AHMM, December 2009 (7 page)

"Do you mind if I look around?"

"Not at all. It is a very nice boat."

I went below and saw he was right about that. But the salon and the cabins were a mess.

"Did your people tear it apart?"

"We searched, but this was done before."

"Did you find any money on board?"

"A few pesos."

"Coberly wouldn't need to search his own boat."

"No."

"So who did it—the blonde?"

"Or the man whose blood we found."

"Did you collect multiple samples for DNA?” I said.

"Of course. We couldn't be certain the mess topside was a single person's blood."

"What about down here? From hairbrushes and towels, that sort of thing?"

He was silent. There went my invitation to join the Quintana Roo cops. Torres excused himself, went on deck, and came back with several plastic bags. He bagged a man's hairbrush, two toothbrushes, and a safety razor from a shelf in the main head. He managed a painful smile. “We shall see, Miss Trevor."

I used an almost depleted credit card to rent a room. From a tiny bar near the reception desk I put in a collect call to Woody Erskine in Key West. It was dusk here. There was a little noise from a restaurant around the corner. A little salsa from a dive shop across the road. I told Woody what I'd learned since the e-mail. Not much.

"If Coberly is alive, he could be anywhere,” Woody said. “If he's dead, you've got no proof."

"Coberly may have committed a crime. What I'm finding out works against Mrs. Coberly's interests.” Which, to be blunt, were that she was a widow.

"So perhaps you should come home,” he said.

I was having breakfast on the patio at the rear of the hotel when Sergeant Torres appeared. He was carrying a briefcase.

"May I join you? Sometimes I, too, have inspirations. Don't ask me why.” The waiter brought him a plate of melon. “We have cordial relations with the American police. I was inspired to ask a favor. Could they run the DNA we collected from the boat against your national crime data base? They did. There was no match.” He was still smiling. “That was not my true inspiration. My true inspiration was to ask the same American friend to run the DNA profile we received from the attorney for Mr. Coberly."

"Why do that?"

"As I said, inspiration."

He was going to make me ask. “Was there a match?"

"Yes."

"So Coberly has a criminal record."

"No."

"I don't understand."

"The DNA profile we received from Señor Coberly's attorney—supposedly Mr. Coberly's DNA—matched up with a man named Michael Marks, who has a criminal record for income tax evasion."

"The lawyer sent you the wrong DNA profile?"

"So it appears."

I thought of the young-sounding lawyer in Boca—Charles Pottle. We had spoken only once, and briefly. He hadn't seemed too impressed by a four-million-dollar estate. But, I thought now, impressed or not, he would be administering the estate, unless Nicole Coberly inherited. So Pottle's interests diverged from Nicole's at the get-go. Nicole benefited from a dead husband. Pottle benefited if the husband stayed alive until the divorce was final.

I thought, darn. He'd seemed like a nice young guy.

I said, “Have you asked Pottle about it?"

"I phoned, but got voice mail."

"There might be another way to get Coberly's DNA for comparison,” I said. “He was involved in a paternity suit. Those tests results might be around."

"Then we could at least know if it is Señor Coberly's blood on the deck."

"I'll check labs when I get back to Florida,” I said.

Torres brightened. “Are you going home now? I have something for you.” He pulled a cardboard box from his briefcase and set it on the table. I opened the box and found a nasty looking little clay sculpture. Torres said, “Chac, the Mayan god of fertility. Personally, I prefer the Aztec deities, but that is because my family is from Mexico City. This little devil is
muy typico
of Mayan, as they tell the tourists."

I turned it in the bright morning light, a heavy, malevolent thing more black than brown that was so ugly it was almost beautiful.

"Chac is supposed to be benevolent, except for demanding the occasional sacrifice,” Sergeant Torres said. He had nice eyes. They were more amused than soulful, and I liked that.

I wrapped Chac in a dirty T-shirt and stuffed him in my knapsack.

"Thank you,” I said.

The trip home, which zigzagged through Miami, took nine hours. I made a half dozen unsuccessful calls to Charles Pottle's office before reaching my boat at close to midnight. There were two notes pinned to the hatch. One reminded me the slip fee was due. The other said Mr. Erskine had called. I ignored them both, went down into the cabin, and found a visitor. I'd half expected a young lawyer from Boca. This person was as tall as she'd been described, with short tawny hair, pretty eyes, a small gun. No movie star hat.

