Castro Directive (8 page)

"Tell you the truth, I never liked the stuff much. Besides, I was too busy to get high." He reached into his pocket and took out a roll of bills in a silver money clip. "Considering the dangers involved in this case, it's only fair to double your payment."

Pierce watched Andrews count out the cash and lay it next to the other stack. "Ray, I appreciate your generosity, but—"

"Look, Nick. You help me out, and after this is over I'll straighten things out with the clients you lost. You know I can do it."

Andrews was pressing, and Pierce was wavering. "What about the cops? They're already harassing me like they think I'm involved."

"Tell them you're working for me. Whatever you think is appropriate. Besides, now you can prove them wrong. You'll be working in your own best interest."

Pierce mulled it over a moment. "What's your interest in that skull, Ray?"

"My interest is seeing that it's returned to its owner. I'm presently involved in negotiations with him to buy it."

"When Loften hired me, he said something about a William Redington and—

"Another skull," Andrews finished. "A twin, yes. My guess is that Professor Redington wants both of them, and had something to do with Loften's murder. He's the key."

Or maybe Monica is, Pierce thought. Maya-2. Two what? Two Mayan crystal skulls?

He looked at the money on the table, then shifted his gaze back to Andrews. "What's so important about these skulls?"

"They're incredible and mysterious works of art. No one knows how ancient crystal skulls were made. It's very difficult to cut quartz with such precision and detail without causing serious fractures in the crystalline structure."

Pierce hesitated, then picked up one of the stacks of cash and counted out a grand. "This will cover me for three days. Let's see what I come up with."

Andrews smiled, reached for the cash, peeled off five more hundreds, and handed them to Pierce. "For expenses. Get yourself a gun."

A
s Pierce waited for the clerk from the license bureau in Tallahassee to return to the phone, he switched the call to the speaker, leaned back and put his feet up on his desk. He stared absentmindedly at a photo on the wall next to his desk.

He'd taken it in Ecuador, at an Indian market in Quito, several years ago, and had made an eight-by-ten print of the slide. From a distance it looked like a hodgepodge of colorful ponchos and sweaters, fruits, and vegetables. But now as he leaned toward the photo, he saw that in the midst of the crowded market a girl of about ten was smiling and standing straight, seeming to pose for the picture. He'd never noticed her and yet there she was, standing in the center of the photo, beaming at him. Perhaps the lesson in that, he thought, was to pay attention to details.

A woman's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Hello, sir."

"Yes, I'm still here."

"That was M-A-Y-A dash 2, correct? The clerk spoke in a syrupy Southern accent typical of Tallahassee natives. "Is that a personalized license?"

He tapped his pen impatiently against his notepad. "Yes, it is."

"Oh, no wonder I'm having trouble. That's another code. You'll have to excuse me. I'm new. One moment, please."

Yeah, and I'm getting old waiting.
Anyone could call Tallahassee and obtain the name and address of a car's owner with only the Florida license number. But sometimes he wished it was more difficult. Oddly enough, if you had the contacts to expedite matters, privileged information was sometimes easier to obtain than so-called public documents, because you sidestepped bureaucratic procedures.

"Okay," she said a moment later. "The vehicle is registered to Elise Simms." She spelled both names for him, then gave him an address.

"Thank you, ma'am." He hung up, rubbed his ear, and stared at the name and address he'd jotted down.

She lived in Coconut Grove. No wonder "Monica" knew about the Chinese restaurant, he thought.

Maybe the license plate was just a coincidence and Elise Simms had nothing to do with the crystal skull and its disappearance. Maybe she played tourist to fulfill some fantasy, or she was married and used a false name when she met someone new. Or she was an heiress and got her kicks slumming on South Beach. Then again, maybe she was like the girl in the photo—shrouded, but right at the center and staring intently at him. If that was the case, he wanted to find out everything he could about her.

He lifted his reverse directory from a metal bookshelf and laid the twenty-pound tome on his desk. He'd paid $150 for it three years ago, and it had paid for itself many times over. He paged through it until he found the address. The entry listed Stephen and Elise Simms as the owners of the property. It also gave their occupations. He was listed as a lawyer, and she was an archaeology professor.

He lugged the directory back to the shelf. Monica, or rather Elise, was getting more interesting by the moment. He picked up his phone and dialed information. "Florida International University, please. Archaeology Department." He was assuming she and Professor Redington were campus colleagues.

"One moment. Checking under F.LU., I don't see any Archaeology Department."

"How about anthropology?"

"Thank you." A recorded voice gave him the number, and he quickly dialed it.

"Do you have an Elise Simms teaching there?" he asked the receptionist.

"No. Are you sure you have the right department?"

"Is there any other university in the area that would have an archaeologist on its teaching staff?"

"The University of Miami has an Anthropology Department. You might try there."

A moment later he had the number, dialed it, and asked for Elise Simms.

"She's not in. Would you like to leave a message?"

"That's okay. Could you just tell me what her specialization is?"

"Of course. She specializes in Mayan studies."

He hung up, walked over to his bedroom closet, and pulled out the suit coat he'd worn the day of his visit to the museum. He reached in the right-hand pocket and smiled as he felt the booklet the guard had given him. He flipped through it and on the back page found what he was looking for. His investigation of William Redington was going to have to wait. Finding out everything he could about Elise Simms was more important. She was listed as a consultant to the exhibit, and he damn well knew that somehow she was entwined with Loften's murder and the theft of the skull.

