Thick as Thieves (35 page)

“Shit,” he says to himself.

The master is at the end of the hall, behind a pair of teak doors with gleaming brass hardware. The doors aren’t locked, and the mechanism is almost silent. Chest heaving, Carr closes them behind him.

He’s in a sitting room, with a fireplace, a big ocean view, and none of the austere minimalism of Prager’s office. The sofa and chairs are fat and silk-covered, in blue and gray stripes, the rugs are Persian, the low tables are teak, and the pictures on the wall are tinted engravings of sailing ships. Outside, through glass doors and beneath a green awning, there is a large balcony that wraps around all three of the suite’s exposures. And in the corner, near the fireplace, there is luggage: two large leather suitcases and a leather duffel, open and half-packed on folding stands. Pressed shirts, balled socks, but no laptop.

“Shit,” Carr whispers. He looks at his watch. Nearly nine minutes since the show began. He walks into the bedroom.

It’s like the sitting room, but with a king-size bed instead of a sofa and chairs, and a small teak desk near another set of balcony doors. Carr sighs deeply and smiles. Like the sitting room, only infinitely better: Prager’s laptop is open on the desk.

He nearly laughs aloud when he touches the space bar and the screen lights with a message asking for a password. He pulls out the flash drive, feels for a USB port, and plugs it in. And then Carr hears the almost silent mechanism of the teak doors, and his heart lodges in his throat.

He drops low, peers into the sitting room, and sees a door swing open and the maid walk in. She’s dark and serious-looking behind the basket of folded laundry. She crosses to Prager’s bags, picks through the basket, and places a stack of underwear on a table beside the luggage.

Carr looks behind him, at the open doors of Prager’s walk-in closet. He looks at the flash drive. Fifteen seconds to load, Dennis said, and the LED would blink. How long has it been in? Did the light blink?
Fuck!
The maid stacks undershirts on the table and lifts the basket, and in two quiet steps Carr is in Prager’s bathroom.

It’s like an old-fashioned bank—chrome and marble from floor to ceiling—and Carr stands behind the door, trying not to breathe. He watches through the crack as the maid stows clothing and glances out the window at the bay. She glances out often, as if something new is happening, and now she goes to the balcony doors. When she opens them, Carr can hear the buzzing of the WaveRunners along with a new sound—the angry sputter of an outboard. The Zodiac is running.

The maid stands in the open doorway, watching, shaking her head, and from down the hall Carr hears a voice.

“Yo, Sylvie!” a man calls.

“In here,” the maid answers.

“Shit,” Carr says to himself. He looks around the bathroom. It’s huge, with a soaking tub, a steam shower, double sinks, and views of the garden. And straight back, its own pair of glass doors to the other side of the wraparound balcony. He looks through the crack again, and sees two crew cuts headed down the hall. One waits at the doorway to the master suite, the other—the one whose khakis have damp knees—comes in smiling.

“You watching the circus out there, girl?” he says. “My boss’ll have a stroke if we don’t chase those boys away.” He steps onto the balcony and runs his hand over her back.

She giggles and knocks his hand away. “And so will my boss, she finds you up here wasting my time.” The crew cut laughs and slides his hand lower, but Carr is watching his partner, who still stands in the doorway.

The maid giggles again and points at the water. “Your boss got her wish. They’ve run away behind the rocks. Show’s over, I guess—no more circus.”

Carr’s whole body tenses and the crew cut on the balcony says something, but his words are lost in the flash and the
whump
and the rattling of windows. Carr feels the shock wave in his chest, and the maid is screaming now, and both crew cuts are on the balcony yelling
what the fuck
, and Carr steps into the bedroom. He stays low and pockets the flash drive, and then he’s back in the bathroom, through the glass doors, onto the balcony, and over the rail.

Offshore explosions have a muting effect on parties, and Prager’s party is not immune. The jetty screens his guests from seeing the blast itself, but they hear it and feel it and see the smoke. There are cries of surprise, then silence, then a milling confusion. And then the rush to be as uninvolved as possible.

Amid the hunt for valet tickets and the hasty good-byes, no one notices Carr’s sweat-soaked shirt, or the scratches on his face and hands from the pindo palm that broke his fall. No one notices him listening intently to a voice on his cell phone. No one notices his smile as he puts the phone away.

