Authors: David Daniel
Goofy Foot (15 page)
“An eye.”
“The pyramid on a dollar bill? The illuminati?” The Commission again. I let the binoculars dangle. “They're messing with my mind,” he said. “Because I know.”
“What is it that you know?”
He peered again at his watch. His fear seemed to be intensifying. He kept looking around, like a skittish hound. I wasn't crazy about the thought of him packing the loaded Python. I pointed to a jut of land off to the right. “What's that?”
Carvalho shuddered, as if with cold, or revulsion. “We'd better get back.”
“Is that Shawmut Point?” I pressed.
He glanced skyward, his brow clenched. He looked like one of the hunching figures in Picasso's
Guernica
. “Satellite will go over in three minutes.”
Guernica
. “Satellite will go over in three minutes.”
I glanced at the sky, too; I was getting a contact scare being with him. I did see a small bat fluttering past, but I didn't fear it. Taking a chance, I said, “Isn't that where your daughter was found?”
His small eyes seemed bright with emotion. For a moment, the paranoia, the gun, the big dog faded away. He was just an old man, still in pain over a lost child. “We need to be moving,” he murmured.
I took a few steps closer to him. “Do you know where your daughter was swimming when she drowned?”
“Drowned. Yeah, that's the way they put it.”
“Waitâwho? The high school kids?”
He slanted a look at me: disappointment or angerâor both. “That was disinformation. The ones who killed her planted that. Come on.”
My heartbeat quickened. “What people?”
He was growing frightened, a sensation that was spreading to me. “Mr. Carvalho, are you saying someone murdered your daughter?”
“We're almost out of time. We've got to go.” He looked skyward again. His broad dome of forehead was slick with sweat. Wind stirred the brittle dune grasses. “They'll be switching to infrared.” I heard a chord of true panic in his voice.
“Please, what did you mean?”
But he was moved by other terrors now. He pushed bluntly past me, his thick legs churning through the sand, back toward the high grass. “Come
on!
” he cried.
on!
” he cried.
He drove in taut silence, his eyes scanning his mirrors. Warm from exertion, I loosened my tie. I had sand in my shoes. I turned the little handle of the vent window and pushed it out and let the night air stream in at me. Once a car approached and Carvalho clicked off his high beams; when it passed, he stomped the floor button again as if he were firing a salvo of heat-seeking missiles at an unseen enemy, and the beams stabbed the night again.
The Cape Way's VACANCY sign looked hopeful, but it was a
fading hope. The only living things drawn to it were moths, and maybe the occasional bat; the rest seemed all about ghosts. The parking lot was mostly empty. The forlorn cottages loomed palely at the edge of the woods in the back a moment before Carvalho turned off the car's lights. He put his dog into its pen. “Good-bye,” he said emphatically, letting me know my questions would go unanswered. “Word of advice,” he added from his doorstep. “You ought to get another car.”
fading hope. The only living things drawn to it were moths, and maybe the occasional bat; the rest seemed all about ghosts. The parking lot was mostly empty. The forlorn cottages loomed palely at the edge of the woods in the back a moment before Carvalho turned off the car's lights. He put his dog into its pen. “Good-bye,” he said emphatically, letting me know my questions would go unanswered. “Word of advice,” he added from his doorstep. “You ought to get another car.”
“One of these days. Where I'm from, though, I'm still ahead of the curve.”
In the pulsing red-and-yellow light, he looked shocked. “I mean
older
. You don't know about that? Everything built from '87 on, the government installed a chip. In case they want to mobilize. Never mind the fact that Arabs will soon control every gas pump in the country, that's irrelevant. One central switch someplace in a cave in Utahâthey hit it, and
bango
. The highways are full of dead machines and helpless citizens, and the black helicopters come. Sitting ducks.”
older
. You don't know about that? Everything built from '87 on, the government installed a chip. In case they want to mobilize. Never mind the fact that Arabs will soon control every gas pump in the country, that's irrelevant. One central switch someplace in a cave in Utahâthey hit it, and
bango
. The highways are full of dead machines and helpless citizens, and the black helicopters come. Sitting ducks.”
