We rode in silence awhile, content to watch the scenery unfold. We were on A1A, south of Amelia Island, where the two-lane road cuts a straight swath through the undeveloped scrub and marsh for fifteen miles. There was a primal element to this stretch of land that seemed to discourage the rampant commercialization running almost nonstop from Jacksonville to South Beach. A couple miles in, we passed three crosses and a crude, homemade sign that proclaimed “Jesus Died For Your Sins!”
“Monica seemed nice,” Callie said. “A little snooty, but that could be the money. Or the age difference. Still, I liked her. She had great manners.”
I laughed. “Manners?”
“She had a premonition about the van,” Callie said. “But she didn’t want to offend me, so she came anyway.”
I tried the sound of it in my mouth. “She was killed because of her good manners.”
“I liked her,” Callie repeated.
“I liked her, too,” I said, “until she peed on me!”
I placed two bundles of cash in Callie’s lap. She picked one up, felt the weight in her hand.
“I like this even better,” she said.
We dropped the van off behind an abandoned barn a couple miles beyond the ferry boat landing. We removed the explosives from the wheel well in Callie’s rental car and positioned them throughout the van.
“How much you have to pay for this thing?” Callie asked.
“Four grand,” I said. “Not me, though. Victor.” Right on cue, my phone rang.
“Is it … fin … ished?” Victor asked.
“Just a sec,” I said. I climbed in the passenger seat, and Callie drove us a quarter mile before putting the rental car in park.
“Are we far enough away?” I asked.
“If we go too far,” she said, “we’ll miss the fun part.”
She got out of the car and dialed a number on her phone and the van exploded in the distance. Callie remained out of the car until she felt the wind from the explosion wash lightly over her face.
“You’re insane,” I said to Callie.
“It’s done,” I said to Victor.
Victor said, “Good. I … have … two more … jobs … for you.”
“Already?” I retrieved a small notebook and pen from my duffel and wrote down the information. The names, ages, occupations, and addresses were so different, it seemed as though they’d been plucked out of thin air. I asked Victor, “Do you even
“All … part … of a … master … plan,” he said. I covered the mouthpiece and said to Callie, “I take back what I said before, about you being insane.” Then I said to Victor, “Are there many more?”
“Many,” Victor said in his weird, metallic voice. “Real … ly … Mr.
… Creed … evil is … every … where … and … must … be pun… ished.”
CHAPTER 9
“I
“Then you shall,” I said.
“And the maitre d’,” she said. “They have one, right?”
“They do indeed.”
“Is he stuffy? I hope he’s insufferably stuffy!”
“He will be if I don’t tip him,” I said. We were in the Seagram Building on East Fifty-Second, in the lobby of the Four Seasons restaurant.
She touched my arm. “Donovan, this is really sweet of you, but we don’t have to eat here. I don’t want you to spend this much on me. Let’s just have a drink, see the painting and maybe the marble pool. We can share a pizza at Angelo’s afterward.”
“Relax,” I said. “I’m rich.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
The Four Seasons is famous, timeless, and the only restaurant in New York designated as a landmark.
“Do you mean really, you’re rich,” she said, “or that you’re really rich?”
“I’m rich enough to buy you whatever you’d like to have tonight.”
She laughed. “In that case, I’ll have the Picasso!”
Did I mention I liked this lady?
I gave my name to the maitre d’ and led Kathleen to the corridor where the Picasso tapestry had hung since the restaurant opened back in 1959. The twenty-two-foot-high Picasso was in fact the center square of a stage curtain that had been designed for the 1920 Paris production of
