Cross Current - Kling Christine (бесплатные книги полный формат TXT) 📗
While Mike was pulling out the drawers and looking for anything of Gil’s that might tell us something, I noticed the newspaper on the bulkhead closest to the door was newer than the others. The front page of the Miami Herald had a small headline in the lower left corner, “Haitian Boat Sinks in Hillsboro Inlet,” and in the first paragraph I saw the name Miss Agnes.
“Well, would you look at this?” Mike held up a flashy new handheld VHF radio and a Nextel cellular phone. “I wonder where our friend picked up these little items?”
“Pretty expensive gear for a guy who’s homeless,” I said. “Yeah, I think it’s more likely our buddy Gil has sticky fingers than a major credit card.” He pulled out the drawer where he had found the electronics and felt around inside for anything that might be taped to the underside of the cabinet, when he didn’t find anything, he slid the drawer back in place, adjusted his leg, and pushed himself to his feet.
“Take a look at this,” I said, pointing to the newspaper. “What do you make of this?”
“What? That Gil uses newspaper for wallpaper?” Mike leaned in closer to the newsprint and tapped his finger against the headline. “Interesting, but probably just a coincidence.” He held up the phone and radio. “This, however, this intrigues me. I know Gil Lynch is not as loony as he pretends to be.” He handed me the phone and took a scrap of paper and a mechanical pencil out of his pocket. “Read me the number off that phone. I’ll have somebody run it and see who it belongs to.”
After I’d read him the number, he placed the items back in the drawer. “Let’s get out of this stink hole.”
We both managed to climb back down into Mike’s inflatable without falling into the canal or tearing any clothing on the rusty metal edges of the barge. I continued to be surprised by Mike’s agility with his artificial leg.
He cranked up the outboard while I untied our line and pushed the inflatable away from the rusty old derelict. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” I said as we idled slowly out of the little side creek.
“Okay, let’s look at what we know. Gil Lynch is a burnt-out dealer turned snitch. He might get Social Security, but he’s dirt poor, living on the streets, and sleeping in shitty holes like that.” He jerked his thumb back at the barge. “As far as I know, the guy usually doesn’t mind seeing the cops come along. He normally tries to sell some tidbit of information.”
He turned the corner back into the Dania Cut-off Canal and pushed the throttle forward. The outboard noise climbed, and Mike continued by shouting.
“Two things are weird. First, if Gil knows something, why didn’t he try to sell it to me? And second, if he stole that stuff, why’s he hanging on to it? Guys like him usually head straight for the nearest pawnshop when they lift something like that.”
I wasn’t up to trying to shout over the outboard, so I just watched the riverbank flash by, and I let my thoughts blur in the same way. There had once been cypress trees in the freshwater swamp we were passing through, but when developers tapped into the aquifer to water all the green lawns they were planting, the water table dropped and Pond Apple Slough suffered as the saltwater seeped in. The twisted branches of the dead cypress trees still provided nesting space for hawks and osprey, though. I pointed a nest out to Mike. “Osprey,” I shouted.
“Cool.” He nodded.
Red had known Gil for about twenty-five years, and in all the time I had worked for my father on board Gorda, I didn’t remember Red ever mentioning him. Had they stayed in touch after the delivery, when Gil became a big-time drug dealer?
We rounded a bend in the waterway, and I saw we were exiting the swamp. More boat traffic and the bridges of the interstate were just ahead. Mike slowed the dinghy. Finally, he was able to talk in a more natural voice.
“We’re not far from Joe’s house now.”
“What do you think Gil’s connection to Joe is?”
“That’s just what we’re going to ask him,” Mike said.
Joe D’Angelo’s house stood out from its neighbors. The canal that stretched back from the river along the side of his property was lined with simple suburban homes whose backyard embellishments consisted of barbecues and swimming pools. Joe’s house was anything but simple. The large corner lot fronted about seventy feet on the river and another hundred feet along the canal, so you could not miss the elaborate patio and swimming pool with a huge artificial rock waterfall, the built-in waterslide, and the raised Jacuzzi that spilled into the pool. A covered redwood bar adjoined the Jacuzzi so that the bartender could easily deliver drinks to those basking in the bubbles. The pool cabana house had a small satellite dish on the roof, and the ranch-style house had been modified beyond recognition with a raised roof to accommodate the cathedral ceilings and glass walls that fronted the pool area. Davits at the far end of the dock held a black Jet Ski suspended over the water. The only boat tied to his dock was a sleek white Donzi ocean racer, maybe forty-five feet long, with a large cabin forward and room for half a dozen bikinied babes on the large upholstered transom. Judging from the dirt and leaves on the white fiberglass, Joe didn’t take her out much.
Mike slid the dinghy alongside the dock in front of Joe’s boat and killed the engine. After all his shouting and the constant whine of the outboard, the quiet seemed almost unnatural. From up the canal somewhere, the smell of grilling meat mingled with the sound of children laughing and shouting.
Mike took a deep breath. “Hmm. Smells good. Didn’t realize just how hungry I am.” He smiled at me. “No lunch.” He held his stomach. “I’m doing Weight Watchers.”
“What? With all the pina coladas you drink?”
He grinned. “That’s what I like about Weight Watchers. I can drink all my points.”
I shook my head and hopped up onto the dock. “Do you think we should have tried to call again?”
“Nah. When you want information, you don’t let ’em know exactly when you’re coming. Much better to just drop in.”
Looking around at the elaborate pool and patio setup, I said, “Wow, this is some property. Joe didn’t do too bad as a DEA agent.”
“Like I said, he bought this place twenty years ago when they were affordable, and this particular property was a real dump, I heard. He says he did lots of the work himself.”
We were walking around the Jacuzzi when the sliding doors opened and a stunning, smiling black woman waved to Mike.
“Mister Mike. Hello.” Her head was wrapped in a bright blue headscarf, and she stood in the doorway with one hand at her hip, the other shading her eyes from the sun. The pose was casual, but a photograph of her at that moment could have sold any product. Although her English was almost unaccented, I detected a bit of Haiti in there.
“Hey, Celeste, is Joe around?” Mike asked as we rounded the pool.
“He is not here right now, but he’ll be home soon.” She stepped out of the opening in the sliding door and waved her hand toward the interior of the house. “Would you like to come in and wait?” Her movements were like those of a dancer. Though she was wearing a simple cotton dress and no makeup, her figure and face were striking.
Mike turned to me with raised eyebrows. “Your call, Sullivan. You got the time?”
I shrugged. “We can wait a while. If he doesn’t get here in twenty minutes, though, we’d better take off. I have to meet someone tonight.”
“Fair enough.” He waved his arm in the direction of Celeste. “After you.”
Celeste brought us glasses and bottles of St. Pauli’s Girl beer. She set us up at the indoor bar in the study that overlooked the pool. Clearly, Joe was into bars. I was trying to discern if Celeste was a housekeeper or girlfriend. Or both. When she disappeared and did not come back, I decided on housekeeper.
