Bermuda Schwartz (26 page)

“So named, I'm guessing, for its bloody way of doing business?” Fiona asks.

“You got it. And to this day it controls organized crime in Portugal, the Azores, Macao, Brazil, wherever Portuguese colonization made a notable footprint,” Janeen says.

“But that doesn't include Bermuda, does it?” Fiona says. “This was never a Portuguese colony.”

“No, it wasn't,” Janeen says. “But shortly after the Sangrento Mao began flexing its muscles, the first wave of immigrants from Portugal started arriving in Bermuda. Over the years the Portuguese community has grown to the point that it now represents nearly twenty percent of the population. There's a Portuguese cable TV channel and a radio station that plays Portuguese music. And, yes, the Sangrento Mao has a presence here as well.”

I'm hearing the sound of fado, smelling a cigar smoked by an old man with a leathery face.

“It's run by a fellow named Papi Ferreira.”

 

I laugh. Technically, I suppose, it's more of a guffaw. Whatever it is, I do it again.

“Well, kiss my ass and call me cutie-pie,” I say.

Janeen and Fiona look at me.

“It's true, Zack,” Janeen says. “I'm not just making this up.”

“Oh, it's not that I don't believe you,” I say.

“What is it then?” Janeen says.

“Let me tell you a little story,” I say. “It's not an especially funny story. Still, you might get a kick out of it.”

And so I share the whole thing with them. Or most of it anyway. I don't go into the specific details of exactly how much money is at stake—that's my business, not theirs—but I tell them about how I tracked down Brewster Trimmingham and how that ultimately led me to Papi Ferreira. I leave out the part about Boggy and me whupping up on Ferreira's minions. No need to appear boastful or anything like that.

“Inspector Worley told me Ferreira was a bad guy,” I say. “Didn't mention that he ran an organized crime ring.”

“Not something the Bermuda Police Service likes to acknowledge,” Janeen says. “I've knocked heads with them over the years when I've broached the subject in stories. But I was never really encouraged to pursue it by the paper. Organized crime in Bermuda is not something the
Royal Gazette
likes to acknowledge, either.”

Janeen gets up from the table, puts water on to boil, gets out cups.

“I'll pass on the tea,” I tell her. “You got any beer?”

She shakes her head, no.

“Rum?”

“Sorry,” she says, “all I have is vodka.”

“That'll work,” I say. “Just pour it in a glass and float some ice in with it.”

She does that. I drink some.

“I'm still not getting the connection between Ferreira's bunch, the Sangrento Mao, and the murders,” I say. “What am I missing here?”

“You mean, besides the most obvious connection—the ritualistic removal of their victims' eyes?”

“Yeah, besides that.”

“Well, despite the fact that they devolved into what they are today, the Sangrento Mao never completely abandoned its hopes of one day finding the Reliquarium de Fratres Crucis. The reliquary is still part of its internal lore, its myth,” Janeen says. “So, seven years ago, when Ferreira got wind of what Richard Peach and Martin Boyd were up to …”

“Wait a minute,” Fiona says. “I thought Peach and Boyd came here under the radar, that no one knew what they were looking for.”

“That's right. At least, no one knew what they were looking for until Martin Boyd let it slip to one of his lady friends.”

Janeen steps to the table with cups of tea for herself and Fiona. She sits down.

“Worley mentioned something about Boyd when Fiona and I met with him the other day,” I say. “Something about Boyd getting involved with someone's wife while he was here in Bermuda.”

“That someone was Cristina Ferreira.” She lets the name sink in. “Papi Ferreira's daughter-in-law. Married to Papi's only son, Antoni.”

“Bad choice of bed partners,” I say. “So your theory is that Papi went after Boyd for cuckolding his son and Richard Peach was just collateral damage?”

“Not exactly. I think they wound up putting Peach in their sights, too,” says Janeen. “What I heard, from a fairly reliable source with ties to the Sangrento Mao, is that after Antoni discovered his wife was having an affair, he was all for getting rid of both her and Boyd. But she managed to bargain her way out of it.”

