Lawrence Block - Out on the Cutting Edge

When I got to Willa’s she was wearing the white Levi’s with another silk blouse, this one lime green. Her hair was down, flowing over her shoulders. She’d buzzed me in and she met me at the door of her apartment, giving me a quick kiss, then drawing back, concern showing on her face. “You look drained,” she said. “Exhausted.”

“I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. And I’ve been going all day after an early start.”

She drew me inside, closed the door. “Why don’t you take a nap right away,” she urged. “Do you think you could do that?”

“I’m wound too tight. And I’ve still got things I have to do.”

“Well, at least I can give you a decent cup of coffee. I went out today to one of those yuppie havens where they sell fifty different blends, one more expensive than the next. I think they price it by the bean, and they can tell you where it came from and what kind of animal crap they spread on the fields. I bought a pound each of three different coffees and this electric drip machine that does everything but drink it for you.”

“Sounds great.”

“I’ll pour you a cup. I had them grind it for me. They wanted to sell me a grinder so that every cup I brewed would be at the peak of freshness, but I figured you have to draw the line somewhere.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“Taste it, see what you think.”

I took a sip, set the cup down on the table. “It’s good,” I said.

“Just good? Oh, God, I’m sorry, Matt. You had a long day and it was a hard one, too, wasn’t it? And I’m running off at the mouth. Why don’t you sit down? I’ll try to shut up.”

“It’s all right,” I said. “But I’d like to make a phone call first, if you don’t mind. I want to call Warren Hoeldtke.”

“Paula’s father?”

“He should be home now.”

“Would you like me to go out while you make the call?”

“No,” I said. “Stick around. In fact, you can listen while I talk to him. It’ll save saying the same thing twice.”

“If you’re sure.”

I nodded, and she sat down while I picked up the phone and dialed his home number, not bothering to make it collect this time. Mrs. Hoeldtke answered, and when I asked for him she said, “Mr. Scudder? He’s expecting your call. Just a moment, I’ll get him.”

When Hoeldtke came on the line he said hello as if bracing himself. “I’m afraid the news is bad,” I said.

“Tell me.”

“Paula is dead,” I said. “She died the second weekend in July. I can’t be sure of the precise date.”

“How did it happen?”

“She spent the weekend on a boat, she and a gentleman friend and another couple. The other man had a speedboat, some sort of cabin cruiser that he kept at a marina on City Island. The four of them went out on open water.”

“And there was an accident?”

“Not exactly,” I said. I reached for my cup and had some of my coffee. It was very good coffee. “Boats, fast ones, are in demand these days. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that drug smuggling is a big business.”

“Were these other people drug smugglers?”

“No. Paula’s companion was a securities analyst. The other man was also on Wall Street, and the other woman ran a crafts gallery on Amsterdam Avenue. They were respectable people. There’s no evidence that they even used drugs, let alone dealt in them.”

“I see.”

“Their boat, however, was one that would lend itself to smuggling. That made it an attractive target for pirates. This sort of piracy has become very common in the Caribbean. Boat owners down there have learned to carry firearms on board and fire at any other vessel that comes too close. Piracy is less common in northern waters, but it’s getting to be a problem. A gang of pirates approached the boat Paula was on, pretending to be a ship in distress. They managed to get on board, and then they did what pirates have always done. They killed everyone and made off with the ship.”

“My God,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “There’s no gentle way to say it. From what I’ve been able to determine, it was over very quickly. They came onto the ship with their guns drawn and they didn’t waste any time before firing them. She wouldn’t have suffered long. None of them would have.”

“Dear God. How can things like this happen in this day and age? Piracy, you think of men with gold earrings and peg legs and, and, parrots. Errol Flynn in the movies. It seems like something out of another time.”

“I know.”

“Was there anything in the newspapers about this? I don’t recall seeing anything.”

“No,” I said. “There’s no official record of the incident.”

“Who was the man? And the other couple?”

“I promised someone I’d keep their names out of it. I’ll violate that promise if you insist, but I’d rather not.”

“Why? Oh, I can probably guess.”

“The man was married.”

“That was my guess.”

“And the other couple was married as well, but not to each other. So there doesn’t seem to be any purpose served by revealing their names, and their surviving families would prefer being spared the embarrassment.”

“I can appreciate that,” he said.

“I wouldn’t keep it under wraps if there were an investigation to pursue, something for the police or the Coast Guard to go after. But the case is closed before it could ever be opened.”

“How do you mean? Because Paula and the others are dead?”

“No. Because the pirates themselves are dead. They were all shot down in a dope deal that went sour. It happened a couple of weeks after the piracy, and otherwise I very likely would never have found out anything substantial. But someone I met who knew people on the other end of that dope deal felt free to talk about what he knew, and I got as much of the story as I did.”

He had a few more questions and I answered them. I’d had all day to get my story right, so I was prepared for the questions he raised. The last question took a long time coming; I’d expected it early on, but I guess he was reluctant to ask it.

“And the bodies?”

“Overboard.”

“Burial at sea,” he said. He was silent for a moment, and then he said, “She always loved the water. When she—” and his voice broke. “When she was a little girl,” he said, back in control again, “we spent our summers at the lake, and you couldn’t get her out of the water. I called her a water rat, she would swim all day if we let her. She loved it.”

He asked if I would hold on while he passed on what I’d reported to his wife. He must have covered the mouthpiece with his hand because I didn’t hear anything at all for several minutes. Then she came on and said, “Mr. Scudder? I want to thank you for all you’ve done.”

“I’m sorry to bring you this kind of news, Mrs. Hoeldtke.”

“I must have known,” she said. “I must have known ever since it happened. Don’t you think so? On some level, I think I must have known all along.”

“Perhaps.”

“At least I don’t have to worry anymore,” she said. “At least now I know where she is.”

Hoeldtke came on again to thank me, and to ask if he owed me money. I told him he didn’t. He asked if I was sure of that and I said I was.

I hung up, and Willa said, “That was quite a story. You found out all that today?”

“Last night and this morning. I called him this morning to let him know it looked bad. I wanted to let him prepare himself and his wife before I gave him the details.”

“ ‘Your mother is on the roof.’ “

I looked at her.

“You don’t know that story? A man’s on a business trip and his wife calls him and tells him the cat is dead. And he has a fit. ‘How can you say something flat out like that, you could give a person a heart attack. What you have to do is break it to a person gently. You don’t call up and say in one breath that the cat climbed up on the roof and fell off and died. First you call up and tell me the cat is on the roof. Then you call a second time and say people are trying to get the cat down, the Fire Department and all, but it doesn’t look good. Then, by the time you call me a third time, I’ve prepared myself. Then you can tell me the cat is dead.’ “