Dead of Night (24 page)

 

 

Talking on his motel phone, Frieda’s husband, Bob, had told Dasha, “My wife’s got the computer with her, but she won’t be home until late this afternoon. Should I have her call FedEx? Or I can give you her cell phone number.”

Jesus.
The guy had the mentality of an eight-year-old. He was open to any stranger with a question.

Dasha repeated the number aloud while Aleski, sitting beside her in the white Mitsubishi SUV, wrote in his notebook.

One of Mr. Sweet’s stooge vice presidents at Tropicane Sugar had already told her that Frieda Matthews had been snooping around, asking questions about her dead brother. She claimed she was going to review his work, visit some of the water sample sites personally.

“They’re all remote places,” the stooge VP had told her. “Not easy to find.”

Dasha liked remote places. But she much preferred Mr. Sweet’s Bahamas retreat to this isolated section of Central Florida, miles of sugarcane planted close to narrow asphalt. Black earth that smelled of chemicals; vultures perched hump-shouldered on wires above their SUV rental as they sat parked on the side of the road making phone calls.

She now dialed the Tropicane VP a second time. The man’s secretary put her right through.

Dasha said to him, “I have a number for you to dial. Yes? Ask Dr. Matthews where her next stop will be, then call me with directions. Tell her we’d like to talk, share some stories about her brother.”

The stooge said he’d do it. Didn’t ask why, his manner making it clear he didn’t want to know.

Dasha started the car and touched a button, lowering her window.

There was that chemical stink again, but it was warm at least. The woman loved heat.

They’d flown in that morning, just the two of them and their pilot, Aleski’s cousin Broz. Came in one of Mr. Sweet’s three private aircraft, the Piper Malibu, a sevenseater prop plane that had three seats removed because it was used mostly to carry supplies. The man’s personal aircraft was a Gulfstream business jet; range: 6,000 miles, cruising speed: 550 knots. No one else was allowed to ride in the thing. Germs in a contained space? Unthinkable.

Mr. Earl would come later in the third plane, a refitted DC-3 cargo plane. It had a bed in the back, a VCR and stereo system. Nice.

The Piper was okay. Economical and fast. It covered the 187 nautical miles between Cay Sal Bank and West Palm Beach, where they cleared customs, in less than an hour.

The customs people recognized them. The “Vitamin Crew”—that’s the way they were known—always puddle-jumping back and forth, hauling supplies.

Inspectors hustled them through.

From West Palm, they’d barely gotten off the ground before they were landing again at Tropicane’s private airstrip between Kissimmee and Belle Glade. The rental was waiting, and now they’d been on the road less than an hour, things already falling into place.

Aleski rode in silence for a few minutes, the hectares of sugarcane reminding him of Cuba, his mind drifting, before he asked, “When we find this woman, how do you want to work it?”

Dasha said, “Remember the Greenie Weenie who started getting nosey? Maybe handle it the same way. Rent a storage garage, pay a year in advance. A place to dump this car. Maybe the body, too, depending on how it goes. Lock the doors, and fly out. Thirteen, fourteen months later, they find her. Maybe never.”

“Did you bring the drug?”

He meant the stuff Dr. Stokes provided. Hypodermics and a vial of something called Versed. Ten ccs would knock a two-hundred-pound man to his knees in seconds. Keep him out for half an hour, if that’s what she wanted. But the amount had to be right. Too much and he’d go into respiratory arrest.

Sometimes she wanted that, too.

Dasha told Aleski, “Yes, I have the hypodermic kit. But we don’t have to use it on the woman. Not right away, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Aleski had a deep, slow voice that fit his slow, slow intellect. But there was a little touch of excitement mixed in when they discussed Frieda Matthews. Dasha could guess why. He’d found a photo of the woman on the Internet. She wasn’t bad looking, with her short hair, the smile, the outdoorsy body.

Aleski liked what he saw.

“If we have time ... if there’s no one around when we get to this storage garage, would it be possible for me ... because I’ve been working so hard lately. Would it be okay for me to have a little fun? I haven’t had fun for a very long time.”

Oh yes, the man was excited. Dasha smiled, knew what was going to come next. “Of course, Aleski. You deserve your fun.”

“You could be there. In the same room, if you wanted, Dasha. I wouldn’t mind so much.”

He threw it out there as if it were a new idea.

“Would you like that?”

“I wouldn’t mind so much.”

Always the same.

The first few times, she’d found what the man did to women interesting. Once it had even excited her, because the woman was very beautiful even though she was in her fifties. Intriguing, the way a mature woman dealt with pain and humiliation. Now, though, the thought of seeing Aleski naked made her cringe. Even so, she said, “Whatever makes you happy. You are my partner.”

He grinned wickedly. “Yes, we are the best of partners! You give me such nice presents to unwrap! My little
moodozvon
pimp.”

Russian profanity. It was a game they played.

Dasha said she wasn’t a pimp; Aleski was a brainless bull, adding,
“Ti deegeneeraat zasranees!”
You’re a degenerate asshole!

He shot back,
“Bliad! Yob tvoyu mat!”
Whore! I would like to screw your mother!

“Shliushka? Pizda na palochke? Da
,
pajalsta.”
That slut on a stick? Please do.

“Shob tebe deti ν sup srali.”
I hope that your children shit in your soup.

They were both laughing.

“Ti menia dostal
,
Brat.”
I’ve had enough of you, brother.

“Ya tebia dostal
,
Sestra!”
I’ve had enough of you, sister!

Sestra and Brat: pet names used fondly among members of secret Chechen guerrilla cells.

But Dasha had noticed that, lately, Aleski was treating her less like a sister and more like her keeper. Something in his manner.

Instinct.

