The Perfect Fake Page 11

  “You’d prefer to get lung cancer.” Larry followed the pill with a swallow of pomegranate juice. He set the glass on the side table. “Listen, Marek. There’s been a slight change of plans. Stuart is sending me over to Nassau tomorrow on business. Unfortunately, I can’t get out of it. Joe can go up to Disney with you instead, all right? He loves Disney. He’ll take you to Universal Studios as well.”

  Marek’s eyes stayed on Larry. Not blinking. Cigarette smoke drifting toward the recessed lights in the ceiling.

  Larry said, “I’ll call Joe right now, tell him to be over in the morning.”

  “Oscar Contreras is in Paradise Island. Are you going to see him?”

  Oh, fuck, Larry thought. He had forgotten that Contreras would be doing some gambling before heading back to Peru. “No. No, it has nothing to do with Oscar. This is something else. It’s . . . okay, Stuart wants me to take a guy over there to look at some maps. He’s a map dealer. The problem is, he doesn’t have a valid passport, so he’d have trouble getting back into the U.S.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Name’s Tom Fairchild. He’s a friend of my sister.”

  Marek let some more seconds go by. “You’re going in the boat?”

  “Right. The boat.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  Larry wished he had taken the other pill. “What about Disney? You can’t miss Disney World.”

  “That’s okay.” The cigarette found its way to the slit under the mustache, paused there. “I’m not in a hurry. I’d like to see the Bahamas.”

  At home, Allison’s favorite place to work was on the floor of the living room, her back against the sofa, papers spread out around her, notebook computer on one side, and a can of mixed nuts on the other. She would wear something comfortable, like thick socks, an oversize T-shirt, and pajama bottoms. Her fluffy black cat, Othello, curled up behind her, licking his paws and shedding on the cushions. Othello had been small enough to fit in a shoe when Allison had found him under a bush outside her apartment in Boston.

  She had bought her place in Coconut Grove because it was near her new office, but she’d fallen in love with the view. From the tenth floor she could see a canopy of banyan trees, a marina full of boats, and a spectacular sunrise. The building had a social room, where men her age sat around playing Texas Hold ’em and watching ESPN. There was a gym where she could work out. Could, but hadn’t. Every night was taken up with studying for the bar exam.

  For furniture, the apartment had the usual sofaarmchair-and-loveseat with end table and lamp. That and a big flat-screen TV for watching the classic movies and foreign films she didn’t have time for. She hadn’t yet found a carpenter to do built-in shelves, so her books and DVDs were all over the place. She had loads of decorating ideas. Every trip to the grocery store produced another copy of Real Simple or Metropolitan Home. The stack was up to her knees, and she intended, when she found a spare weekend, to go through them all and cut out photos and articles she liked and file them in indexed folders. Until her apartment looked like a home, she didn’t feel like entertaining. But the truth was, she hadn’t made many friends. The only date she’d had was dinner with a man she’d met in line at a Barnes & Noble. It was the Italian cookbook that grabbed her attention. In a booth at Bacio, she told him about her undergrad year in Rome, he confessed he was married, and she walked out halfway through her chicken arrabbiata. So far the men in Miami had been a big disappointment.

  Allison reached into the can of mixed nuts, fishing for a cashew. She was still buzzing on the Cuban coffee she’d had at eight o’clock, just enough to keep alert until midnight, when she would go to bed with her notes on Florida criminal procedure.

  The telephone rang, and she moved Othello aside to get to the handset that lay on the sofa. The doorman said her father was downstairs. “My father?” Allison shifted a notebook off her lap. “Yes, of course, tell him to come up.”

  When Stuart came in, he seemed not to notice the piles of papers and books, nor did he comment on what she was wearing—a Columbia Law sweatshirt over SpongeBob SquarePants pajama bottoms. Arms crossed, Allison let him kiss her cheek. If he had come to demand an apology, he wasn’t going to get it.

  He laid his suede jacket across the arm of the sofa and stared down at it. “First, I want to say that I’m sorry for last night. You were right. I forgot to make dinner reservations. I had a lot on my mind, but that’s no excuse, is it?”

