He pulled the throttle back to idle, keeping just enough way on to steer toward the floating dock, where Eduardo’s mahogany runabout was tied up. He cut the engine, glided to the inside of the dock, and grabbed a cleat. He secured the Whaler and climbed out onto the float, then took the catwalk to the pier to which the float was attached. A flagstone path led into the dark woods. He took a small flashlight from his pocket but didn’t turn it on yet; he stuck to the path and let his eyes become accustomed to the darkness. The light from a quarter moon helped a little.
He reached the barn and stepped behind some shrubs to look through a window. The wan moonlight through the skylights gave shape to some furniture and an easel. The place was deserted. He went back to the front door and played the thin beam of his flashlight on the lock. Nothing impenetrable. He took a small wallet from an inside pocket, unzipped it, and removed a set of lock picks that he had made from a hacksaw blade. It had been a while since he had used the tools, but the lock took only a couple of minutes. He let himself in and closed the door softly behind him.
He padded around the place for a few minutes, checking the kitchen, where he found a wooden block holding a set of sharp knives. She had the means, and he had no doubt about motive and opportunity. He went back to the studio and found, roughly, the spot Stefano Scali had marked on his drawing. It looked clean, but Carmine wasn’t finished. He removed a small can from his coat pocket and began spraying the contents evenly on the stone floor, then he stopped and turned off his flashlight. Nothing. He moved along a couple of feet and sprayed again. Still nothing. He backed up and went the other way, and this time he had results: a trail of luminescent blue ran for about fourteen inches.
Carmine took out his iPhone and took some pictures; they were remarkably good, he thought. He put the camera back into his pocket and straightened up. As he did, he felt something poke into his back, and a voice said, “Shhhhh.” Then, before he could react, someone grabbed his coat collar and held it, then drove the blade into his back. He jerked his body around, but between the grasp on his collar and the pressure on the blade, he was kebabed, so he couldn’t turn. Then he was tripped and forced to the floor.
Carmine felt his only chance was to go limp, to seem less of a threat. He was dragged toward the door, then outside onto the stone walk, where he was stopped. Then the blade was withdrawn and his body began to gush. In a moment, he had passed out.
When Carmine awoke he was in a different place; it was moving, and he felt the vibration of an engine. He tried to move just slightly, but could not. There was plastic sheeting over his face, inhibiting his breathing. He wasn’t thinking very clearly, but he knew he didn’t have long to live; either the bleeding or Jamaica Bay would end it for him.
The boat continued its passage while Carmine fought to stay conscious. Twice more he fainted and came to again, then he stopped struggling to breathe.
He thought about his wife until he passed out again. He never felt the cold water close over him.
48
Elton Hills, at the behest of Bruce Willard, had subscribed to the New York Times and the Washington Post, and he was enjoying the reading. Then, in the social pages of the Post, a name in a caption below a photo of a group at a party caught his eye: Creed Harker.
He counted the names and the faces, and his finger came to one floating a head above the rest of the group. He felt the blood rise in him; his ears burned. With no other evidence than what he had heard about Harker and the man’s appearance, he felt he had met his enemy. For the first time in years, except for his son’s burial, he began to think of leaving his property.
Bruce Willard was at his desk going over a printout of his accountant’s monthly profit/loss statement, when the phone rang, and he picked it up. “Bruce Willard.”
“Bruce, it’s Elton Hills,” a voice said.
“Good morning, Elton. I hope you’re well.”
“I am, thank you. Bruce, I was thinking I might come to Washington for a few days to see how Evan lived.”
“What a good idea. I’ve got the keys to Evan’s house. I think you’d be very comfortable there.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. I don’t think I could tolerate the crowds at a hotel.”
“Evan has a live-in couple who take care of the place very well. I’ll let them know you’re coming.”
“That would be grand. Do you think there’d be room for Manolo, too? I’d want him to drive me.”
“Of course. When would you like to arrive?”
“Late this afternoon? Would that be all right?”
“Of course. I’ll take you to dinner.”
“Do you think you could find a quiet table at the Four Seasons in Georgetown? I’ve heard about the restaurant from you and seen photographs of it in the papers.”
“Certainly. They know me there, as they knew Evan. When you arrive in town, come to my shop. I’d like you to see it. Then I’ll take you over to the house — it’s not far.” He gave the old man the address, then hung up and called the house to alert the couple that a guest was coming. “It’s Evan’s father,” he said, “and his chauffeur. I hope you’ll make them very comfortable.”
“Will you require dinner, Mr. Bruce?” the woman asked.
“No, we’ll be going out, but after that you should be prepared to serve meals. Mr. Hills doesn’t enjoy going out a lot.”
“We’ll be ready.”
Bruce hung up and went back to reading his statements. An hour later, UPS arrived, bringing him a package from Apple Publishing.
Mr. Hills,” Manolo said, “the people you were expecting from your attorney’s office have arrived.”
“Please show them in, Manolo.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Manolo, I want you to drive me to Washington, D.C., immediately after lunch. Pack a bag for two nights.”
Manolo was momentarily speechless; he had never had such a request from his employer. “Yes, sir,” he was finally able to say.
“And perhaps you’d better clean the car and fill it with gas.”
“Yes, sir.” Manolo showed the group of people into the library, and they began to hand Elton documents.
“Please read the marked passages, Mr. Hills,” the attorney said. “Those are where the changes you wished have been made. If they are correct, you may sign them, and we’ll witness them properly.”
Hills read the documents, approved them, and signed them. The group lined up to witness them.
Before lunch, Elton Hills did something he had not done for many years: he packed a bag. After lunch, he handed the bag to Manolo, then called him to look at a photograph in a folded newspaper. “Do you see this man, Manolo?”
“Yes, sir, very tall, isn’t he?”
“I believe so. I’m going out to dinner tonight with Mr. Willard, to a place this man frequents. If you see him arrive, come inside and tell me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then follow him. I want to know where he goes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll be staying at my son’s house tonight. I’m told we’ll be very comfortable there.”
“Very good, sir.” Manolo took the bag to the car and put it into the trunk.