The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) (12 page)

“You got a rain check. For the record, it wasn't my screwup that caused me to blow myself up. It was a jealous cunt screwing with my explosives.”

“You'd think we'd learn. Jimmy, be serious for a minute. How would you describe me?”

“I'm not following you.”

“Do you consider me, let's say, intelligent? Do you think I'm trustworthy? You know what I mean.”

Jimmy's face tightened into a mask of deep concentration. “You? Danny, you're a scumbag weasel. A drunken Irish scumbag weasel to be more precise. And you're no Stephen Hawking.”

“Jesus Christ. Did you leave anything out?”

“Hey, you asked me.”

“Yeah, but I didn't expect you to be honest.”

Gillespie struggled to pull Jimmy in his wheelchair up the flight of stairs to his one-bedroom efficiency over the locksmith shop. He stopped halfway up to catch his breath. When he reached the top, he spun the chair around and pushed Jimmy to the edge.

“Ever hear of something called an elevator?”

“I pay a young guy to haul me up these stairs everyday. Danny boy, I think you're starting to show your age.”

“I think this is far enough. Let's see if you can stay in this thing on the way down,” he wheezed, pushing the wheelchair to the edge of the wooden stairs. The steps creaked a warning. “Take back what you said about me.”

“Stop fuckin' around. You want a drink?”

“No, I‘ve got crap to take care of. And don't look at me like that.”

As he was leaving, Jimmy offered him some advice. “I guess there's no sense trying to convince you to let this thing go. Whoever she is, she's not worth it. I know she's paying you the square root of fuckall, so you can't bullshit me. Just remember where you heard it.”

“Jimmy, you missed your calling. You're a fucking clairvoyant. See you around, pal. And thanks for the kind words. I think I'll hang myself.”

***

He pulled over before he turned onto the Flagler Memorial Bridge. It would take him over the Intracoastal Waterway to the marina where he lived on his boat. Danny, you damned fool, Jimmy was right, you should go home and forget what you heard. Or what you thought you heard, he corrected himself. Every time you get involved with a divorced chick, you end up with your tit in a ringer. Christ, especially one who was married to a crazy cocksucker like Max Turner.

That's right, turn around, you stupid asshole. Call her, get involved. It can only go one way from here, and that's downhill. He checked his cell phone for Lynn Allison's telephone number and pushed the send button. Her phone rang before a recorded message clicked on, causing him to hang up. Better not leave a recording of your voice. At least you're not that stupid.

Before he could stop himself he was driving to Boca Raton. He reached for his flask. I'll just drive by and check out her apartment. He laughed at the lie. He almost turned around again, but the thought of Lynn Allison made him continue driving.

He drove past the gatehouse protecting the entrance to the condominium complex where Lynn Allison lived. He made a quick Uturn on A1A, doused the lights and idled in behind some landscaping. The security guard's either asleep or he's in the crapper, he thought.

Gillespie stopped in front of the barrier and dialed the telephone number listed for the gatehouse. The sign in the gatehouse window read: Thomas Casey on Duty. The guard stood up and indicated to Gillespie that he would be with him momentarily. He turned around and grabbed the telephone. “Say Tom, this is Mr. ______ in apartment ______,” Gillespie mumbled, muffling the name and apartment number. “Look, I've got a friend stopping by. He drives a white Cadillac. How about letting him in. Why don't you drop by tomorrow afternoon for a cocktail, say around five o'clock? Thanks, Tom.”

“Who'd you say this was?” The security guard yelled into the dead receiver just as Gillespie hung up his cell phone and smiled.

“I just got a call on you. What apartment number are you looking for?” the guard asked, opening the gate.

“I'm going to ,” Dan answered, finishing the sentence in mimed silence as his car window rolled up. The security guard scratched his head.