 

 

They found a storage facility off Route 441 near Yeehaw Junction. Called the number, drove to the village, and paid the off-site attendant cash. Returned and made sure the key worked. As they were pulling away, Dasha’s phone began to ring. She looked at the caller ID: the stooge from Tropicane. She listened for a moment before telling Aleski to get ready to write directions.

They had a road map. Frieda Matthews was less than twenty kilometers away.

Dasha put up her window, driving faster, as Aleski said, “Our luck has been so good, it may be possible to fly back to the island tonight.”

Idiot.
The woman slapped the wheel. “Don’t do that! Why have you put your mouth on it? Now our luck is certain to change.”

Aleski’s face colored. Sick of her criticism, but not ready to show it. “I’m sorry. I was only hoping the best for you. I know you don’t like spending nights at the ranch.”

Tropicane maintained a housing complex for staff and guests, miles from anything, pasture all around. Mr. Earl had his own minimansion there. A man who controlled enough proxies to be majority stockholder.

“It’s not that I dislike the ranch. I don’t like being away from the island. You know that. So don’t risk screwing our luck by being so stupid.”

Aleski was eager to change the subject. “You love those islands so much, I feel you should own them one day. When the rich man dies.” His tone insinuated that it could happen. All she had to do was ask.

Dasha said severely, “Don’t speak of our employer in such a way. Dr. Stokes is very good to us.”

There were so many ways of recording conversations, it was the smart thing to say.

“Besides, his assistant would then be in control. He’s in charge of all the doctor’s personal property.”

Aleski said, “Mr. Earl? I like Mr. Earl. Sometimes, we drink vodka at night and talk.”

Dasha was aware of that, too. But was thinking,
My islands. Yes
,
it could happen. Even before Mr. Sweet dies ...

Dr. Frieda Matthews was sitting in her green SUV, waiting for them, the small dents in the fender, the cracked tail-light, and DISNEY WORLD bumper sticker telling Dasha the woman wasn’t rich. That she had at least one child, but still worked for a living. She found her at the end of a dirt service road that ran beneath power lines and dead-ended at a canal, not far from State Route 60 and Canoe Creek Road.

Right where the Tropicane VP said she’d be.

Dasha wondered what the stooge would think when he read about this in the papers. Not that he’d call the cops. If Mr. Sweet had something on the guy, which he always did with his top people, there wasn’t a chance. But would he feel guilty?

Dasha hoped so.

As they got out of the car, Aleski said to her in Russian, “Wonderful. She’s even more beautiful than her photograph.”

The woman was attractive in a handsome sort of way. Short maple-colored hair parted at the side, cargo shorts, plaid blouse. She had a sociable smile on her face, teeth very white. Also a cell phone clipped to her belt—that could cause trouble.

“She’s bigger than I thought she’d be. I like that.” Aleski was walking faster, bouncing along. It meant she wouldn’t be as easily broken. The man couldn’t wait.

“Don’t do anything stupid until we get the computer. Make sure it’s the right one.”

“Of course. But then leave her to me. This woman, she will be fun. I can tell.”

Matthews had her hand extended—nice to meet you—her smile broadening as Dasha got to the green SUV. Looked in the side window and there it was: a silver PowerBook computer.

“Mr. Hartman called from Tropicane, vice president in charge of environmental oversight? Said you worked for him, and knew my late brother? I’d love to hear anything you have to tell me.”

Fifteen minutes later, driving fast down the dirt road, all Dasha could hear was Aleski in the back of the Mitsubishi, breathing heavily and swearing because Matthews refused to cooperate. She screamed out for help only once before settling herself into endurance mode, another middle-aged woman who could be hurt but not bullied.

Dasha thought,
Interesting,
wondering if maybe she should stop and watch. She might get aroused as she had when she’d watched the beautiful woman who was in her fifties ruin it for Aleski by not showing fear.

“Get your hand off that door handle,
pizda
!”

Dasha glanced around automatically when she heard the tailgate open—they’d just bounced onto a narrow asphalt road—her hands still gripping the wheel, causing the vehicle to fishtail twice before she regained control.

“You bitch! Stop scratching me!”

In the rearview mirror, Dasha saw Matthews clawing at Aleski’s face, everything happening very fast: the woman screaming; Aleski swearing, trying to subdue her. Then Aleski coughed and bellowed—a scream of pain—and Dasha watched the woman sit briefly, pounding at Aleski with her fists.

In Russian, she yelled, “Pull the door closed, you idiot, before she—”

Too late. Frieda Matthews had somehow managed to fight her way from beneath Aleski. In that moment of freedom, the woman didn’t hesitate. As if lunging into a swimming pool, she rolled out of the SUV, the mirror showing it as if on a screen. Dasha saw her body drop behind the car as if in slow motion, then become instantly animated when flesh hit asphalt, a fast-forward effect, bouncing behind the vehicle like a rag doll, arms and legs flapping wildly. Watched the woman’s body tumble grotesquely, gradually slowing in a boneless heap, shrinking rapidly behind them because Matthews had jumped when the vehicle was doing sixty.

Idiot.
Dasha screamed at Aleski, “I knew you’d ruined our luck!”

She braked to a controlled stop, still looking at the rearview mirror.

“She’s alive, Dasha. See there? She’s moving.” The man was on all fours, naked, hairy as a bear, looking out. “See? She’s trying to stand up.”

Dasha had the vehicle in reverse, accelerating. “Get your pants on, you fool. We need to find a better place. Get her up on her feet. Then we change places. You get behind the wheel. I’ll take care of her, or you’ll somehow manage to fuck it up again.”

Rona Graves looked toward the shoreline, avoiding eye contact, no longer energized because we’d freed the shark. “Mrs. Matthews’s husband asked me to break the news. He’s a wreck, but he thought it was important for you to know.”

I waited.

“She’s dead.”