"Mike said this would be easy, but it's really been tough,” she said. She sounded like a school kid griping about trig.

"Michael Marks, you mean."

"Oh, brother! What a mess!"

"Is Charles Pottle in on it?"

She made a yucking sound. “For a lawyer he was really dumb. He never figured out how Hy beat the paternity suit. The lawyer representing that lady wasn't so innocent."

"He let Hy substitute Mike's DNA."

"You sure know a lot,” she said.

"Just a guess. You sort of gave it away."

"They go way back, Hy and Mike. Mike and I hooked up a few months ago. When he told me how Hy was living big on his boat, I told him what a fool he was. Here's this friend he helped out of a big jam, and the friend cuts him out. Mike didn't get any more than the lady's lawyer, ten K each. If you got expenses, it doesn't go very far.” She looked around the cabin of the boat, deciding I didn't know about expenses.

"Thing is, there was supposed to be a lot of money,” she said. “And some gold coins. Hy liked to tell how smart he was investing.” She waved the gun forlornly. “But that stuff wasn't on the boat. Did you find where it is?"

"Yes,” I lied.

"Really, where?"

"I'm not going to tell you,” I said.

She shrugged with the gun. “Hy wouldn't either. I gave him plenty of chances. Mike and me finally decided Mr. Pottle didn't know either. He was a real crybaby.” She gave a shake of the tawny head. “Once the police had Mike's name, I had to start thinking about myself. The money would have been nice, but what's money if you haven't got the time to enjoy it?"

"A perennial problem,” I agreed. “So where's Mike?"

She didn't seem to hear the question. The boat had creaked a moment ago, but it was always creaking.

I said, “What's your name?"

"Susie Jean."

"Nice name. What about your friend Mike? Where's he?"

"Mike?” She answered vaguely. “Gone bye-bye. He knew me, you see.” Not sorry, not sad. She had the look people get when they've had a thought and can't pin it down, concentrating on empty space, hoping the thought will pop into sight.

"You forgot somebody you needed to kill?” I said.

"No. I just this minute was thinking. You don't suppose Hy's wife would know where he keeps the gold?"

"Doubt it. They were on bad terms.” I thought about telling her love never lasted, but it seemed too abstract. And she probably knew.

The boat creaked again. This time she looked, and it must have been a sight, the fat pale face pressed against the porthole glass. Arthur couldn't let a tall blonde pass the yard unobserved. Faithful Arthur, hoping for a glimpse, especially a twofer.

She shrieked and fired the gun at the same time. Before she could swing the aim back, I fed her my knapsack which carried about two pounds of a cheap Mexican god. I had my knee in her back and was trussing her with panty hose when I heard Arthur clatter off the deck onto the pier, running for his life. I half thought I should thank Susie Jean. But since she hadn't shot him, he would be back, sooner or later. I cinched the knots on her wrists tight with both hands.

The cops had Susie Jean for a few hours without paying undue attention to the possibility she might have been a little concussed and unfit to answer questions of her free and considered will.

"Name's Susan Jean Meadows,” said my friend Barry Irvington, who was running the town's detective bureau. “She comes up on NCIC's system also as Susan Jean Harlow, Susan Hayward, and a few others. Apparently likes old movies. The gun she had matches the caliber of slugs taken from a lawyer in Boca Raton. What else can I tell you?"

"What does she say about Hy Coberly?"

"That he wouldn't play fair. So he went over the side with his throat cut."

"You've got that on tape?” Woody Erskine asked.

"Yes."

Woody threw a rare smile at me. “You want to tell the widow?"

I let Woody talk to Nicole. He also told her that Hy might have had gold coins hidden somewhere. At least Nicole would know to begin looking. Early the next day I called First Sergeant Javier Torres. Before I could say anything, he announced, “The woman who sailed with Señor Coberly is Susan Jean Meadows."

"A k a Susan Jean Harlow,” I said.

"You knew?” He was crushed. “We got a match from a toothbrush only last night."

