Randy White - Dead Silence

Once the ransom had been delivered, he would then turn his attention to finding the American who had lied to them, used them, who had demanded half of the money Nelson Myles had sent and who now had abandoned them to rot in an American prison by not sending a boat as he had promised.

Tenth Man, his code name, although in English it was Tinman.

More than anything else, Farfel wanted to confront Tinman. He would use his intellect to find the poorly coiffured American, Hump’s strength to subdue him and then…

“The job is done, Dr. Navarro.” Hump was standing at the open door. His face was grimy, but he was smiling. “Everything you said, I have done. Would you like to inspect?”

Farfel said, “Get on the boat, we’re leaving.” But as he crossed the room, he stopped and peered into the glass-sided case next to the fireplace. Something was missing.

“Did you take anything from here? I told you not to steal anything, unless it was valuable.”

The huge man shook his head quickly. “Nothing. I swear. Look at the grave, how smooth I made it.” He smiled, a simpleton who was lying but genuinely proud of his work.

Fifteen minutes later, Hump was standing at the helm of the cabin cruiser, throttle open, and still smiling when he passed to the right of a green navigational marker instead of passing to the left.

The boat was doing twenty-five knots when it hit an oyster bar, the impact so violent that Farfel was catapulted over the railing into water that was less than a foot deep. He had been standing on the forward deck, holding a navigational chart in one hand and waving wildly with the other, yelling to Hump, “Stop… stop… stop!”

Farfel recovered his glasses and the chart before wading back to the boat. His back was spasming again, his forearms were bloodied by the oysters, but he was still coherent enough to pause and consider the directional flow of the water. The water was moving southwest, toward the Gulf of Mexico.

Next, Farfel looked at the cabin cruiser. It sat atop the oyster bar like a trophy, even its keel showing.

It would be hours, he realized, before they could leave. They would have to wait until the tide turned and was nearly high again. Eight hours at least.

“Stay away from me,” Farfel said softly when Hump vaulted off the boat to help. “Stay away.”

Someone double-crossed the Cuban interrogator. They didn’t send a boat. Who?

I was thinking about it as I sat behind the wheel of Nelson Myles’s Range Rover, the smell of leather and wood mixing with the unmistakable odor of the man’s soiled slacks. Myles and I were only two blocks from the entrance to Falcon Landing. I could see a guard standing beneath a lamppost on a street column-lined with palms.

I asked Myles, “Do your security people carry weapons?”

“If they do, I doubt if they’re loaded,” he said. “They won’t bother us, don’t worry. Park by the harbor, if you want.” Once again, he was trying to manipulate me into reentering the grounds.

I was tempted. I wanted to check the marina, and see if the Cubans had taken the cabin cruiser. If the boat was accurately described, they probably hadn’t made it to Key West yet, not without nosing into the Ten Thousand Islands to refuel. By deadline time, eight tomorrow morning, it was possible they could be in international waters. But, just as likely, they had run aground while leaving Sarasota Bay: Venice Inlet and Snake Island were tricky.

I imagined the Cubans, frustrated and pissed off, sitting high and dry on some bar. Would that be good for the boy or bad?

Could be good, I decided. If they were trapped in U.S. waters, they might keep Will alive as a bargaining chip.

I slowed, watching the guard watch us, then I turned west toward the beach, where I’d parked the rental car. “Now where are we going?” Myles asked.

I said, “To a quiet place. You wanted me to ask questions? It’s time.”

“I changed my mind. There’s nothing I can add. Stop here, let me out, you can have the car. I won’t call police, I promise.”

“Call them. They can listen to your confession.”

“I didn’t confess to anything. What I remember is you sticking a gun in my face and… and, well, why review the obvious? I leave that sort of business to my attorneys. Or… I’ll ask my fraternity brother… the federal judge.” He put his hand on the door. “Let me out.”

I stepped on the gas. “Questions first. Who else knew you murdered the girl?”

“I didn’t murder her,” he said patiently. “It was an accident.”

I gave it a moment before saying, “Who knew, besides Norvin Tomlinson… and Billy Sofvia?”

It was the first I’d mentioned their names, and the impact made Myles sit up straighter. He tried to recover, saying, “The details are fuzzy, I keep telling you. I might have told someone-I was still drunk and high most of the next day. You can’t expect me to remember every little thing. It was a long time ago.”

The details were always fuzzy when Myles got to this part of the story. He was lying again.

“How’s your memory when it comes to last night? Who shot your prize horse? Cazzio… Alacazam… whatever you called him. I heard his stud fee was a couple hundred thousand. No matter how rich you are, that still has to hurt.”

The man’s surprise was palpable. It filled the car with an expanding, pressurized silence, until he said, “Who are you?”

I said, “You haven’t told me everything, Nels. But you will. You left someone out of your story. He’s been helping the Cubans, and you know it.”

“You’ve been lying to me.”

“And I feel just terrible about it. Trust is so important in a relationship. Answer the question.”

“Bullshit. Why should I?”

I said, “You really want me to give you a reason? Someone had to be at your farm to meet the Cubans. Fred Gardiner was drunk and you stayed at the landing strip. That’s what you said. Who helped you?”

“ Fred? How do you know my manager’s name? You tricked me! I’m not saying another word.”

I kept talking. “I think the person who helped you last night helped you bury Annie Sylvester fifteen years ago. Or at least provided you with some kind of alibi.”

“Just like Fred. What did I tell you?” Myles said. “Why bother with questions if you think you have all the answers?”

I said, “I have a few. Billy Sofvia worked for your family in those days, so it makes sense he helped dig the grave. But he’s dead. Died a POW.”

The man tried to hide his surprise but was still sitting up straight, listening.

I continued, “Billy knew you killed the girl. So you either had him fired or somehow steered him into the military. You wanted him as far from the Hamptons as possible. That means at least two people knew you killed Annie.”

His expression said Huh?

“Your parents fired the guy, so one of them either suspected or was sure of it.”

“They’re dead. Leave them out of this.”

“Then there’s at least one person still alive who knows-not counting me.”

He raised his voice. “Who have you been talking to?”

“Aside from the boys down at the bowling alley, you mean? Skull and Bones doesn’t come up that often.”

He turned to face me. “What does my fraternity have to do with.. . How do you know about-” Myles stopped himself because he was flustered, getting mad as he tried to put it together. “Look,” he said, “enough of your games. What’s going on here? One minute, you pretend to be a professional killer. Now you’re talking about things that no one can… that no one is-”

“Supposed to know?” I offered. “Maybe it would be easier if you answered in code. Eight for yes, seven for no. Did I get it right.. . Magog?”