my boat.
My boat… that’s what I needed. Saint Arc was only a few miles from Saint Lucia. I wanted to book a room on Saint Lucia and use a boat to slip on and off Saint Arc. It would be cleaner that way. But I didn’t want to rent some tourist junker from an island marina. You can’t check a twenty-one-foot Maverick at the luggage counter, and I was going to have a tough-enough time getting firearms on a commercial airliner, then past the Saint Arc customs officers. They weren’t well-trained, they weren’t methodical, but they weren’t idiots, either.
Weapons and a decent boat…
I have operated in parts of the world where I had neither, but it was rare. I could usually rely on my contacts to provide equipment. I needed their help now. So why was I putting off making the calls?
From the fireproof box, I took a weathered address book. Blue cover; alphabet tabs broken off. Most entries in pencil-pencil because it can be erased, but also because ink bleeds if soaked in a jungle storm.
As I leafed through the pages, I found my attention wandering to the videocassette, which I’d placed on the bed while packing. I had already checked it for serial numbers and identifying marks-nothing to distinguish it from millions of other Panasonic DVD tapes. But now, when I looked at it, Beryl Woodward came into my head. Her face, the auburn hair, her aloofness and heat. Her voice, too.
Especially after seeing some of the clips from that tape-my God. I would’ve watched. I’d pretended like I hadn’t, but I would’ve watched from beginning to end.
I could hear her saying it, words clipped by wealth and the careful genetics of her caste. The inflection when she said, I would’ve watched. The stage innocence of her inflection on my God.
It wasn’t a tease. The subject had changed her breathing. But why tell me? Was she granting permission? Or was she suggesting something …?
Buzz.