"She paid me a visit. Hy Coberly is dead. So are a couple of people in Florida's jurisdiction. Susie Jean killed them."

"Tell me."

"It's pretty complicated."

"Then fly down to Cozumel and tell me in person. The State of Quintana Roo will pay. We must clear this case."

I thought about it and had to ask, “Are you married?"

"No, Miss Trevor. And I never expect to be."

I told him I would see him tomorrow.

Copyright © 2009 John C. Boland

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"First, I will tell you the dream,” she said, her Neapolitan accent quite strong, “because I believe dreams matter, and in this one my father came to me with roses."

When Mr. O'Nelligan responded with “Yes, dreams rise from the soul,” I had to stifle a smile. My Irish friend was, as ever, shamelessly dripping with flourish and finery. Still, his sympathetic tone did have the immediate effect of easing the sternness from the young woman's face. With this change, it occurred to me that she was fairly lovely. Per her request, we were seated at a picnic table in an obscure little park on the outskirts of Scarsdale, about an hour from my office. It was early October, 1956, and the air that afternoon was more than a bit chilly. I turned up my collar as our prospective client continued.

"I dreamt this three days ago. At first I was not sure it was him because a deep fog was everywhere, but someone said, ‘Here comes Giuseppe Zampino.’ Then the fog parted a little and my father was standing there holding some roses. Not a full bouquet, just a couple in each hand. He asked, ‘Where are my sons?’ I reminded him they were back in Italy and he seemed relieved. Then he said, ‘It has not been safe here for me,’ and I told him, ‘I know Papa. I'm so sorry...’”

Here her voice broke a little, but she caught herself and pushed on. “He handed me the flowers and told me to plant them. He said they would grow into a whole field of roses. I said, ‘It doesn't work like that, Papa.’ He said, ‘Oh, but it does, Topolina—’ He often called me his ‘little mouse.’ ‘You must do it for me.’ And that's how I knew I could not let this thing rest."

"You mean the robbery?” I asked.

"I mean his
murder.
When my father and I entered the gallery that morning two weeks ago and saw that the painting had been stolen, he suffered a heart attack right there at my side. The police do not consider it murder, but I do. It's no different than if the thief sank a knife into my father's chest. That's why I wish to hire you gentlemen."

"Let's backtrack a bit.” I pulled out my trusty notebook. “When you called, you said your father ran an art gallery here in Scarsdale."

"Yes, yes.” Donna Zampino nodded. “He was not the owner, you understand, just the manager. But he gave his heart and soul to the place."

"Then who's the owner?"

Her face hardened again. “His name is Stuart Worley. And he is the one I believe stole the painting."

Mr. O'Nelligan smoothed his neat gray beard. “That is an interesting notion, Miss Zampino. Was the purloined painting the property of the artist or of Mr. Worley?"

"Worley had bought it from the artist, Gilmar Noll, for a very small sum. Also, he made Noll sign a contract to sell him his next twenty paintings. Twenty! All at the same low payment. Then Worley convinced people that Noll was the next da Vinci, so everyone would rush to the gallery to view
Bursting Skull.
"

Mr. O'Nelligan cocked his head. “
Bursting Skull?
"

"That's the name of the stolen painting,” said Donna.

"Is it a worthy work?"

"Actually, it's a...” The young woman paused, seeking the right word. Her lips started in on an “m” sound, and I thought she was going for “masterpiece.” I was wrong. “Mess,” she said. “It's a terrible mess, if you ask me. But it is considered modern art."

"Oh, right, modern art.” There was concern in my friend's voice. “Ah, well..."

"So, now Worley is set up to sell twenty more paintings at a very high dollar. That is, once Gilmar Noll creates them. It is a profitable business, you see?"

"We do see,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “But what would Mr. Worley's motive be for stealing a painting he already owns?"

"One reason is the insurance,” Donna said. “Worley insured
Bursting Skull
for quite a high amount. But there's a more important reason. You would have to know Stuart Worley to understand. He is in love with his own abilities. He sees himself as the perfect man."

"How so?” I asked.

"Everything is correct about him—the way he dresses, the way he acts in the world, his success as a businessman. All these things. Even his smile. I once heard him lecture my father on the proper way to do it, how exactly the lips should turn up. The man is horrible."