“How did she do that?”

“She was on the inside of the Sangrento Mao. She knew its history, its origins. She knew how important the Reliquarium de Fratres Cruris was to them. She offered information about where Peach and Boyd were searching for it in exchange for her life. She's living in L.A. now. Sells real estate. Antoni died five years ago while visiting Portugal. Automobile accident.”

I sip more of the vodka. It's not awful. No taste. Just burn. But the burn is what I want, that and the boost that comes afterward.

“When we spoke to Worley, he never mentioned Antoni Ferreira by name, just that he'd ruled him out as a suspect,” I say. “Said he was in Miami when the murders were committed.”

“Doesn't mean that Papi, wanting to provide his son with an alibi, couldn't have arranged to have Peach and Boyd killed while Antoni was out of town,” Janeen says.

“After they'd led Ferreira's outfit to where they thought the wreck of the
Santa Helena
might be found.”

“Something like that,” Janeen says. “I haven't worked out all the details. All I know is that Peach and Boyd must have been killed before they pinpointed the exact location.”

“Why's that?”

“Because in the years since their deaths—again, this is from my source—Ferreira and crew have been looking for the wreck on their own.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, the Sangrento Mao were underwriting a small-scale salvaging project that was searching for the wreck of the
Santa Helena.
It hit a bump last year when a few of their guys got hauled in for disturbing a wreck site without a permit.”

Fiona perks up when she hears that.

“You mean, Michael Frazer caught and arrested them?” she says.

“Yes, it made headlines for a while. Of course, there was no official connection with the Sangrento Mao, but anyone who knows anything about Bermuda recognized who was involved and connected the dots.”

“Sounds like a gutsy move on Frazer's part,” I say.

“Yeah, he's pretty devoted to protecting all the wrecks out there, making sure that any salvaging that takes place is done only under his authorization and supervision.”

I finish off the vodka. Janeen doesn't ask if I'd like another. So much for the lost art of hospitality.

“Was Frazer on the job when Peach and Boyd were killed?” I ask Janeen.

“Yes, I think he'd been here for a couple of years at that point,” she says. “Why?”

“I don't know. Guess I'm wondering why Peach, being the good academic and all, someone who planned to publish his research and hold it out for public scrutiny, didn't get a salvage permit from Frazer's office.”

“I've often wondered about that myself,” Janeen says. “Best explanation I can come up with is that Peach and Boyd might still have been prospecting potential sites when they were killed. The permit requires the applicant to list a relatively specific location and maybe they just didn't have that yet. They were waiting until they knew for sure.

“I do know that Peach met with Michael Frazer on a couple of occasions while he was here. Frazer told me about it. Turns out, Frazer was a graduate student under Richard Peach when he was at Leeds University.”

It piques Fiona's interest.

“Oh, really?” she says. “Michael didn't mention anything about that when we spoke the other night.”

“Yes, Frazer even helped Peach with some of the research on the first book,” Janeen says, reaching for the copy of
The Legend of the Lost Cross
that sits on the table. She opens the book, flips to the acknowledgments page, and reads from it. “The author is particularly indebted to the contributions of his graduate assistant, Michael Frazer, who labored long hours for little reward on the author's behalf.”

“Funny,” I say, “when we spoke to Worley the other day, he said one reason why he didn't believe the
Santa Helena
story was that Michael Frazer had pretty much debunked the whole thing.”

“Yeah, I spoke with Frazer about that, too, when I started putting Peach's notes together and trying to get some momentum going on the book. Frazer was dismissive of the notion that the
Santa Helena
ever made it to Bermuda,” Janeen says. “He claims that much of the work he did for Peach was inconclusive in its findings and that Peach skewed it to support his own research.”

“Did Frazer bear a grudge because of it?” I ask.

“Didn't appear to. I mean, you've met him. He's a professional. Does he seem like someone who would obsess over something like that?”

“Not at all,” Fiona answers quickly.