“Been on the X-way lately?” I said.
“Eternal vigilance, Mr. Rasmussen.”
It was going on ten o'clock when I found Maple Street, a tree-lined road west of the town center. Part of me wanted only to go to the beach house and sleep; another part wanted to get back to Apple Valley and speak with the Jensens; but I was curious, too. Ted Rand had said there'd be an assortment of outsiders and locals at his soiree; maybe I could find some answers to my growing list of questions. I knew which house was Rand's by the way a kid in chinos and a teal Izod shirt came jogging out and practically wrestled the wheel from the driver of the BMW ahead of me. A second kid, same uniform, was slower getting to me. I climbed out and let him take it. “Nice ride,” he said under his breath, but he seemed ready to forgive me when he caught sight of the 8-ball shift knob. He whacked it into gear and wheeled the Ford away in the Beemer's dust.
The house was an old colonial, agleam with floodlights that lit its white brick facade. There was a modern addition blended to the main house with such inspiration and skill, it was hard to tell it hadn't been part of the original structure. A pretty woman in a soft green summer dress greeted me at the door. I gave her my name. “Ah, y'all are the detective!”
“Look who's talking.”
Her grin grew wide as a country sky. “C'mon in. I'm Clarissa.”
“Hi, Clarissa.” She was a few years younger that Paula Jensen, with coppery hair that fanned away from becomingly freckled cheeks.
“Ted's told me about y'all. You're looking for someone from town.”
“And his daughter.” I showed her the Polaroid.
She shook her head. “Sorry. Of course, I'm not a nativeâI'm a wash-ashore, Ted calls me. I'm from Texas.”
“No fooling?” Her drawl should've been served with pinto beans.
She seemed to be performing the role of hostess. I followed her through the house, not hard to do: she moved with a shapely grace. Was she Iva Rand's replacement? A set of French doors stood open to a large enclosed courtyard. “Ted went to Italy one time,” Clarissa told me, “and he wanted to re-create a Tuscan courtyard.” Decorative trees were strung with strands of tiny white lights, giving the space a festive air. The walls were made of stone, flanked with gardens; there were little niches and mossy benches and garden statuary. A crushed-stone walk went around the swimming pool, which was the courtyard's centerpiece. The pool was lit from below and the beautiful people surrounding it glowed. In the water several bikini-clad women were splashing about.
Clarissa made sure I got a drink and then introduced me around. Among the guests were a number of prominent locals, including bankers and selectmen, making me think of the sign out at Shawmut. Mitzi Dineen, the realtor, was there and happily took over duties of showing me around as if I were a new listing. She presented me to her colleague, Andy Royce, who pumped my hand, maybe thinking the third time was the charm. Among the “wash-ashores” that Ted Rand's luxury project was bringing to town were a young comer from the state senate, whose face was familiar to any
Globe
reader, and a prominent elderly cosmetic surgeonâat least I was told he was prominent; he was definitely elderly, though his wife appeared to be still decades away from needing his skills. There was also an old white-mustached fellow in the Jacuzzi talking to several bathing beauties; he looked familiar though I couldn't place him.
Globe
reader, and a prominent elderly cosmetic surgeonâat least I was told he was prominent; he was definitely elderly, though his wife appeared to be still decades away from needing his skills. There was also an old white-mustached fellow in the Jacuzzi talking to several bathing beauties; he looked familiar though I couldn't place him.
I chatted with guests, probing for the occasional scrap of information that might relate to the case I was working on. I wasn't sure what I was likely to learn; I had the sense that I was examining an interesting tide pool, looking at scattered forms, trying to discover some element that linked them. Fortunately most of the people were too full of themselves to wonder why I wanted to know.
Ted Rand spotted me and came over. He was in an elegant blue sport coat and tan slacks over a white polo shirt. In the glow from the tiny white lights he had the burnish of prosperity and good health. “I see you're mixing and mingling just fine,” he greeted. “Did you bring your bathing suit?”
“I'm not much of a swimmer. The pool looks good, though.”
