Dragon Moon (31 page)

But when I find a package of frozen hamburgers in the boat's freezer and defrost and warm them in the microwave, the Latin girl looks up from her cup of black coffee and her toasted and buttered bagel, and curls her lip at the plateful of meat. “Are you two really going to have those for breakfast? Do you realize how much cholesterol and fat there is in just one of them?”

“Yes,” Chloe says. She makes a show of cutting a large bloody piece, pops it in her mouth and chews it as if it's the most delicious thing she's ever eaten. Then she turns her attention back to the small portable TV on the table and watches the local news.

The TV has been on ever since Chloe discovered its existence, shortly after she emerged from the stateroom. “You two have been watching this stuff all your lives,” she says. “I've never seen any of this before.”

“Look, they've posted a hurricane warning,” Claudia says.

I glance at the screen, listen to the weatherman say the main storm could hit before morning tomorrow, maybe sooner. Scattered thunderstorms will probably start hitting soon. He then gives wind speeds and the storm's probable track. I shrug. “It's justaacategory one hurricane, a two at worst.”

Claudia shakes her head. “It'll still kick up some major winds and waves. We're going to have to tie this boat up pretty damned good.”

“Depends on how everything goes.” The TV switches from a map of the Carribean, showing a graphic of Hurricane Eileen, to a local shot, a newswoman speaking from the side of the road. “If we can take it out there,” I say. “The best place for the SeaRay is in my harbor. A boat could ride out any storm there.”

Claudia says something, but the newswoman on TV catches my attention. “And Jack,” the woman says into the camera, “boat owners have begun to take their boats to safety. Hundreds of them are bringing traffic to a standstill as they try to bring their boats up the Miami River.” An air horn sounds and the camera pulls back to show cars stopping, traffic backing up as a drawbridge drops its gates — a loud, harsh bell ringing continuously. “Not that anyone in rush hour traffic is very happy about what they're doing.”

The reporter continues to talk about boat safety as the gates finish lowering into place and the ringing finally stops. Chloe, who's never seen a drawbridge, stares at the TV as the bridge goes up. “Did you hear that ringing?” I say to her.

“You think?”

I nod, mindspeak my son. {
Henri, did you hear anything?
}

{
No, Papa.
}

Chloe looks at me. “Are there other bridges?” she says.

“Could be, but do you have any idea how many drawbridges there are in South Florida?”

“What are you guys talking about?” Claudia says.

The bridge begins to go down. On the screen the picture returns to the weather map.

“Drawbridges,” Chloe says.

{
Papa?
} Henri mindspeaks to me. {
I hear a horn now.
}

“Yes!” I slap the table, grinning.

Claudia starts, stares at me.

{
That's wonderful, Henri,
} Chloe says.

“Which bridge was that on TV?” I say to Claudia.

She looks at me, her forehead furrowed. “Why?”

“Which one?” I growl.

Claudia says, “Didn't you see the Hyatt on the other side? That was the Biscayne Boulevard bridge, over the Miami River.”

I nod. “How far upriver is the next bridge?”

“South Miami Avenue? Just a few blocks.”

“Do we own any property near there?”

“I don't know. Why?” Claudia says.

{
The bell just started.
}

Chloe answers Henri, tells him to describe the sounds he hears.

I say to Claudia, “We think Henri might be near there.”

The girl's eyes widen. She reaches for her cellphone.

Henri says, {
There's the rumbly sound again.
}

“The drawbridge gears!” I say out loud. “He has to be close to the bridge to hear them.”

“How do you know what he hears?” Claudia says.

I frown at her question. “Just check to see what we own near there. Check if Ian owns any property around there too.”

Claudia nods. She punches a number into the phone while she walks toward her berth, away from the noise of the TV.

Chloe and I mindspeak to Henri while Claudia makes one call then another, then two more. Once the bell stops sounding, and the machinery sounds stop, Chloe asks Henri to tell us about the room he's in. {
It's dark in here,
} he says. {
I can't see anything. I don't like it.
}

{
I know. I wouldn't either. Henri, can you put your hands out and feel your way around?
} Chloe says.

{
Guess so.
}

{
Then I want you to walk forward until you feel a wall.
}

Silence, then he says, {
There's some boxes.
}

{
Walk around them.
}

A few moments pass and Henri says, {
Okay, I feel a metal door.
}

{
Can you count?
}

{
Of course! I'm over five. My papa taught me that.
}

{
Then, Henri, I want you to turn around and walk from the door to the other side of the room. Take regular steps and count out each one to me.
}

Listening to him count out each step, picturing him doing so, alone, in the dark, makes me grit my teeth. I hate my powerlessness to spare him this ordeal. Fortunately, it takes him only six paces. Chloe has him repeat the procedure from one side of the room to the other, with much the same result. “It's not a very large room, maybe twelve-feet square,” my bride says.

I frown, shake my head. “Which leaves us not knowing much more than we did before.”

“We know he's somewhere by the river's South Miami Avenue bridge.”

“Which is smack in the middle of downtown Miami. There are hundreds of buildings and warehouses around there, dozens of cargo ships.”

My bride puts one of her fingers on my lips, as much to calm me as to silence me. “And we know more now,” she says, “than we did before.”

“It would be a lot easier if I were still at the office,” Claudia says when she rejoins us at the table. “If I could get to the phone numbers in Pop's desk, I could get answers quicker. My people say it will be at least until this afternoon before they can tell me everything, for sure.”