“Besides,” Janeen says, “it's hardly unusual for a professor to co-opt a
graduate assistant's work and use it to whatever end he pleases. Happens all the time.”

Janeen clears away the teacups, takes my empty glass. I find myself fighting off a yawn. Fiona notices. She stands up from the table.

“I'm for calling it a night,” she says. “You've given us a lot to sleep on, Janeen.”

“Well, here's something else to sleep on,” Janeen says. “If you're up to it, I'd like to interview you about your brother. Get into some of his personal background, what his childhood was like. His hopes and dreams, that sort of thing.”

“Is this for your book?” Fiona says.

“Yes, it is,” Janeen says. “I'm going forward with it no matter what. But I would like to have your backing.”

Fiona doesn't have to think about it long.

“You've got it,” she says.

 

By ten o'clock the next morning, the seventh and next-to-last Bismarck is in the ground. The party is scheduled for tomorrow evening and we've got one palm to go. Things are looking good.

There's no doubt that there will be a party. Aunt Trula has rebounded in fine fashion. If anything, she seems even more driven to perfection for her big to-do. She's overseeing a small army of landscapers who are edging and clipping and planting and trimming, making sure everything is just so.

“She steadfastly refuses to discuss the subject of Teddy,” Barbara says as we watch her from the terrace. “But if that's her way of dealing with it, then so be it.”

“Any word from the attorney?”

“Not yet. Mr. Denton instructed Teddy to ask the police if Titi could visit for just a few minutes this afternoon. We'll see what happens. In the meantime, how do you rate your chances of coming up with something that will put Sir Teddy in the clear?”

“The odds are decent enough, I suppose. Depending on the police department's willingness to go after Papi Ferreira.”

“And it's up to you to give them a reason for doing that?”

“Yep. And sooner or later, between Fiona and me, we'll get something. I just can't promise it will be in time for Teddy to attend the party tomorrow night.”

“Something tells me he won't complain about missing a silly little birthday bash if it ultimately leads to his exoneration.”

“Better watch out,” I say. “If Aunt Trula hears you calling her gala event a silly little birthday bash she might disown you.”

“I don't care. I am ready for this whole thing to be over. I'm exhausted, just worn out. I could crawl back into bed right now I'm so tired,” says Barbara. She drapes her arms around my neck, leans her head against my chest. “Care to crawl back into bed with me?”

“Save that thought,” I say, kissing the top of her head, pulling away. “I've got some errands to run.”

“What kind of errands?”

“The kind that I'm making up as I go along.”

She looks at me.

“Be careful,” she says.

 

It has been a couple of days since I checked in on Brewster Trimmingham, so I swing by King Edward Hospital to see how he's getting along.

I'm hoping that Trimmingham's doctor is close to giving him his walking papers. Because I could use Trimmingham's help. My idea is to put him to work—contacting clients, making cold calls, yanking people off the street, doing whatever it takes to sell the six units at Governor's Pointe.

I'm even willing to throw a commission his way. At this point, I don't even mind absorbing a loss just to clean the table of the whole affair.

When I get to Trimmingham's room it's empty. The bed is neatly made. It doesn't look as if anyone has been in it for a while.

I stop a young nurse's assistant in the hall.

“I'm here to visit Brewster Trimmingham,” I tell her. “Is he still in this room? Or has he been transferred again?”

“Let me check, sir. Be right back.”

I wait in the hallway. I watch an orderly mop up something on the floor. The face he's making tells me I don't want to know what the something is. I watch an old woman being wheeled past me on a stretcher, her eyes already fixed on the great beyond. I watch busy nurses with clipboards and weary doctors with charts and anxious family members huddled in the waiting room across the hall.

I watch the young nurse's assistant heading my way, a stern-faced older woman with her.

“This is the gentleman,” the nurse's assistant says and then steps away.

“You were inquiring about Mr. Trimmingham?” the stern-faced woman says.

“I was. I'd like to see him if that's possible.”

“Are you a family member?”