The downstairs lobby door was unlocked. So much for security, he thought. When he knocked a prehistoriclooking woman using an aluminum walker opened the door. She had a dark cheroot tipped with a smoldering ash hanging from the corner of her mouth. The apartment had that old people's smell about it. The volume on the television was turned up so high, the speakers buzzed.

“Good evening, Madam, I'm here to pick up Miss Allison.”

“What's that you're saying?” she asked, cupping her hand around her ear. “Well, don't just stand there like a dummy. Harry, it's your podiatrist,” she yelled over her shoulder to the old man standing behind her. He was also using a walker. There was a green tank fixed to his walker. The tank sprouted a clear plastic tube that formed a Y below the man's chin; a tube entered each of his nostrils.

“I'm looking for a Miss Allison.”

“Why didn't you say so? She's on the top floor. Say, what the hell are you doing in our apartment? Harry, better call security, I don't like his looks.”

The old woman shuffled closer. Her glasses were so magnified she appeared bugeyed. After sniffing, she pinched her nose in disgust. “Is that booze I smell? You know we've had some rapes in this neighborhood. Harry, get my pepper spray. God damned drunken rapist,” she hissed, waggling her arthritic finger in his face. Her hand was covered in purple liver spots and the end digit of her finger angled at a forty-five.

“Ruth, I'm not calling security. We know the security guard's an imbecile,” the old man yelled. He cocked his head to inspect Gillespie. “Say, mister….” He stopped midsentence to clear the phlegm from his throat. “Say, mister, can I offer you a cocktail?”

“Thanks, maybe another time. I'll be leaving now.”

“Suit yourself. God damn you, Ethel, I think you frightened the poor bastard off. Rape? Why hell, I've got a better chance of getting raped than you do.”

“Shut up, Harry. Make me another Manhattan,” the old woman barked from the corner of her mouth not occupied by the cheroot.

Gillespie stepped out of the elevator into the penthouse foyer. Looking down from the foyer window, he could see the security gatehouse. No movement meant the security guard had resumed his siesta. Lynn Allison cracked the door on the second knock, but she kept the safety chain fastened. “Mr. Gillespie, what an unpleasant surprise. Ever think of calling first? What brings you out at this time of night? How did you get into my building?”

“I landed on the roof in a stolen helicopter.” He grimaced when she didn't smile. “Seriously, Miss Allison, I've got some information about your sister. I went out on a limb to get this stuff. Could you please open the door?”

Lynn Allison unhooked the chain. Her expression was one of skepticism waxed over exasperation. It was evident she had second thoughts about letting him in. She wore a terrycloth robe, which she tightened at the neck. Her message was clear: Don't even think about it. When she sat down on the sofa, she curled her legs under until all of her skin was covered, which reinforced the message.

“So, Mr. Gillespie, you said you had information about my sister?”

“The information I have is about your stepson, Arthur. I know this sounds crazy, but I believe your exhusband intends to. Let's just say, he's not planning to throw you a surprise party.”

“You're pathetic. Is this where I'm supposed to jump into your arms? I'm afraid I've already seen this movie.”

He told her about breaking into Max's office. Gillespie admitted that he could only hear parts of Max's conversation.

“So that's it? That's all of it?” she said. “You know what I think? I think your coming here was Max's idea. You didn't break into his office. You must think I'm pretty stupid. I'm calling the police.”

“I wouldn't do that. Not until you've read this,” he said, handing her the envelope.

Lynn stood up and snatched it out of his hand. She sat down in a stuffed chair by a reading lamp. Her eyes darted along each line. When she finished she clutched the rumpled pages against her chest and turned around. She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Have you read it?”

“I didn't have time. When I saw the signature and the date, I knew I needed to see you.”

“This proves Arthur's alive. Max has known all along. Danny, you don't wanna get involved.”

“I'm already involved.”

“If I were you, I'd let this go.”

“I can't do that. I've got some theories about your ex. That first detective you hired, Richard Langley, was a friend. He may never recover from the beating I believe your ex-husband arranged.”