He spent his afternoon at the courthouse. It was a familiar routine for him, going through huge ledger books of county property records and viewing microfiche documents of civil and criminal records. He found out the Coconut Grove house was valued at $245,000 and the property was now listed solely in her name. She'd been to court in Dade County once, to get a divorce.

He walked down the hail to the marriage and divorce records office and asked for the file on the case. In some of his cases, courthouse checks had yielded mother lodes of suspicious evidence. Once he'd discovered that a bereaved husband who was suing over his wife's fatal accident had filed for divorce a week before the accident, and had withdrawn the divorce procedure the day after the accident and two days before his wife died from the injuries.

In another case, a man claimed that his car slipped out of park on an incline and pinned him against a wail, causing multiple fractures to one of his legs. Pierce's record check uncovered three arrests for check-kiting schemes and one for insurance fraud. Besides that, a half-dozen subcontractors had sued his construction firm. Two days after the information was presented to the defense attorney, the case was dropped. One of the insurance company's attorneys told Pierce that the information he'd obtained would have made it impossible to convince a jury that the man had actually set his car in park.

When the file arrived, he went through it page by page. Even though there was no transcript for the case, he learned a variety of details about Elise Simms's life from the documents that had been filed. She had been raised in Guatemala, the daughter of an archaeologist, and after marrying Stephen Simms, had lived in Chicago and taught at a university until moving to Miami six years ago.

She'd filed for the divorce, and he'd opposed it. She claimed he was obsessed with weight lifting and took steroids. The drug made him abusive when he was on them, and sexually impotent when he wasn't. He also hated to travel and refused to go to Guatemala with her or even visit her while she was involved in fieldwork at Mayan sites. In the end, she'd been awarded the house in the settlement.

The ex-husband might prove worthwhile later, he decided. But first he wanted to confront Simms in person. He'd drive over to the Grove tonight and arrive unannounced. He couldn't wait to see the expression on her face.

As he left the courthouse a few minutes later, he decided to make one more stop. The library was just a few blocks from the courthouse, and unless she'd changed her schedule, Tina would be still be there. When he arrived, he took the stairs. Her office was located on the top floor, five flights of stairs, ninety-six steps. Pierce's best time was twenty-eight seconds. Today, however, with his head still recovering from its recent blow, he took his time.

Tina was on the phone when he reached her glass-walled office. He tapped on the door, and she glanced briefly at him, signaled him to enter. He made his way between two metal carts stacked with books and stepped over a cardboard box. Somehow, she managed to work amid the clutter.

She hung up and looked him over with an appraising eye—as if he were here to apply for a job or had been caught stealing books. He knew it was her way of saying she hadn't seen him for a while. He simply smiled and looked her over, too. She wore a deep red blouse with a high collar, and matching ruby lipstick. Her thick black hair fell over her shoulders, but didn't hide the gold chain and cross that dangled from her neck.

"How is your head?" she finally asked.

"Better."

"Good. Let me guess. You want me to look something up."

"That's your job, right?"

"Yeah. That is my job," she said in a weary tone. "What is it now?"

"You having a bad day?"

"I have had better ones."

"When you get a chance, I'd like you to look for any published works by a William Redington or Elise Simms. He's psychology; she's archaeology. I'm especially looking for anything about a crystal skull."

She jotted down the names. "Does this have something to do with that murder at the museum?"

"Tina, I didn't think cross-examining library patrons was part of your job."

She dropped her pen on the desk. "I want to know about it."

He folded his arms over his chest, and regarded her a moment. "Ray Andrews hired me. It was his money."

"Raymond? I am surprised he even talks to you after you double-crossed him."

"I didn't double cross anyone," he said testily. "I was the one who lost the clients, not Ray."

"Well, if it was not for him . . ."

"Yeah, yeah. That's enough, Tina."

"Just do not offend him this time, all right?"

He placed his hands on the edge of her desk and leaned over. "Are you going to help me or not?"

"Of course, I am. Let me see your head."

He tilted it toward her, made a face. "It's nothing."

She ran her fingers through his hair. "Nothing? It is all black and blue." Her fingers slid down over his cheek. "I wish you would be more careful. I worry about you."

That was Tina. Annoyed with him one moment, sentimental the next. He drew his head back. "There was nothing to be careful about. I had no idea I was in danger."

She rested her chin on her hand. "So tell me about this crystal skull. It sounds very mysterious."

"Not much to tell. That's why I want you to find something on it."

"Was it stolen?"

"Good guess. Listen, I've got to go. Call me when you have something. All right?"

Those big brown eyes fixed on him. "I always do," she said.

He stepped over the box, edged through the carts, and left the office. Jesus, she loved to make him feel guilty. But he knew damn well he asked for it. Even though it was her idea that they should remain friends, he was the one who kept asking her for help. Maybe it worked for some ex-spouses, but it wasn't working for him and Tina. Sooner or later, he would have to end it.

Pierce drove slowly along a quiet residential street in Coconut Grove. A plum-colored ribbon of light bled across the western sky, the last vestige of dusk. Halfway down the block, he pulled to the curb near Elise Simms's house. Nice neighborhood. But when you paid nearly a quarter-million for a forty-year-old, two-bedroom wood-frame house, you'd damn well better like the neighborhood.

The house was shrouded in hibiscus and bougainvillea, but he could see that the windows were dark and the driveway leading up to it was empty. He would wait for her, but while he waited he would have a chat with her neighbors. No resource had ever proven as fruitful as neighborhood gossip. The things some people divulged about their neighbors never failed to astonish him. It was as if they'd been waiting for someone to ask what so and so did at night, who visited, who else lived there.