  This caught her off guard. “I’m sorry, too, Dad. I shouldn’t have blown up. I can get way too sensitive.” She rushed to clear a stack of study guides off the end of the sofa. “Excuse the mess. Do you want to sit down?”

  But her father wandered across the room, hands behind his back, to look at the unframed map of Robinson Crusoe’s voyages that Allison had fixed to the wall with push-pins. He said, “Last night I told you I’d asked Tom Fairchild to restore the Corelli map. That wasn’t the truth. He’s going to make me a duplicate, for which I will pay fifty thousand dollars, plus his expenses.”

  Before she could recover from her shock, he said, “I came to ask for your help, Allison.”

  Chapter 10

  Early the next afternoon Tom went by The Compass Rose, which was closed for the day due to Royce Herron’s funeral. His sister had just come home,

  and Tom found her in the upstairs apartment in a dark blue dress, their mother’s pearl necklace, and a pair of sandals—black, to suit the occasion. He apologized for not going with her; he’d spent the morning rearranging his work schedule and he still had to pack, then get to Stuart Barlowe’s house on La Gorce Island by five o’clock. He would be in the Bahamas before midnight. By Thursday morning he would be in London.

  Rose busied herself making a pot of tea as Tom explained everything. When she brought the cups to the table, she saw the fat envelope he’d put there. “What is this?”

  “Twenty-five hundred dollars. It’s for you and the girls.”

  “I don’t want it,” she said.

  “Come on, Sis. Don’t be like that. Take it off of what I owe you.”

  “You don’t owe me anything, Tom.”

  He pushed the money toward the salt and pepper shakers. “It can sit there. I’m not taking it back.”

  “I’ll keep it for you,” she said. “If you need it...I could wire it or something.” She looked at the envelope as if it contained a dead mouse. “You shouldn’t travel with a lot of cash. Don’t forget your hat and gloves—it’s cold in London. And buy a calling card because I want you to let me know you’re all right.”

  “My cell phone is set up for international calls. You can use my local number.” Tom reached for his tea, not wanting any, but making the gesture. “I’ll call you as soon as I get to London. I’ll be there for a couple of days, then head on down to Florence.”

  She twisted her necklace. “Firenze,” she murmured. “Che bella città. I don’t suppose you’ll have time to see the Uffizi Gallery...or the statue of David.”

  “Probably not. I’ll be working.”

  “You should buy an Italian phrase book, Tom. Don’t assume everyone speaks English.”

  “All right.”

  “And promise me you won’t stay in hotels near the train stations. I’ve heard they’re very dangerous.”

  “Okay, Rose. Listen, if George Weems calls from the probation office looking for me—I don’t know why he would, but he might—tell him I went to Key West for a few days and forgot my cell phone. If by some chance you can’t get hold of me—” Tom hesitated before reaching into a thigh pocket of his cargo pants for a folded piece of paper. “This is Eddie’s number in Manarola. He’ll know where I am.”

  Rose diverted her gaze toward the ceiling as Tom slid the paper across the table. She said, “Are you going to stay with Eddie?”

  “Maybe. It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On what we decide to do, I guess.”

  Rose’s green eyes pinned him. “You’ve been in touch with him
ever since he left, haven’t you?”

  “I like Eddie. He’s a good man. He made some mistakes in his past that caught up to him. He didn’t want to jump bail, but it was either that or spend twenty years in a federal prison.”

  “So Eddie Ferraro is going to help you forge a map. Well, who better?”

  “It’s my decision, Rose. I don’t want this life anymore. It’s got to change. I don’t care what it costs.” Tom stood up and pushed his chair in. “I’d better be going.”

  He was heading for the stairs when Rose called across the kitchen, “Tom! Wait.” She ran to the refrigerator and moved a magnet off a snapshot of Megan and Jill, herself behind them. She smoothed a rumpled corner. “Take this with you.”

  Tom smiled at her. “I’m coming back, Rose. Honest.”

  “You’d better.”

  “Want me to leave the picture with Eddie?”

  “God, no.” She laughed. “If you do, cut me out first. I look so goofy.”

  “You are goofy.”

  She threw her arms around his neck. “Call me the minute you get there.”

