sensing the meeting was speeding toward an abrupt conclusion, stood shakily and extended his right hand.
His grip was weak. Nat figured he had reached the fellow just in time. Few of the old ones remained, and a year from now their numbers would be smaller still. Kaplan opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the slamming of the front door.
“Well, now,” he said. “Was it something that I said?”
“She gets that way sometimes.”
They listened to her car start up and roar away. Nat was perturbed but not panicked. It wasn’t like she could grab a flight to Bern in the next half hour. But he needed to secure a reservation on the next available plane. It crossed his mind to even phone ahead to the Hotel Jurgens, but he decided against it. No sense risking scaring them away. But he could have kicked himself for not having waited longer in the lobby during his previous visit. For once, his instincts had failed him.
Shortly afterward he said good-bye to the Kaplans, giving Doris an affectionate peck on the cheek and even praising her shrimp salad while Kaplan rolled his eyes. But Nat figured she had earned it.
Halfway back to the Sea Breeze, a police cruiser rolled up behind him, flipped on its flashers, and pulled him to the curb. Nat watched in the mirror as the officer threw open the door of the cruiser, crouched behind it, and poked a gun barrel around the side.
“Step out of the car, hands above your head!” the officer shouted. “Do it now!”
Nat obeyed awkwardly, moving slowly.
“Turn and place your hands on the roof of your car, and don’t make a move!”
No sooner had he done so than the policeman yanked both arms behind his back and cuffed him, painfully, with the metal bands jamming hard against his wrists. Not again. Was this Berta’s doing? The result of some dirty trick? For that matter, was this fellow really a cop?
All he knew for sure was that in the race to Bern he had just fallen well off the pace.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The Candalusa police department was a southern variant on Willis Turner’s base of operations in Blue Kettle Lake, except these guys had better radios and packed more heat.
From the glass-walled interview room Nat could see a giant poster for Florida Gators football and a gun rack stocked with high-powered rifles. There was little he could see beyond that, because the policeman had handcuffed him to a table bolted to the floor. This must be where they locked down the drunks and rowdies before booking them.
The room was sweltering, but his warders were ignoring his questions and his requests for water and a phone call. No one had charged him, or even written down his name. They did check his driver’s license, so they had at least confirmed his identity.
An hour passed, then another. By then, Berta had probably either boarded a connecting flight from Orlando or Daytona or was well on her way south to Miami on I-95. A third hour passed, and his anxiety rose accordingly.
Then Clark Holland strolled into the office, nodding to the arresting officer as he stepped into the interview room. The officer followed him and wordlessly unlocked the handcuffs. Nat rubbed his wrists. He was spoiling for a fight, but he waited for the cop to leave before unloading on Holland.
“What the hell is this all about?”
“Maybe if you occasionally picked up the phone you wouldn’t be asking that question. This seems to be the only way I can get an update. And frankly, it’s for your own good.”
“What’s that mean?”
“You’ll see. Soon as you’ve answered some questions.”
“Water first.”
Holland shouted for some drinks. The cop, none too pleased to be serving as a waiter to a fed and a misbehaving out-of-towner, tossed two plastic bottles of Coke from across the room. They fizzed over when Holland unscrewed the caps.
“Cops just love you guys, don’t they?”
“Glad you brought that up. Your friend Willis Turner-any idea what he did with his copies of those pictures you shot? The ones of the stolen documents?”
“I don’t believe we ever confirmed I took any.”
“For the sake of argument let’s assume you did. Why did he want them?”
“He said it was part of an investigation. Suspicious death, remember?”
“How ’bout a real reason?”
“Why don’t you ask Turner?”
“We tried. Went to serve him this morning with a subpoena and a search warrant.”
“There you go.”
“The server found him dead. Shot with his own weapon. Apparent suicide, according to the state police, but it’s not like they’ve got such a great track record on this case. The search came up empty. No photos, no copies.”
Nat swallowed hard. He tried to think of some reason for Turner’s death other than the obvious one.
“If he knew you were coming with a warrant, maybe it really was suicide.”
“More likely is that someone else knew. Your German friend, Berta Heinkel-how long has she been back in the country?”
“You don’t think
“Just answer the question.”
“She didn’t make it across the water until last night, at the earliest. And she was camped outside my door by seven this morning.”
“She staying the same place as you? The Sea Breeze?”
“I think so. But by now she’s probably either on a plane or sitting in an airport.”
“Where’s she headed?”
If Nat answered honestly, he’d have to explain the rest, and he didn’t want to. But he did want the FBI to try and pick her up. Anything to slow her down.
“Home, I guess. Berlin. She’s all done here. But-”
“But what?”
“Well, last time I talked to Turner-”
“When was this?”
“A few days ago. He phoned me in Berlin.”
“Go on.”
“He was beginning to think Gordon was murdered. Berta was his prime suspect.”
“We heard that, too. False lead. The toxicology tests came back negative. The medical examiner’s report was on Turner’s desk, dated yesterday. Heart attack, plain and simple.”
Holland’s cell phone rang. He grimaced at the incoming number.
“Wait here,” he said. Then he left the room.
It was a relief to hear Berta was in the clear on Gordon. But she was still the competition, and it didn’t sound like the Bureau was too interested in picking her up. Holland returned a few moments later, frowning.
“Fresh news,” he said. He showed Nat a photo. “Ever seen this guy?”
Nat recognized the face right away.
“Yeah, he was at the Denny’s where I was having breakfast. Might be staying at the Sea Breeze, too.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Ten thirty this morning.”
“His name is Tim Scoggins. He’s a private eye. If you check your engine block, dollars to doughnuts you’ll find a GPS tracking device. Two days ago he wrote a check for $25,000 to Willis Turner. Any idea why he’d do that?”
“He was working for Turner?”
