The Perfect Fake Page 12

  Head in his hands, he stared down at the cracked porch steps between his sneakers. Jenny had been right about Carla. She’d been murdered. And now Jenny’s quick departure made more sense. Maybe. The girls had something in common: They’d both worked for Larry Gerard. But having a boss who asked you to put out for customers wasn’t exactly a life-threatening situation. In Miami, it was almost normal.

  No, she hadn’t left because of Carla. She hadn’t known for sure that Carla was dead. More likely, she had left because of Judge Herron’s murder. On the plaza, Tom had heard the fear in her voice. She’d been scared.

  Tom didn’t buy Martha Framm’s idea that Herron had been killed by a hit man from some criminal gang who wanted to protect their investment in The Metropolis. That was way over the top. The judge might have known about Barlowe’s affair with Jenny Gray. She might have told him about it. She had told Tom. She’d found a plain envelope in her mailbox with five thousand dollars in crisp hundreds and a typed note on plain paper: Immigration will be called if you contact me again. As dirt went, it wasn’t enough to kill a man for, even if Stuart Barlowe had been capable, which Tom thought very unlikely. Royce Herron was dead, but this fact didn’t make Tom so nervous he could turn down fifty thousand dollars. Not when he had a better answer: A map thief had pulled the trigger.

  The screen door squeaked on its hinges. Fritz said, “We’d better scoot, kiddo, or you’ll be late.”

  Tom went in to say good-bye to Moon and get his things. When he came out to the driveway, Fritz already had the old Mercedes going, engine clattering, diesel smoke drifting from the tailpipe. Tom got in and had to slam the door twice, rattling the chrome frame around the window. Fritz shifted into reverse just as a horn and the screech of tires sounded behind them. Tom looked around to see a black BMW sports car blocking the driveway.

  The driver’s door opened. A woman got out. Sunglasses, long brown hair, low-rider jeans, a little red sweater. She stood with her feet planted slightly apart. Chunky black shoes.

  “Who is that?” Fritz asked.

  “Trouble,” Tom said. “Hang on. I’ll be back.” He got out and left the door open. “Allison, what are you doing?”

  “I’m taking you over to my father’s house.”

  “No, you aren’t.”

  “Yes, I am. Get in the car. I’m in a hurry.”

  They stared at each other for a moment before he finally said, “Jesus.”

  He went back to retrieve his bag. Fritz was staring into his rearview mirror. “Nice ragtop. Who’s the chick?”

  “Somebody I used to know. She wants to play chauffeur. Thanks for everything, man.”

  Allison told Tom the trunk was full already, and he’d have to hold his backpack on his lap. He fell into the low leather seat and wedged the backpack between his knees. She told him to put on his seat belt. When she took off, Tom’s head hit the headrest. “Do you think we could get there alive?” he asked.

  Her body moved like part of the machine: downshift, brake, turn, shift, accelerate. Her chin was raised slightly, exposing a long white throat. She’d lost her tan, living in the north. Her hair was glossy and thick, the color of polished walnut. She wore gold hoop earrings, a thin chain with one diamond, and a stainless steel watch with numbers big enough to read across a room. No lipstick. He noticed a smile line at the corner of her mouth. She was his age, a couple of weeks older. But she looked good. She’d put on a few pounds where it counted. Last time they’d been this close physically, she had slugged him.

  The sunglasses turned toward him a fraction, then she put her eyes back on the road. He wondered what was going on. He braced himself as the car blew through a light turning red at Southwest Eighth, went left, then right, spiraling up the ramp onto the interstate. Downtown Miami whizzed by the window, the mirrored spires and the construction cranes building more mirrored spires. In the distance, Biscayne Bay glimmered in the late-afternoon sunlight. Beyond that, Miami Beach.

  Allison zigzagged between a semi and a massive SUV. Tom closed his eyes. A memory jumped into his head: Midnight, a long straight road in New Jersey. Allison’s slender hands on the wheel of his stealth car, a Camaro SS that on a bad day could hit 60 miles per hour in 5.9 seconds. Allison doing cartwheels down the center line after edging out the girl in a tricked-out Nissan who had called her a skinny-ass city bitch. Won the Nissan but wouldn’t take the key. Didn’t want it. Just wanted to show her. Then on the way back to Manhattan, telling Tom to pull off the road; showing her gratitude— showing him until a cop came by shining a light in the window. In those days Allison had lived in an apartment on the Upper West Side, Tom in a walk-up on Garden Street, Jersey City.