  Stuart Barlowe had paid Tom ten thousand in cash, five toward his fee, five for expenses. And he had added a couple of conditions to their deal. No more expense money unless Tom turned in receipts. And second, he had to show his work in progress to collect more of his fee. Show it to whom? The last time they’d talked, that detail hadn’t been worked out. Tom didn’t see how it could be done, so he was prepared to ignore that part of the deal. He wasn’t without bargaining power. Barlowe might have the money, but without Tom, he wasn’t going to get his map.

  Turning his motorcycle through the chain-link gate of the Miami River Boatworks, Tom drove to the high-lift storage shed in back. Engine idling, he asked the Cuban guy who ran the forklift if Mrs. Framm was around. “No, señor, está en casa.”

  She was at home. Tom went three blocks up the street and around a corner, stopping at a two-story frame house with white columns, built in the early 1900s, one of the few that had survived in this neighborhood. He could hardly see it behind the tangle of pine trees and native palms. Leaving his bike inside the fence, he went up the steps and rang the bell.

  Martha Framm peered through the lace before unlocking the door. She wore a black pantsuit that made her look like a sharp-angled stick figure. Strands of bleached blond hair fell across her leathery face. “Whoo-hoo. Tom Fairchild. You’re just in time, cutie-pie. I made a pitcher of frozen mango margaritas.”

  “Sounds great, Mrs. Framm, but I’ve got to be someplace.” He dug into his pants pocket for an envelope. “I brought you a thousand dollars for the engine repair. If it’s more, let me know.”

  “What engine?” She sipped from the pale orange slush in her martini glass. “My sailboat. You were going to send Raul over to work on it at Fritz’s house.”

  “Right, right. Senior moment.” She laughed.

  Tom said, “I’m leaving this afternoon to go out of town for a couple of weeks, and I didn’t want you to think I’d forgotten. I’m sorry about Judge Herron. My sister went to the funeral, but I couldn’t get away. We sent some flowers.”

  “Royce. My old friend. What a special person he was.”

  “Yes, ma’am, he was.”

  “Those fuckers.” She leaned her head on the door frame.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Tom stood there with the cash in his hand, wondering if she was going to remember where she got it. “If you don’t mind, could I get a receipt?”

  The heavy living room curtains were closed, but Tom could make out the kind of stuff that his grandmother used to keep around: house plants on mahogany tables, porcelain knickknacks on shelves, and family photos on the mantel. Gold-framed paintings of the Everglades took up the space on the walls. Tom nearly tripped over a cardboard box.

  “Watch your step,” Martha said. “I need to throw that shit out.” She opened a set of double doors to a converted sunporch, where light streamed through the glass jalousies onto a massive oak desk. She found some plain notepaper in a drawer and asked if that was all right. Tom said it was. She wrote his receipt, and a heavy gold charm bracelet jangled on her thin, sun-mottled wrist. “Don’t you worry. We’ll have that baby purring.”

  “I appreciate it,” Tom said. “I’m hoping to get her in the water at the end of the month.”

  “You have your sails already?”

  “I called the sailmaker this morning.” As he took the receipt he noticed another open box by the desk, antidevelopment pamphlets spilling onto the terrazzo floor.

  SAVE OUR HERITAGE. STOP THE GREED. “Were these for the

  rally last weekend?” Martha snorted. “Didn’t do any good because the whores at city hall had already been bought off. This time next year, there could be fifty-story concrete towers on the river. I’m going to chain my naked body to the goddamn bulldozers. Scary idea, huh?”

  On the way out, Tom paused at the front door. “Mrs. Framm? Could I ask you about something you told Fritz? You said Judge Herron might’ve been killed because he opposed The Metropolis. What did you mean by that? The police think it was map thieves.”

  “It wasn’t map thieves! It was bribery. Payola. Royce knew the truth, and they had to silence him.” Lines fanned out from her mouth as Martha tightly pursed her lips. “I talked to the detectives on the case, and they think I’m a crazy old broad. I am not crazy.”