“I never use it. I prefer the Atlantic. But,” he added, smiling toward the pretty pool users, “the guests are friendly, so make yourself at home.”
“Who's the gentleman in the spa?” I asked.
Rand told me his name, and I recognized him as a former superior court judge. He'd heard cases in Lowell for years. Generally the bench was a seat for life, and most judges dug in like Mississippi wood ticks, so either he'd voluntarily given it up for something else or had been made to. Ted Rand went off to spread charm, and I wandered about the courtyard, sampling canapés and capping the occasional yawn. Drinks and the festive mood soon had people dancing to seventies club music. I wandered over to the deejay set up in a cabana beyond the pool. “You don't look like that's the music you grew up with,” I said. He was far from old enough to use the bar.
He grinned vacantly. “No, it's all programmed. I just spin the play list the boss gives me. Any requests?”
“Got Satan Bugg's latest?”
He laughed and gave me a bit more attention. “That'd rock this scene.”
“What's their appeal?” I asked.
“These people?”
“Satan Bugg. They're popular, no?”
Now he was into me. “Their last album went double platinum. Their appeal? They're angry, man.”
“Angry.”
“You know. British working-class angst. Pissed off.”
“At what?”
“At all of this ⦠this ⦔ At a loss for words, he waved a hand. “Opulence. Excess. It's random. You see the cars parked out there?”
Yeah. That made sense. The band members undoubtedly drove old wrecks, like John Carvalho, and lived in packing crates. “Does the band have any strange trips?” I asked. “Any hidden meanings to their lyrics?”
“You mean like back masking? Satanic messages?”
“Whatever.”
He laughed. “Yeah, right. It's music. It helps if you're sixteenâsomething to outgrow. Unfortunately, no one told this crowd to outgrow Cher and the Captain and Tennille. No offense, hey.”
I grinned. “One more question.” I took out the snapshot of Michelle Nickerson. “Ever see her around?”
He gave it his attention but shook his head. “I'd like to. She's cute.”
“Thanks for the music lesson.”
I wandered into the house. In the living room a handful of guests were standing around the young Beacon Hill pol, who was holding forth as if it were the senate floor. I went and stood on the fringe.
“And when they started the excavations they found some old bones,” he was saying. “Some federal agency came in and tested them, and they were five thousand years old. Well, that was that. They threw the red tape like frat boys throw toilet paper. Ted had to hold up the project a month while archaeologists checked it out. Evidently the bones were from Indians. Excuse meâânative peoples. ' That put a few folks on the warpath. Could've held up things indefinitely, but Ted got everyone's feathers unruffledâno pun intended.”
“Like hell, Steve,” someone quipped. Chuckle, chuckle.
“Ted had a powwow with some tribal leaders and soon everyone was all smiles and the project was back in business. He's a master at compromise. I keep telling him he's got a future in the state house if he ever gets tired of development.”
“He's got a future here,” Andy Royce said. “And we need him.”
“We certainly do,” piped a lean young woman, her blonde hair
still wet from the pool “He gives great party. And in the winter he's got a theater downstairs and has these movie nights? He shows all those old classics, like
Sleepless in Seattle
and
Basic Instinct
.” She beamed.
still wet from the pool “He gives great party. And in the winter he's got a theater downstairs and has these movie nights? He shows all those old classics, like
Sleepless in Seattle
and
Basic Instinct
.” She beamed.
“I heard he promised the Indians backup if they try for a casino license.”
“And maybe a location for said casino right here on Shawmut Point,” said Royce.
One member of the circle seemed to be paying little attention to the talk and instead was watching me with baggy-eyed appraisal. It was the former judge, wrapped in a thick white terry pool robe now, as if he'd wandered in from the set of
Playboy After Hours
. I met his gaze and nodded, but he twitched his mustache and turned away. Mr. Beacon Hill was settling in for a filibuster, so I broke free of his charisma and wandered into the next room.
Playboy After Hours
. I met his gaze and nodded, but he twitched his mustache and turned away. Mr. Beacon Hill was settling in for a filibuster, so I broke free of his charisma and wandered into the next room.
