The Monet Murders (20 page)

“But the car is an expensive item. There are all sorts of rich Mexican crooks outside Tijuana who'd jump at the chance to get ahold of one of those beauties at a discount, no questions asked. All it would take is for the same enterprising boat owner to feed the departed to the fishes and then drive the valuable car across the border and turn it over to people he knew who'd be happy to act as agents. Everyone benefits, and you're out no cash. Capisce? The car pays for the whole deal, and then some. I figure a car like that's gotta be worth close to fifteen grand. The going rate for getting rid of a body's no more than a grand, tops. So even if the car gets sold at a big discount, there's plenty to go around.”

“That could work.”

“It always has.”

I let that one go.

“This way is much neater than a staged accident,” said Perry. “Our cops couldn't do anything against the boys across the border, even if by some chance they heard about the car being down there. But if they did hear about the car, they'd naturally assume the departed got departed when his car was stolen by banditos. That would give our cops enough to close any missing-person case. Open cases give ‘em heartburn, and they'd jump at any excuse to wrap this one up. This is all hypothetical, you understand.”

“Hypothetically, do you know anyone with a boat and contacts across the border?”

“I'll be there in an hour or so. Where is there, by the way?”

I figured I had about five hours between now and darkness. That was five hours of sweating and wondering whether what I was about to do made sense. I didn't care about the financial aspect of Perry's plan. Perry and his intermediaries could keep all the money from selling the car. I didn't want any part of that.

I was concerned about Myrtle. Her ingrained fear of the police wasn't really a good excuse for not reporting the killing. There was plenty of physical evidence to prove self-defense. She had been torn up pretty badly and would take time to heal, and during that time a doctor's exam could prove rape and therefore self-defense.

But there was the thought of her career and her hopes that had just been kindled by this big break. Did it make sense to destroy those hopes? Who would benefit? The rapist was dead. Dragging Myrtle through the court system and most likely ruining her career wouldn't bring Rex back. And while it was no doubt too easy to say that Rex had gotten what was coming to him, there was an element of truth in that, wasn't there? I would have done the same thing in her place, but then no one had contacted me to write a book on morality. And there was the bare fact that all of this was academic; it had gotten academic when she left the scene of the crime and went off to acting class as though nothing had happened.

I did wonder, though, about Rex's family. Did he have a sister or sweetheart somewhere, someone who would forever wonder how and why he had disappeared? And what about his parents? They would never know what had happened to their handsome and promising son. Was it better to let them wonder, or for them to learn the brutal truth? And just how much of the truth was enough? Without question, there were
details that wouldn't do them any good to know. There was a writer once who said mankind cannot stand too much reality. Was it T. S. Eliot? Whoever said it had it right.

I thought about finding out who Rex really was and thinking of some way to let his family know that he'd been killed, in some sort of accident or incident related to the disappearance of the car. Maybe we'd tell them that Rex had decided to take a weekend drive into Mexico and that was the last we ever heard from him. No one knew anything more than that; it was all a big mystery. I figured we owed them that much.

Then it occurred to me that if I was in the family's shoes, I'd want to know more than that: I'd want the details. They obviously had money or they couldn't have given junior such an expensive car. In all probability they'd hire private investigators to try to fill in the blanks. They'd do that anyway, after some time had elapsed and they hadn't heard from him. But did it make any sense to give them a lead by making up some story about a Mexican lost weekend that apparently had led to car theft and murder? Any detective worth his salt would then start in Mexico and try to retrace the steps. It wouldn't be hard to find a Duesenberg two-seater in Tijuana.

There seemed to be no percentage in giving the family a starting point that could possibly lead them to Myrtle's front door. They might find out that Rex and Myrtle were in the same acting class, and that he occasionally gave her a ride to and from. No, the best plan would be to say nothing, and if and when the family's investigators questioned Myrtle, to say that Rex had skipped Friday's acting class and no one knew why. Thursday's class was the last anyone had seen of
him. The greater the mystery, the safer it would be for Myrtle. And for her accessories after the fact.

I have to say I didn't like it, though. We'd turned down our chance to come clean, and now we'd have to live with the crime of silence.

About an hour and a half later, I heard the sound of an engine and of tires crunching on the driveway. I looked out the front window. It was a large flatbed truck covered completely by a canvas awning on which was painted the words
SICILY'S FINEST OLIVE OIL
. A rough-looking character got down from the driver's seat, and Perry came around from the other side. It was a relief to see Perry, I can tell you.

“Hey, chief. Meet Vinnie.” It would be a Vinnie, of course.

