J. Black - The Shop

Until recently, Landry had paid no attention to the news. But when he became interested in Frank, he had researched him on the Internet—be prepared. He knew where Frank was going with this. Grace’s association with the church had taken up the whole first page of Google. Since talking about it was clearly cathartic for Frank, Landry pretended interest. It was the least he could do.

“The reverend there is…well, he’s kind of off-the-wall. He’s a…ah, I don’t know quite how to put this—he’s sticking his pecker in a lot of hornet’s nests. I know there have been death threats. And there’s at least two investigations into his dealings—”

“There are.”

“There are?”

“There are two investigations. There are .”

“This is the second time you’ve corrected my grammar. You used to be an English teacher before you joined the FBI?”

“Let’s get on with the story. What kind of investigations?”

“Bribery. Money laundering. Something hinky going on there. Gunrunning, maybe, to the Congo. The minister, his name is Mister Wembi, and that’s what they call him, with the Mister always before the name, like it’s a second language or something. He’s white, but he spent a lot of time in Africa hunting witches—can you believe it? He was a ‘witch identifier.’ Even took the African name, which I think is weird. Probably a marketing ploy. Grace has donated a lot of money to the church, and she’s on the board—she’s, well, religious. It’s the one thing I don’t like about her. Well, that, and all the money she spends on the horses.”

“What kind of horses?” Landry asked, suddenly interested.

“Arabians. And Hackneys. She drives them.”

Hackneys. Some people.

“We’re not as rich as we used to be,” Frank mused. “I’d say we’ve lost about thirty percent of our wealth, which, when you think about it, isn’t too bad. But Grace doesn’t like the way we look to outsiders. Like we’re obscenely rich. She wants me to get rid of this boat, but I won’t. This is my baby. She’s got her horses and her church, and I’ve got the Hinckley.”

“Understandable,” Landry murmured.

Frank took both ends of his linen napkin and began twisting it in his fingers—an annoying distraction.

Landry said, “So what do you want from me?”

“I’d just like to keep that aspect—the church—quiet. It has nothing to do with any of this. The Shop. Nothing at all. I’m worried that if this guy, this reverend, gets wind of it, he’ll set her up to take the fall.”

“For the gunrunning and money laundering? How deep is she into this? It doesn’t sound like she’s just on the board.”

“It’s…the church is an obsession. I just don’t want her hurt. Those people—on some level, I think they’re dangerous. He is. He’s scary. A charismatic leader, kind of like the guy with the Kool-Aid, Jim Jones.”

Landry had had enough of this conversation. “Consider it done. We’ll keep that under our hat.”

“Good.” He was back to cheerful again. “That’s a big load off my mind.”

“No problem.”

“I was wondering…”

“What were you wondering?”

“Are those two men—the ones who were killed—are they still on board?”

Landry nodded. “I put them on ice, though, that’s why there’s no smell.”

“Ah, I see.” He thought about it. “The ice from the bait well?”

“Yes.”

“Do you really need them? Couldn’t we weigh them down and throw them overboard?”

“You know I can’t do that. That would be tampering with evidence. Besides,” he added, “they’re not eating anything.”

“I guess,” he said at last. “I just thought I’d give it a shot.”

Landry nodded, then got up and started clearing the table. “Can you write out that recipe for me?” he asked.

“Tell me about Danehill Security,” Landry said as they approached Indigo Island.

Franklin shrugged. “Not much to tell. I hired them a month ago when the shit started hitting the fan. Grace wanted me to go the cut-rate route, so we compared prices. They’re not exactly the A-Team. I’d say they’re more like the E-Team. Or even worse than that.”

“Oh?”

“These guys don’t have any discipline. It’s just a job to them. But you have to understand—I’m spoiled. As the attorney general, I had a topflight security detail.”

They came in on the leeward side, rounding the spit of land that ended St. Joseph Peninsula. Motored past the state park—white beaches, marshy areas, trees noisy with birds, wildlife, and campers. Next were the expensive houses and private docks. Up ahead, in the crook of the peninsula’s elbow, Landry saw two islands.

“Opal Island,” said Franklin, motioning to the smaller one. “It’s a resort. Very exclusive.”

Gated. Palm trees. Golf courses. A complex of buildings. All very high-toned, pristine. But the island had almost a plastic patina to it, like Saran Wrap. More Disney World than Florida panhandle. It didn’t look real.

Indigo Island looked real.

There were similar palms. There was a small golf course, but it appeared shoddy and neglected in the bright morning sunlight, like a paint-by-numbers set. The trees encroached. A very tall wrought iron fence made a sporadic and halfhearted ring of the island, punctuated by No Trespassing signs.

Landry squinted past the black bars of the fence. He spotted stables and a good-sized riding ring through the trees. The octagonal house Franklin had told him about looked like a wedding cake. It reminded Landry of Dickens’s Great Expectations , a book he’d read in high school and one that had fascinated him by its pure weirdness. The house looked like something Miss Havisham would have kept in her refrigerator—if they’d had refrigerators in her day.

The other three structures were painted to match the octagon house, yellow with white trim. Rectangular swimming pool, chaise lounges lined up razor-straight facing the pool, like you’d find at a high-class hotel. Three permanent cabanas. Golf cart paths ran through the compound like ant trails. Plenty of parking.

Landry noted a causeway, maybe two hundred and fifty meters long, linking Indigo Island to the mainland. Narrow. Landry guessed the causeway had been built early in the last century—the only way onto the island by land. There was a guardhouse situated on the small spit of land that led onto the causeway. Dark uniforms, ball caps. The security company. The E-Team.

They tied up at the dock opposite an ancient, beat-up skiff—had to be twenty years old. Landry thought it must have sentimental value. In his travels, he’d noticed that rich people didn’t seem to throw away their old possessions. He’d seen plenty of stud farms breathtaking in beauty but still containing the odd rusty pickup or old shed.

The boathouse, a real antique, was empty. Frank had mentioned they’d sold a lot of their toys recently. The jet. The expensive cars. The picnic boat. The only thing they hadn’t cut back on, according to Frank, was Grace’s Hackneys. She still had plenty, and they were eating him out of house and home.

“Where are your agents again?” Franklin asked.

Landry motioned to the houses and the boats tied up to the long docks on the peninsula, and to the trees and bushes onshore.

Franklin nodded. “And why do we need to get rid of my security people?”

“This is an FBI operation. Your people would only get in the way. They’re the E-Team, remember?”

Franklin nodded again. “The Keystone Cops, only dumber.”

Franklin handed over control of the boat to Landry. Landry enjoyed the docking procedure on the Hinckley. He’d done it before, but of course Franklin didn’t remember that. The jetstick was a lot like the joystick on the video games Landry grew up with. Docking the Hinckley was just like parallel parking.