Дэвид Балдаччи - A Gambling Man [calibre]

Archer performed a run-fast walk until he reached the water on the other side of the island. He had measured his strides and gauged the island as being about three miles in width. He had earlier calculated it was about twice that in length. Three miles by six miles, or eighteen square miles in total. Not a lot of land, but certainly big enough to do something with, as the Navy apparently had. And it was an engineering marvel that they had created an island from basically a shallow spot in the ocean. And to his knowledgeable eye, the large dock located here could have handled the biggest destroyers the Navy had.

Farther out there was a long, shadowy form. It took Archer a few moments to figure it out.

A breakwater.

That would make sense when you were docking ships out this far from the mainland.

He looked up at the sky as the blinking lights of a plane buzzed overhead. Its angle of ascent showed that it had probably just taken off from the coast. It continued in a westerly direction, maybe on its way to Hawaii, he thought. To his practiced ear, it was a four-engine aircraft, and it would need all that horsepower to make it that far.

He trudged back to the boat, feeling disappointed. He hadn’t really accomplished much of anything, and it had cost him ten bucks. Archer picked up his pace as a flash of lightning appeared far out over the ocean to the west. A storm was rolling in.

He jumped into the boat, fired up the engine, untied his lines, and pulled away from the dock. He pointed his bow east and throttled up. He could feel the wind at his back, and then the barometric pressure dropped with a rush. This was nature’s warning sign of foul weather coming.

He pushed the throttle down further, and the Chris-Craft’s powerful engine thrust the boat through the increasingly heavy seas. Archer listened to the cracks of thunder as the storm chased him all the way back to the California mainland. He slid the boat into its slip, tied it up, left the key under the seat as the man had instructed him, and hustled back to the Delahaye. He got the top on and the windows rolled up a few seconds before the rain began to fall in buckets. He sat in the car with the engine off and stared out to sea. Three miles out was an island. And he was pretty sure that that was where Sawyer Armstrong and those other men had gone. Now the question was why.

Chapter 47

MIDNIGHT MOODS WAS STARTING TO HIT ITS STRIDE as Archer valeted his car at the front entrance. Apparently, a brutal murder of one of its employees wasn’t going to interfere with business. People still wanted to drink, dance, gamble, and watch pretty young girls lift their legs and sing their hearts out.

The rain had already passed through, but it was still drizzling and about fifteen degrees cooler than before the storm had hit. He spotted the valet captain in his hat, buttons, and military-style uniform at the key desk. Archer walked over and held up his PI license.

The captain took a long look at the photostat copy. The gent was in his fifties, with thinning gray hair, a handlebar mustache, and a nervous tic at his right eye, which made Archer nervous just watching it. His lips and nails were stained yellow from his smokes. He was every inch of five-six, and that frame carried about thirty more pounds than it ideally should have.

“Okay, what do you want?” he asked.

“You know Sawyer Armstrong?”

“No, never heard of the guy,” the man said, sarcasm dripping like the fake medals on his chest. “Oh wait a sec, ain’t he the man who owns this place?”

“You can play me for a sap and this dance will just take longer than you want it to.”

“The cops were already here, shamus. I talked to them but I don’t have to do the same to you. So scram.”

“We’re working with Chief Pickett on this case, so you might want to rethink that position, chum, unless you want a trip downtown that might leave you black and blue, if you get my meaning.”

The patronizing smile slowly faded from the captain’s features. “Okay, don’t get all tough, what do you want to know?”

Archer put his license away and said, “You have any idea what time Armstrong left last night? He was with two of his ‘associates.’ They were basically gorillas in neckties but not as good-looking.”

“Yeah, I know them all right. Hank and Tony. Not a pair you want to get on the wrong side of, mister.”

“I got that lesson yesterday right here and real good. So you saw them?”

“Yeah. I ordered Mr. Armstrong’s car up myself. It’s a Cadillac about as long as my house. He got into the back, Hank drove, and Tony sat in the passenger seat. Tony looked like he’d slipped and hit his face against something hard.”

“Yeah, he did. So what time was this?”

“Oh, I’d say eleven, give or take.”

“Give or take how many minutes?”

“Hey, what do I look like to you, buddy, a Timex? It was around eleven. They got into the car and drove off.”

“Did you know the murdered girl, Ruby Fraser?”

“Just to see her around.”

“You ever see her with a guy?”

“That’s sort of the point of Midnight Moods, ain’t it?”

“She was a singer, not one of the cigarette-and-brandy gals or the afternoon boppers.”

His lip curled back in a sneer. “Well, excuse me, I didn’t mean to speak ill of the dead. I’m sure she was a saint.”

“So did you ever see her with a guy?”

“Maybe.”

“Douglas Kemper, you know him?”

“Sure, he’s here right now playing cards.”

“You ever see him with Ruby?”

“Nope. Where is this going, fella?”

“Apparently nowhere. Thanks for nothing, Pops.”

Archer walked over the drawbridge, checked his hat, and ordered a vodka martini that went down nice after his island hunting expedition off the coast.

He was directed to the card club room by a cigarette girl who did her best to palm off a pack of Camels on him.

“I only smoke Lucky Strikes,” he said.

She looked him up and down and said in a husky voice, “You don’t look like you need that much luck , handsome.”

“Damn, I finally run into a gal who gets me and I have to go.” He flipped her a quarter and took a pack of Luckys from her tray.

A boy in buttons opened the door to the card club room and Archer ducked inside. It was a large space about forty feet square, with tables set up nearly chairback to chairback. It was only men in here; Archer didn’t know if that was a rule or not. The gentlemen wore expensive suits or high-dollar tuxes. They were smoking cigars, sipping what looked to be snifters of cognac, and looking amusingly content at their privileged status in life. Sitting on a tall stool in the middle of each table was a fellow with a colorful vest, sleeve garters, and a green visor who stood guard over the chute from which the playing cards were dealt.

It didn’t take Archer long to spot Kemper. He was lounging in a chair behind five cards and a pile of chips with four other men who looked like clones of his, but without the indifference that oozed from Kemper. None of the men were Sheen.

He crossed the room, taking a last sip of his drink, and stopped next to Kemper, who put down a full house, kings over tens, and scooped up the chips in the pot to the chagrin of the rest of the elite herd.

Kemper looked up at him and set his Havana in an ashtray. “Archer, right?” He looked around. “Where’s Willie?”

“He called it a day, but I’m more of a night owl.” He knelt down and said in a low voice, “I’d like to ask you a few questions and give you an update, if you’re interested.”

Kemper glanced at the other players and smiled. “Okay, boys, I feel sorry for you, so I’m taking my toys and going home. You can duke it out for the few dollars you have left. And you can thank me later.”