Carr glides weightless through the crowd, with Dennis’s words still echoing:
It’s loaded, boss, nice and clean
. He touches the flash drive in his pocket, and tells himself to slow down, to focus. Now it’s Declan’s voice he hears:
Don’t fall in love with yer own genius, lad—there’s no greater arse than the one gets shot while he’s staring in the mirror. Yer not home till yer home, and maybe not even then
. Carr runs a hand down his face and wipes the grin off.

He finds Howard Bessemer by the guesthouse, holding a glass and staring at the jetty. He’s pale and sweating and shaking his head. “Now’s the time, Howie,” Carr says.

Bessemer swallows hard. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers. “Did you see
what happened? Did you hear that noise? Did you see who it was on those things?”

“I know, Howie, everything’s fine. It’s time now—just like we went over. And then we go home.”

Carr has worried this part to death. Would Howie balk? Would he freeze up? Would he fold altogether? For an instant, Bessemer tilts sideways, threatens to buckle, but the prospect of
home
has a bracing effect on him. He steadies himself on Carr’s shoulder, nods curtly, and reaches into his glass for a chip of ice.

“Where is he?” he says, chewing.

Prager is outside the main house, smoldering. He’s accepting quick, embarrassed farewells—one after the other—from his guests, and Kathy Rink is standing several paces off. She is paler even than Bessemer, and maybe more jumpy. Her shoes and the hem of her floral dress are wet, as if she’s been in the water. When she speaks it’s to bark at her men. When Prager speaks, she twitches.

Bessemer hangs back while Carr says his good-bye. Prager’s eyes catch for an instant on a scratch on Carr’s face, but he’s got other things on his mind. They shake hands quickly.

“The police are on their way,” Prager tells him, irritation swelling in his voice. “So you’ll want to be on yours. Unfortunate we didn’t get to talk more, but as you can see,” his eyes flick to Kathy Rink and then to the cloudy sky, “this day has gone to hell.” Carr nods. “Give her your number,” Prager says. “We’ll arrange a secure call while I’m on the road, and after you’ve had a chance to think some more.” Carr nods again and moves off. When the line of departing guests ebbs, Bessemer steps up.

His shirt is dotted with sweat, his jacket is a limp balloon, and his tie has surrendered. He pushes a hand through his thin hair and puts it on Prager’s arm. His head bends close. Carr can’t hear what he says, though he and Bessemer have been over it enough that Carr knows it by heart. But he has no trouble hearing Prager’s reply.

Prager shakes Bessemer’s hand off, and his face is an aggravated red. “For chrissakes, Bess—this can’t wait until business hours? What the hell do you think I am, a fucking teller?”

Rink, the guards, the parking attendants, and the few guests who remain turn their heads. Prager doesn’t seem to care, and neither does Bessemer. He’s a determined petitioner, and his hand goes to Prager’s
shoulder. This time Carr catches some fragments of his speech
—serious guy
and
wants it yesterday
and
not kidding
.

Prager shakes his head, but his expression slowly cools from anger to a resigned acceptance of what seems to be his fate today. “All right, already,” Carr hears him say wearily.

When he gets into the passenger seat, Bessemer’s hands are shaking. Carr looks at him, and Bessemer answers before the question is asked. “He said he’d do it soon. He said he’d call when it was done.”

Carr pats his knee and drives through the gate.

They rendezvous off Rum Point Drive, beside a snack shack damaged by some long-ago storm and never repaired. The parking lot is weedy and cracked. The nearby cove is empty but for the open fishing boat, rocking at anchor. Bobby and Latin Mike stand on the narrow, shingle beach. They’re in blue shorts, polo shirts, and ball caps, watching the clouds and drinking beer.

Bobby turns when the car pulls in. “Man of the hour,” he says, smiling. He lifts his beer bottle in a toast. “From the motherfucking jaws of defeat.”

Mike smiles too. His teeth are very white. “You like the show,
jefe
? You like the time we gave you?”

Carr sheds his jacket and shoes and socks. Something loosens in his shoulders. “I liked it fine, Mike,” he says, smiling back. “You guys were fucking amazing.” He’s surprised by how much he means it.

“And Howie?” Bobby asks. “How’d he do?”

Bessemer laughs nervously. “I was fucking amazing too.”

“Fuckin’ a,” Bobby says, and there’s laughter all around. Bobby passes out more beers and they toast. Mike takes a long pull and wipes his mouth. “What’s
soon
to Prager?”