  “No, ma’am. How does Stuart Barlowe fit into this?” “He does financing, you know. Very high-level. He puts deals together. So he’s got this consortium of foreign investors funneling lots of money into The Metropolis. Colombian drug lords. The Russian Mafia. Wise guys from New Jersey. God knows. Oh, I hear things. Royce was pretty tight with Stuart Barlowe, and I think he found out too much. The night he died, I phoned him up. I wanted him to speak at the rally. Well, he wouldn’t do that, but he told me he’d already taken care of the problem. It sounded to me like Royce was doing some major arm-twisting.”

  Tom waited for her to expand on that. “How did he take care of the problem?”

  “He wouldn’t say.”

  “You think he had some dirt on Stuart Barlowe?”

  “Of course! It’s obvious. I told the police everything! I said look, you gotta follow this up. Did they? Hah! They waltzed me right out the door. They didn’t want to hear it.” She studied her glass, which was empty except for an orange puddle at the bottom. “Where’d my drink go?”

  At his apartment, Tom’s backpack lay open on his bed. He wedged a thirty-inch map tube inside, tucked his leather jacket around it, and closed the heavy zipper. He double-checked his pockets to make sure his passport and cash were still there. The place was neat, the garbage was out by the curb, and his computer had been backed up. Fritz would take him over to the beach.

  With his backpack slung over one shoulder, Tom turned out the lights and locked the door. At the bottom of the stairs he detoured to take a final look at his sailboat, making sure the tarp was bungeed down tight. Winter was dry season, but the hatch covers leaked, and he didn’t want to come home to a coat of mildew below deck. He slid his hand along the sloop’s curving white hull. She had a name already: Sun Dancer. Not Tom’s choice, but it was bad luck to rename a boat. Tom didn’t need any more bad luck; he’d had enough of it.

  Moon, her big arms covered with flour, stood at the kitchen table punching bread dough into submission. She told Tom he’d find Fritz in the living room. The early edition of the news was on, and Fritz sat in his lounge chair with a plate of leftover pizza on his stomach, getting a jump on dinner. Tomato sauce flecked the drooping white handles of his mustache. He looked around. “Hey, bud. Ready to roll when you are.”

  Tom pulled a chair over and took out his wallet. “Here’s eight hundred dollars for my rent, two hundred for the guy with AA, and two hundred for the anger management class. If they could get the forms signed and sent over to my PO’s office this week, that would be great. Any problems, call my cell phone. You’ve got the number.�
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  As a commercial for a car dealership ended, Fritz held up a hand. “Shhh. I was waiting for this. It’s a repeat of the lead story at noon. They found a woman dead in the Glades this morning. I think we might know her.”

  A pretty announcer with glossy lips said that hunters had been shocked to discover the badly decomposed body of a female in a wooded area off U.S. 41, five miles west of Krome Avenue. The screen switched to video of police vehicles alongside a dirt road. A yellow body bag, a gurney being pushed through the weeds. Then Tom was staring at a face on a California driver’s license. A locket on the woman’s bracelet had led to the identification of Carla Kelly, twenty-six, a resident of the Raymore Apartments on Miami Beach... undetermined cause of death... police investigation under way.

  “Hey, Tom, isn’t that the same girl who used to come to the AA meetings over at the Unity Church? She wasn’t there more than a couple of times, but I remember her.”

  “You’re right. That’s her. I dropped out before she did.”

  “She was taken out for a reason.” Fritz gave a knowing nod. “A casualty behind the lines.”

  “Excuse me a minute, Fritz. I need to make a phone call.”

  Tom went out on the front porch, sat on the top step, and punched in the number for Jenny Gray’s mother in London. It would be going on ten o’clock at night, he calculated, so they ought to be home. But all he got was a robot voice with a British accent telling him the party was unavailable. He hit the disconnect button.

  He sat for a minute watching the sparse traffic on the street, people starting to come home from work. A kid on a bike. A pickup truck rattling with yard tools and the illegal Nicaraguans who lived down the block. Good thing Jenny hadn’t been home. He couldn’t have told her about Carla. Not yet. She would be spooked, and he needed her. They had arranged to meet outside the Oxford Circus tube station, two o’clock on Thursday, London time. She would be his guide to a city he knew nothing about. He needed to check into a cheap hotel, to locate the National Maritime Museum, to find computer equipment, a camera shop. He would pay for her time, whatever she thought it was worth.