She and my bride watch the TV as the hour turns and the news is replaced by a morning talk show. I've no patience for the hostess's inane chatter with her guests, her promise that before the end of the hour all her guests will receive complete makeovers. I can't believe that Chloe and Claudia seem content to watch it, discussing each person's appearance.

Rather than sit in the cabin and watch the TV and them while we wait for the call telling us that Derek and the rest have arrived at LaMar Associates, I go above deck, stand in the cockpit, admire the day.

The sky shows little sign of the pending storm. Only a few gray clouds float overhead; otherwise, all is clear, the sun hot enough to make me reconsider staying above deck. Still, the wind has turned brisk and seems to be building between strong gusts, and while there's a clarity to the sky, there's also a hint of ions in the air that I know predicts a coming storm. Let the weathermen say what they will, I've been through enough hurricanes to realize when one can't be very far away.

Not that Hurricane Eileen concerns me very much at the moment. I pace the deck, try to think of a good way to search out my son, should Claudia's inquiries bear no results. The best thought that I have is that we can take handheld air horns and sound them as we go from block to block around the South Miami Avenue bridge, asking Henri how close the sounds seem.

I shake my head. There has to be a better way.

Claudia's cellphone rings below. I rush into the cabin.

The Latin girl has already finished her call. She and Chloe look up at me from the table, Claudia's cellphone and a massive, stainless-steel semiautomatic pistol on the table in front of them.

Claudia picks up the pistol. “Pop gave it to me for my last birthday. It's a Desert Eagle, fifty caliber, magnum. It kicks like hell when I fire it.” She grins. “My hand aches for hours after I take it to the range, but the damn thing can bring down an elephant.”

I stare at the impossibly thick barrel on the pistol, made to look thicker by its shortness. No more than six inches, I calculate. “It looks like it could bring down a herd of elephants,” I say.

Claudia nods. She pulls back on the pistol's slide mechanism, racks a round, the motion making a harsh, loud click. She snaps the safety lever, checks it and puts the pistol into a red leather handbag. “One of my people called,” she says. “Peter, Claypool, Rita and Tindall are all at the office now.”

28

The Monroe building sits on a corner only a few blocks north of Dinner Key Marina. The three of us walk the whole way, no one saying a word, more clouds darkening the sky as we walk. When we stop in front of the tall building, Chloe says, “This is it?”

I nod, point to the windows on the top floor, all overlooking the bay. “LaMar's offices are up there. Let me do the talking this time.”

Both guards look up from behind the security desk in the lobby as we enter, their mouths open, each man gawking. The older guard, the balding one says, “Mr. DelaSangre, you were — ”

“I snuck out when you weren't looking,” I interrupt, grinning. I certainly can understand their confusion. The other Peter, Derek, couldn't have crossed this lobby more than thirty minutes before us.

“But she” — he points to Claudia — “Ms. Gomez isn't allowed upstairs anymore. Mr. Tindall ordered it.”

“She's allowed now,” I say. “Mr. Tindall will understand.” I walk to the private elevator, Chloe at my side, Claudia at hers, and realize, I have no key.

Claudia notices me pause, fumbles in her purse, the large red leather bag hanging from her left shoulder. After a moment, she fishes out a key. “They took mine,” she says. “This is Pop's.”

When we get out of the elevator, in front of the receptionist's desk in LaMar Associate's offices, Sarah reacts much the way the guards had below. “Sir,” she says, looking toward the closed door to the conference room. “I thought . . .”

“Never mind,” I say, walking past her, shepherding Chloe and Claudia toward the meeting room. “I assume they're all in there.”

Sarah stands. She's younger than I would have guessed, heavier, her jowls frozen by the frown on her face. “But, sir, Claudia's been barred from the office. The meeting's closed.”

“Sarah, they're my offices aren't they?”

She nods.

“That's my meeting isn't it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then sit down and do your job.” I open the door to the conference room and we enter.

Seated at the far end of the glossy, mahogany conference table, Derek looks up first. “Well, well,” he says. Rita, sitting to his right, and Tindall to his left, both turn their heads toward us and stare.

Leaning in a corner at the far end of the room, his eyes shielded by dark, thick sunglasses, Virgil Claypool gives us a mocking grin. “If it isn't Mr. Ames. And this is your new fiancée, isn't it?” he says.

I flash the older man a cold smile. “Actually,” I say, “it's Peter DelaSangre and his wife, Chloe.”

Only Ian Tindall's face registers any shock. I'm not surprised that Derek remains so calm. If Virgil is here, Derek has to know of our visit to the Jamaican's Kingston office. But Rita Santiago's lack of expression concerns me.

“Rita,” I say, nodding to her. “Ian.” I nod in his direction, study him, the papers spread on the table. “Going over the merger documents?” I say.

Tindall gathers up the papers, stacks them, and straightens them as he speaks. “It seems there are some things I don't know about.” He looks from Derek to me and then to Rita. “Did you know about this?”

The redhead gives him a dead stare, says nothing.

“We were readying these papers for
that
Peter DelaSangre to sign.” Ian tilts his head toward Derek. “I guess you have an objection?”

I nod. “He isn't Peter DelaSangre. His name is Derek Blood. He's an imposter.”

Ian looks from me to Derek and back. “And how would we resolve this?”

“Rita,” I say. “Ask Derek where you and I bought the earrings Chloe's wearing.”

The redhead looks at my wife, then glares at me. “I don't need to.” She turns to Ian, puts her hand on Derek's. “This is Peter. He told me a fake might show up with a Jamaican woman. I've spent almost every night with Peter since he came back from Jamaica, Ian. I'd know if he weren't for real.”