If the courtyard was Tuscan, this appeared to be a Bavarian hunting lodge, the dark-paneled walls hung with trophy heads of deer, a cuckoo clock, plaques of appreciation for civic and charitable work. Somethingâwas it a potpourri?âgave the room the piney scent of the Schwarzwald. I went for the framed photographs. Ted Rand sitting in a golf cart with the governor. Standing with Frank Sinatra. Posing with members of his softball team, each player holding a “Number One!” finger in the air. Several photos were of Ted and his son when the kid was young. In one, TJ, in a football uniform and smiling almost shyly, held a trophy the size of a beer keg. In another he wore the dress uniform of a marine lieutenant. There was no appearance of his loyal sidekick, Red Dog, or his prom queen. The photograph that caught me, however, was of a young Iva Rand. She glowed with beauty. She was smiling and tightly holding her toddler son, as if he might slip from her grasp and disappear.
I grew aware that someone had come into the room and was standing beside me. It was the former judge. He was dressed now, in sport clothes in the sober hues and costly cuts that befit a man of his position.
“They're quite a family,” I said conversationally. “I'm Alex Rasmussen, by the way.”
Either he was hard of hearing or short on social grace. He ignored
my hand and went on looking at the Marine Corps photograph.
my hand and went on looking at the Marine Corps photograph.
“Rough what happened to Teddy,” I said. “Do you know the story?”
He looked at me as if I were being distasteful. I hesitated, and groped for a fresh start. “Do the Rands have other children?” I tried.
“Only the one.”
I turned to see Ted Rand, who'd spoken. The former judge looked at him, too, sent a cursory scan at the photos, then moved off without a word.
Rand wore a tight smile. His cheeks looked sunburned. “I invited you to give you a respite,” he said. “Bracing me is one thing, but I hope you're not going to subject my guests to an interrogation. Clarissa told me you showed her the Nickerson girl's photograph.”
I raised a hand, palm out. “Sorry. I've got this bad habit of forgetting to punch out when I leave the job. In fact, one thing I meant to ask youâif I may?”
Rand shrugged. I said, “When you saw Nickerson the other day, did he talk with you about money? Or about business opportunities?”
“We've been there already, haven't we? Is that the route you're following? That Ben Nickerson has some business connection to Standish? Because, if so, I'm sorry I can't be more helpfulâI simply don't know anything.” He smiled. “It was your notion that I'm the burgomaster, not mine.”
“Don't be modest. Look at your guests tonight. And golf with the governor? You've got to admit you're a high-profile citizen. But what I'm thinking is that Nickerson's business may not be as sound as he's let on, that possibly he came back to Standish looking for an opportunity, or a loan. He has the local newspaper mailed to him in California. It's likely he's kept aware of your Point Pines project.”
Rand gave a little snort of laughter. “Ben? I can more likely imagine him trying to convince me not to build anywhere near the coast, for fear I'd be endangering some species of jellyfish.” His smile faded. “Are you thinking that he might want to extort money somehow?”
I hadn't thought it, but I couldn't rule out any reasonable possibility. “Well?”
“The fact is, I've been even more stringent than the EPA requires. After all, what would be the point in spoiling the natural beauty of the area? People paying what Point Pines costs damn sure don't want a wasteland. Anyway, curiosity is a habit I tend to shareâbut in the right time and place. Let's suspend it for tonight. What do you say? I want to enjoy myself.”
I'd been hoping to find a way to bring up his son's accident without revealing where I'd heard it, but I couldn't now. “Can I ask you one more question?”
“All right, a quick one, but I've got my lawyer right over there.” His tone was jocular, but he nodded, and I looked and saw the former judge. In an instant I had an answer to my question of earlierâof why a judge would leave his benchâand the answer was simple: better pay.
“Very quick,” I said, changing tack and gesturing to the photograph of Rand with Old Blue Eyes. “Did he sing âMy Way'?”
He gave me a complex smile. “Sometimes it's smarter to let the other person think he's had
his
way.”
his
way.”
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