“Have it your way, but you've been warned. For starters, you better read this.” She handed him the letter. He read the letter through and then reread parts of it again.

“I'm confused. This sounds like Turner's son wants to stay in Africa. Why all of the hushhush about his son being alive? This letter proves Max knew his son was alive all along.”

“It's complicated.” She sniffled and looked away. “I've pretty well figured out that Max stole some dough. I guess his son was an accomplice. The name of the firm is ‘Turner and Turner.'”

“Max embezzled the money early in his career. His son didn't join the firm until later. Arthur's never done a dishonest thing in his life. I can't prove it, but I believe this is about Arthur's mother's death. Arthur was on Max's boat the night his mother supposedly fell overboard, or jumped over, or was pushed over. I know Max and his wife were on the verge of a divorce. There were rumors she was blackmailing him. You know something? There was never a suicide note. Max remarried six months later.”

As he continued speaking, she let her legs slip out from underneath her robe. He noticed the change but was careful not to overplay his hand.

“I gotta say, your story sounds fishy. None of this proves Max killed his wife. Fifty percent of the time, people who commit suicide don't leave notes.”

“Arthur and I became very close. My sister may have been his wife, but there were things he needed to tell someone else. It was always the three of us against Max. Arthur always hinted he had reservations about what he'd been told about his mother's death. I wonder if the terrorist ordeal in Africa triggered some buried memories. Maybe I've seen too many mystery movies.”

“I'm a detective working the divorce scene in Palm Beach. Super-rich people are capable of unimaginable acts when they think someone's after their dough. Nothing would surprise me,” Gillespie responded.

“Unfortunately, I used to be part of that scene, even if it was only temporary.”

“You seem like too good of a person to have been hitched to Turner.”

His compliment dampened her apprehension. She dropped her hands and let the collar open naturally. “I ran into Max at a time when I needed help.”

“One thing's for certain—I underestimated your ex-husband. Just to be on the safe side, we need to find you a safe place to crash for a few days. Have you got a friend you could bunk with?”

“I don't have any friends. Max never allowed me to have friends. Helen Croxford asked me to visit her in Africa, but we didn't set a date.”

“If I suggest you stay on my boat, are you gonna think I'm trying to…you know what I mean. I know you're a lady. I would never—.”

Yeah, right, she thought. “Someday, I'll tell you about my past. I've never been comfortable with this southern-belle crap. Max made the whole thing up. It was his way of trying to mold me into something socially acceptable. I've been playing the part for so long that I've come to despise it. What a joke! Let me throw some things together.” Lynn's expression seemed relaxed, like she was finally able to play the part of herself.

“Does the name Nelson Chang mean anything to you?” Gillespie asked.

“Why do you ask?” Without thinking, she closed her robe and pulled her legs under. It was as if mentioning Chang opened a mental door she needed to shut.

“When I was rummaging through Max's desk, I found a folder with his name on it. I almost grabbed it, but I was afraid Max would miss it.”

“Nelson Chang is Max's biggest client. Chang's an arms dealer among other things. He's super-rich. I met him a couple of times on Max's yacht. He gave me the creeps. Max always treated him like he was God.”

“Let's get out of here,” he said, standing up.

The security guard smiled at Gillespie as he opened the gate. He wrote down the license plate number and picked up the telephone. “Mr. Turner, this is Tom Casey. Yes, sir, Tom Casey. CASEY. I'm the night guard at your ex-wife's condo. You told me if I should ever see anything suspicious, I should call you right away. You said there would be a little something in it for me. So you do remember me. Your ex just left here with a man driving a white Caddy convertible. He's a red-faced fella. Kind of a wiseguy. Thought he fooled me when he snuck past me earlier, but I was onto him from the getgo… Yes, sir. That's mighty nice of you. Say, I got the first two letters of his license plate. They were FL— Mr. Turner, are you still there?” He listened to the dial tone for a few seconds and hung up.