  “Soon as I drop you off,” Allison said over the hum of the engine, “I have a plane to catch. I’m going to New York tonight, then on to London. I’ll be there tomorrow. You’ll get there a day later, Thursday, about nine o’clock in the morning, flying into Gatwick. I’ll meet you outside customs.”

  “Why would you imagine,” Tom said, “that I’m going to London?”

  She smiled. “I know about the map, Tom.”

  “What map?”

  “Universalis Cosmographia, Gaetano Corelli. Where is it, in your backpack? A map tube would fit in there, I think.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re making my father a duplicate, and he wants me to supervise your progress. Right, go ahead and groan. I’m not thrilled about it, either. I had to take a leave of absence at work, and I should be studying for the bar exam, but he asked me to do this for him. I can study in England as well as here. It might actually be less distracting.”

  Her mouth quirked into an apologetic smile. She checked the rearview, then crossed two lanes to get onto I-195, heading east toward the beach. “We’re just going to have to get along, Tom. I’m sorry about this, but I couldn’t tell him no, could I?”

  The highway arched over a boat channel, then came down onto a long causeway lined with palm trees and oleander, which Tom had heard was poisonous. Roast your hot dog on one of the sticks and you die.

  Allison said, “There’s no one else he could have asked to do this for him. I know the Renaissance period fairly well. I have four Mercator maps, two Gastaldis, and a Hondius. It’s a small one, but I like it.”

  “Great.” Watching the foliage whip past the side window, Tom said, “You mind telling me how you plan to work this?”

  “We can fine-tune it later, when we meet in London, but basically, I’ll check on the map and pay according to how well you’re doing, and if it’s on schedule. My father gave me your cell phone number. I’ll give you mine so you can call if you don’t see me right away at the airport. I’ve made hotel reservations already in central London. You’re at the Bayswater Court. Your room has a single bed and a desk. I hope that’s all right. There’s no room service, but there’s a coffee shop downstairs.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Nearby. Claridge’s.”

  “I’ll bet they have room service.”

  “If you want to stay at Claridge’s, Tom, I’ll be happy to deduct it from your fee.” She glanced at him, then took the exit at Alton Road and circled north. Tom stared through the windshield.

  Allison said, “Larry is taking you to Nassau in his boat. Did my father tell you?”

  “Larry? Wonderful.” Tom laughed. “Want to know the last thing Larry ever said to me? ‘I’m going to get you, shithead. You’re going to pay.’ That was for breaking his tooth.”

  “He got it capped. Don’t worry about Larry. He’s over it. I want you to promise me something, Tom, and this is important. Larry thinks you’re going to be in the Bahamas for a few days to look at some maps for my father. He doesn’t know about the rest of it. The Corelli. The fact that you’re flying to Europe in the morning. You mustn’t tell him.”

  “Really? Is this supposed to be a secret?”

  “I mean it, Tom.”

  “He might ask why you didn’t just drop me off at MIA
.”

  “Larry’s aware of your travel situation, being on probation and so forth.”

  “Yeah, I’m a convicted burglar. Is Larry going to believe that your father would let me buy maps for him?”

  “Why not? You’re in the business. You’re going because Rose can’t leave the shop.”

  “O-kay.”

  “Larry doesn’t know I’m going with you. Neither does my stepmother, Rhonda. It’s between you, me, and my dad. All right?”

  “Fine.”

  Slowing at the entrance to La Gorce Island, Allison lowered her window and flashed a smile at the security guard. He waved at her and raised the striped barrier. She followed a curve, made a turn, and pulled off the street into a grassy area beside a high hedge. Tom recalled that the Barlowe house was around the corner.

  “I’ll let you out here, okay? Tell Larry your friend dropped you off. But don’t get out yet. I need to ask you something.” He could see himself doubled in her dark glasses. She turned on the seat, and the little red sweater fell open; a thin white top underneath. No bra. Tom shifted his eyes to the leather-wrapped steering wheel. Her hand on the gearshift. Pink nail polish. Sunlight flickered through the palm fronds.