Carr shrugs. “Howie told him it had to be today, and he’s flying to London tomorrow morning, so …”

“Phone charged up, Howie?” Bobby asks.

“A hundred percent,” Bessemer says, and Bobby nods approvingly.

They watch a boat go by, east to west, a mile or so out. Carr can see flags, many antennae, and a big radar array. He turns to Bobby. “The WaveRunners?” he asks.

“Wiped clean, in pieces, on the bottom,” Bobby says.

Carr nods, and the boat passes from view. He takes a long swallow and exhales and all the air seems to leave him. He can already feel the beer. He
closes his eyes and listens to the wind in the ironwood trees, the waves against the shingle, and Bobby, Mike, and Bessemer laughing at something. The water washes over his feet, and he’s not sure if he can move again.

Carr stands this way for he doesn’t know how long, and when Bessemer asks for another beer, he opens his eyes. Bobby hands the beer over and Bessemer’s phone rings.

Bessemer freezes, and Carr takes the bottle from his hand. “You should see who that is,” he says quietly.

Bessemer reaches into his pocket. He stares into the phone’s display. “It’s him.”

Bobby shakes his head. “Soon was soon,” he says.

Carr nods. “Nice and easy now, Howie.”

Bessemer swallows hard and thumbs a button. “ ’Lo, Curt,” he says. His voice is brittle and high. Head bowed, he listens intently. Carr sees his fingers whiten around the phone. Finally, Bessemer nods. “I can’t thank you enough, Curt—you’re a lifesaver. Have a great trip, and I’ll call when—”

Bessemer takes the phone from his ear and looks at it. “The bastard hung up on me.”

“Fuck that,” Mike says. “Did he do it?”

Bessemer nods. “Thirty-seven thousand transferred from Isla Privada to my Palm Beach bank.”

Bobby and Mike exchange high fives just as Carr’s phone burrs. He steps away and answers. Dennis’s voice is a shaking whisper. “We got it,” he says. “Prager’s password. We got all the parts now.”

“Nice work,” Carr says quietly. “You finish cleaning up; those two will be back to give you a hand.” He closes the phone and turns around. Bobby, Mike, and Bessemer stare at him—eager and frightened. Carr nods and smiles.

They don’t sigh in unison, but there is something in their collective silence that feels that way—relief, release, deflation. They look at one another and smile and shake their heads in disbelief. And then they are in motion. Mike wades out to the boat. Bessemer heads back to the Toyota, and Carr takes Bobby’s elbow.

“Nice and clean at the house, Bobby, and nice and easy at the airport.”

Bobby laughs. “I know—we’re not done yet.”

“Almost, but not quite. So let’s not—”

Bobby laughs harder. “I know, for chrissakes
—yer not home till yer home.
”

Carr smiles at him. “So let’s get there in one piece.”

Mike starts the engine and calls to Bobby. “Come on,
cabrón
, this weather’s not holding, and I want to make the earlier flight.”

Bobby looks at Carr, and behind him, at Bessemer. “What about your housekeeping?”

Carr’s stomach knots and a prickle of sweat breaks on his forehead. “It’s covered, Bobby.”

“We could take care of it here and now.”

“I said it’s covered.”

Bobby shrugs. Mike brings the boat in close, and Bobby climbs in, and they roar off toward Rum Point. Carr stares at the clouds stacking in the east.

Bessemer is behind the wheel on the way back to the hotel, driving carefully, and Carr is in the passenger seat making calls. His first one is to Tina.

The tension is plain in her voice, and so is the relief when Carr tells her. “Christ,” she says chuckling, “you couldn’t have called sooner?”

“I waited until I knew for sure.”

“The way you were at Logan, I figured hearing from you today was at best a sixty-forty thing.”

“Happy I could disappoint you.”

“Your guys are buttoning up?”

“And flying out, assuming this storm doesn’t shut things down.”

“They should be okay.”

“Watching the Weather Channel, are you?”

“What else am I supposed to do while I’m waiting for you to call?”

Tina asks about flight times and arrivals and when he expects to be in Boca, at Amy Chun’s place. Carr answers, but his mind is already on his next call.

Valerie’s voice is a taut whisper. “You fucking asshole. You know how long you left me hanging? What the fuck happened?”

“It’s done.”

There’s silence on the other end, and then a long breath. “Don’t bullshit me.”

“I’m not. We’ve got it.”

Another silence, longer this time. “So that’s it then,” she says finally.