“How ya doin',” said Vinnie, in the approved fashion.

They came into the house, and both glanced at Rex but showed nothing more than casual interest. He might have been a piece of furniture.

“What's up with the truck?” I asked, although I had a pretty good idea.

“I got to thinking about our problem,” said Perry, “and I decided that it wasn't all that bright to take the chance of being seen driving that heap to Mexico. So I called my friend Vinnie who I knew had a truck and what's more was a regular visitor to Tijuana to pick up various items that the pissants on this side of the border think are immoral and a hazard to the health of the nation. What's more, now and then he takes a fancy automobile down for sale to his friends.”

“It's called free trade,” said Vinnie with a grin and an emphasis on “free,” which I supposed was a reference to the cost of acquiring the cars he transported.

“Vinnie knows some places to cross where the eyes are not so watchful.”

“Or where there ain't any eyes at all,” said Vinnie.

“I get it,” I said. “I assume you have a winch in the back of the truck.”

“Naturally.”

“Good. Let's get the thing loaded up and out of here,” I said.

“In a minute,” said Vinnie. “First we gotta be clear about how to split the money from the sale. I made a few phone calls and got a guy lined up, but I wanna know my share before I do anything.”

“That's between you and Perry. I don't want any of it.”

Vinnie made a gesture of approval that was mixed with a slight element of contempt for someone who would pass on such easy money.

“You sure about that, chief?” said Perry.

“I'm sure. You're doing me a hell of a favor and so you should get well paid. How you split it up is up to you.”

“Deal,” said Vinnie. “What about the stiff?”

“We'll worry about him,” said Perry. “You just handle the car sale and forget everything else—except how much you owe me.”

“Fair enough. Let's load the merchandise.”

It didn't take long. Vinnie had obviously done this sort of thing before. He and Perry lowered a ramp from the back of the truck, hitched a steel cable to the front of the Duesenberg's undercarriage, and then turned on an electric winch
that slowly and surely pulled the car up and into the truck, where Vinnie and Perry tied down the car on all four corners, lowered the canvas covering in the back, and finished the transaction by checking the vehicle identification number and the name of the owner listed on the registration and filling out a bill of sale.

“I don't suppose you'd like to take the . . . departed,” I said to Vinnie.

“No, thanks.”

In a matter of a few moments more, Vinnie was off down the road to Mexico.

“What happens if he gets stopped?”

“No problem. That's one reason why he didn't take the body. That's also why he made out the phony bill of sale. It's details like that that separate the professional from the amateur. Only amateurs get caught.”

That made me wonder whether I was an amateur or a professional.

“Well, that was efficient,” I said. “I wouldn't mind all that much if I never saw him again.”

“Don't worry. You won't, unless you start hanging out at the Sons of Sicily Social Club. Vinnie's nickname is ‘the fog.' One minute he's there, next minute he's gone, leaving no trace.”

“Well, that seems to solve problem number one. Now, what are we going to do with the body?”

“We just have to wait a little bit till the boat gets here.”

That was a little alarming. A boat meant yet another accomplice and therefore another possible leak in any investigation.

“Who's bringing the boat? I hope he's trustworthy.”

Perry laughed. “It ain't a he, it's a she. And you see her three days a week, so you must know by now that she's trustworthy.”

By the time Myrtle got back that evening, all traces of the recent Rex had disappeared. Della had run Perry's motorized fishing skiff up on the beach just after dark, and we'd loaded Rex and the sea-grass rug into the boat.

“How'd this happen, chief?” asked Della as we manhandled the cargo into the skiff.

“The guy raped Myrtle, so she bashed him with a poker while he was basking in the afterglow.”

“Serves him right,” she said, lighting a Pall Mall with a Zippo. “Well, he learned his lesson.”

We didn't waste any time with moralizing or with loading the cargo, and the last I saw of them, Perry and Della were headed out to sea, toward the horizon. Della had been thoughtful enough to bring two concrete blocks and a chain that would assure Rex a permanent spot on the ocean floor. It made you think. It was one hell of an end. But then, what wasn't?

And that, it seemed, was that. It occurred to me, of course, that Perry and Della now had something on me and Myrtle, but that didn't bother me much. After all, they were the ones taking a body out for burial at sea; we all had something on each other. Besides, I didn't think Perry and Della were the kind to betray a friend. They might be involved in a few nefarious things, but I trusted them.

When Myrtle came home that evening, she looked at the floor where the rug had been.

“Is everything all right?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“What happened to . . . ?”

“I don't think you need to know. The less said, the better. But I think everything is taken care of.”

“Are you sure?”