  Allison’s voice was softer now. “Tom? I’ve been trying to get in touch with Jenny Gray. She’s a friend of yours, isn’t she? Do you know how I can reach her?”

  “Why are you looking for Jenny?”

  A little sigh. “Well, there’s this case I’m handling for her. I really can’t get into it. Attorney-client. You know. But I do need to tie up some loose ends, or she might not ever be permitted back into the U.S.”

  “She left the States?”

  “I’m sure of it.” Allison took off the glasses. Big brown eyes. Innocent little me. “I went by her apartment yesterday, and a neighbor told me he’d seen a pile of her stuff in the trash, and the next day she gave him the food out of her fridge and took a taxi for the airport. She’s definitely gone.”

  “I didn’t know that,” he said.

  “Well, I thought since you’re going to London, you might have made plans to see her. You don’t have her phone number? She didn’t give you her address?”

  “No, she never said. That’s too bad. Gee, if I’d known she’d be in London, I’d have asked. We could hook up.”

  The smile stayed in place. “Are you lying to me?”

  “No.”

  “You know what? I think you are. I also think you might be lying to my father. I don’t believe anybody can make an exact copy of the Corelli, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. You’d better not disappoint him. I know a fake when I see it.”

  Tom smiled back. “What are you going to do, Allison? Make me file reports? Look over my shoulder? Knock on my door checking up on me? Nuh-uh. You want to go to Europe, hey, have a good time. But please stay out of my way. I’ll show you the map when I’m finished with it.”

  He reached for the door handle, but she hit the childproof lock. “As hard as it might be for you, Tom, you have to follow the rules. Otherwise, as far as I’m concerned, the deal is off.”

  He looked around at her. “Are you running the show now?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Okay. Here are the rules. I do my job, and you leave me alone. When I see you at the airport, you give me another five thousand in cash. I want fifteen a week after that, and the balance of twenty-five on delivery, if your father is satisfied with the map. Expenses are separate, payable on demand. That’s the deal. Thanks for the hotel, but I’ll find my own. Unlock the door.”

  She took a breath through her teeth. “If you dare try to scam my father, I’ll have you arrested for fraud and grand theft.”

  He got out with his backpack, then leaned down to say, “See you in London. Enjoy your flight.”

  The tires on the roadster left long black curves on the street.

  Chapter 11

  Larry Gerard used the guest cottage on his mother’s and Stuart’s property as a storeroom for his boat. Beach towels, lantern batteries and propane, plastic

  cups, liquor, a crank radio. He would throw it all into a cart and push it along the brick path that went past the tennis court to the seawall.

  Today he jogged to the boat. He had to get under way by five o’clock to reach Bimini before dark. The harbor was tricky at night, and Larry wanted to top off the tanks. On his first trip to Nassau, running at fifty knots, he had bypassed Bimini and wound up drifting for three hours before Sea Tow showed up with some fuel and a credit card receipt for a thousand dollars.

  Huffing from exertion, Larry stopped the cart on the dock. Marek Vuksinic lounged in the captain’s seat with his foot on the helm, enjoying the breeze. Larry’s mother hadn’t been happy about his showing up, but Larry had asked her what the hell he could do about it. With The Metropolis funding still at the handshake stage, was Larry supposed to tell Marek he couldn’t go?

  Rhonda put up with Marek because she thought he’d come over to look at plans for the penthouse. That was all she knew. Larry wished he knew less. He would jerk awake in the middle of the night, sweating through his sheets, hearing the dull crunch of a woman’s neck being broken, and Marek turning his own head just enough to keep his cigarette out of the way.

  Larry held out an armful of seat cushions. “Hey. Marek. Take these, will you?”

  “Sure, sure.” He set his beer bottle in the holder on the captain’s bench. When they were finished attaching the cushions and stowing everything else below deck, Larry came topside. His watch showed 4:52 PM. He looked at the house. Nobody on the terrace, nobody walking across the lawn.

  In the stern Marek stretched out and turned his face toward the sun, which was sinking fast. The buildings downtown, five miles to the southwest, stood out starkly against the clear sky. There would be no moon tonight, nothing but channel markers to guide a boat through the narrow, rocky entrance to Bimini harbor.

  Going below again, Larry took a beer from the small refrigerator under the sink, opened it, and washed down two OxyContins. He lifted his billed cap and blotted his forehead with a napkin. Standing in the galley, he could look up the steps and see legs in a pair of dark green Tommy Bahama pants. Brown leather sandals and socks. One hairy forearm reaching down, a hand grabbing the pack of Marlboros and a plastic lighter off the deck.

  Just past noon Joe had called to ask if Larry had heard the news. Carla’s body had been found. Joe had wanted to know what they were going to do now, what if this, what if that. Larry had told him not to worry; they had left nothing out there in the Glades, nobody could reliably put them with Carla that night. Larry talked it over with Marek, who said the same thing. Even so, Larry was about to jump out of his skin.

  Marek’s presence complicated the job Larry had to do for his mother: Get the Corelli from Tom Fairchild. Use persuasion if possible, force if necessary. Don’t do anything permanent, Rhonda had said. Just take the map. She would deal with Stuart.

  With Marek Vuksinic on board, she’d thought it would be better to discreetly take the map out of the tube and drop it over the side after dark. With luck, Fairchild wouldn’t know it was missing until he got to London. Then it would be too late. Larry drank his beer and thought of ways that that could be accomplished. It would be easier if Fairchild went over too, but that would be difficult to explain.

  He heard Marek calling him. “Larry?”

  “Is he here?” Larry went up the steps.

  “No. I have to tell you something.” Marek lay with his ankles crossed, his head resting on a bent arm. “I killed Joe today. I’m sorry.”

  “You... what?” Larry hadn’t heard him right; he couldn’t have.

  “I had to do it. Joe was too scared. A guy like that makes problems. Not for me—I won’t be here, but for you, yes. So today when you went to get food for the boat, I walked to his apartment. I used a knife. I left some of your pills and cocaine for the police to find. Don’t worry. No one saw me. No fingerprints. And you have good alibi from
Epicure Market. Yes?”

  Slowly, carefully, Larry lowered himself into the captain’s bench, grasping for something to hold on to.

  Words came softly from under Marek’s mustache, which shifted as he smiled. “Don’t be afraid. You’re my friend. Your parents are friends of Leo.” Marek took a puff on his cigarette. The wind took the smoke. “This is why I am bringing all my suitcases, my new clothes and everything, on the boat. I’m leaving America.” He put his fist to his heart. “You are excellent host. Thank you. I had super wonderful time in Miami.”

  Tom followed Rhonda Barlowe and her apricot Pekingese down a wide, terra-cotta hallway that extended off the living room. Her loose, white silk pants moved around her legs as she walked. She was tall and athletic, with a sway to her hips. He couldn’t see a panty line.

  Tom said, “I’m supposed to be on the boat by five o’clock.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Larry won’t mind waiting a few minutes.”

  The Peke’s fur hung nearly to the floor, and its tail waved like the feathered crest on a helmet. It broke into a run every few steps to keep up with its owner. Finally they arrived at a large, wainscoted room, where the low sun came through wooden louvers and painted stripes on the red walls. A switch was pressed, and small spotlights in the ceiling shone on framed antique maps. The dog jumped onto an armchair, where it sat snorting softly through its flat nose. A long table had been placed in the center of the room, and one wall was taken up with shallow cabinets, not metal ones like Rose had at the shop, but polished oak.

  “This is Stuart’s map room,” said his wife.

  “I see that.” Tom slid his backpack off his shoulders and pivoted for a look around. He came to a conclusion: Rose had been right. Some fine examples of cartography, but Barlowe didn’t know squat about organizing a collection. A woodcut map of India hung next to a baroque map of Holland, which followed a sea chart of the South Pacific.

  “Tom?” Mrs. Barlowe’s golden blond hair swooped off her forehead and curled to her shoulders. Her lips were full, her skin slightly shiny. A white V-neck sweater revealed a braided gold necklace and a lot of cleavage. “This isn’t going to be easy for me to talk about.” She touched his arm. “You don’t mind if I speak frankly, do you, Tom?”