Читать книгу Drago #2a - Art LLC Spinella - Страница 7

Bo’s office is located at the west end of 1^st Street in Old Town Bandon in the old Coast Guard building, just before the bend taking the road into residential neighborhoods. On the second floor, it overlooks the Coquille River with a panoramic view of the jetty and historic light house.

Through a reception area, the back assay office smelled of metal. Spotlessly clean, a long stainless steel table neatly aligned in the center of the small room, a pair of office chairs on rollers placed strategically, one on each long side. Counter tops with metal cases, dials and meters on their faces. In a corner, what looked like a small barrel furnace with a heavy steel door and a temperature gauge in its base. At first glance it appeared crowded with equipment. On second glance, it revealed a symmetry of exactness as if every piece was in a specific location for a particular reason.

“Don’t touch anything,” Bo said as we entered the room. His voice turned unusually calm, words articulated rather than his usual helter-skelter rapid fire, exclamation-point chatter. “There’s some very sensitive instruments in here that are hard to replace and quite expensive.”

Sal and I nodded as Bo pointed to a couple of the office chairs.

“Now, what do you have for me?” Bo’s eyes were focused, clear and steady. Another surprise.

Pulling the cheesecloth-wrapped ball from my pocket, “Where do you want this?”

Bo lifted one end of the cloth, “Whoa. That’s spectacular. Put it over here.”

He led me to a side table and pointed to a black-velvet lined display tray. I rolled the ball out of the cheesecloth onto the velvet, stuffing the cheesecloth back into my pocket.

Bo slipped on a pair of white cotton gloves, twisted a small tensor light on and aimed it at the ball.

“Nick, this is truly amazing. Almost mesmerizing. I’ve seen a lot of gold in my day, but the finish on this is unbelievably fine.”

Bo gently rolled the ball so he could look at the entire surface.

“A real craftsman did this,” he said putting on a pair of magnifying glasses and continuing to nudge the ball with a finger. “Look at that,” he muttered to himself. We had no idea what “that” meant, but it clearly intrigued Bo who opened a drawer under the counter, pulled out a fabric face mask like those used by doctors and slipped it over his head, covering his nose and mouth. “Don’t want to get spittle on this.” Again the words were uttered more to himself than Sal or me.

The ball glistened under the tensor’s pure white beam, shafts of light like an aura reflected across the room causing flairs on the walls and ceiling.

Gently lifting the display tray, Bo rolled his chair slowly to the center table. He mounted a smaller tray on top of an electronic scale, zeroed out the weight and carefully placed the ball into the tray. The meter’s digital display settled on 1133.9809.

Bo whistled. “That’s quite a chunk of metal,” he said. Just about 1,134 grams or 40 Avoirdupois ounces.”

“Avoid-what?”

“Oh, sorry. There are many different definitions for ounces. Not to be too technical, Troy ounces are used mostly in precious metals. Even gun powder. That’s where you get the number of ‘grains’ of gunpowder in a bullet. I just turned all of the mumbo jumbo into English ounces, the kind you find on a coffee can. Avoirdupois is the proper name. Invented by the English in the 1300s.”

“About 2 and a half pounds, then,” I calculated.

“Exactly.”

Sal made the calculation in his head. “At today’s gold prices, about $65,000.”

“Give or take if it’s solid, pure gold which we don’t know yet. Could have a lead core. We’ll see.”

He dismounted the tray and moved it to a complicated appearing machine with a five by five inch screen, small boxed enclosure of glass with a hinged door and a keypad.

“Latest in technology,” Bo said. “Sonic and X-ray scan followed by a spectroanalysis,” He lifted the ball from the tray and placed it in the center of the glass enclosure. After checking the alignment, he slid black plastic screens across all of the glass, did some magic with the dials and pressed a small red button. It sounded like a microwave oven.

We stood in absolute silence for three or four minutes. Then the display screen lit up into a series of peaks and valleys with small symbols under each, some of which I recognized as abbreviations for metals and minerals. The spike above Au reached the top of the graph. The others barely registering above flat line. In the bottom right, a digital “99.131” glowed in green.

“Holy moly, rock and roll,” Bo said. “Guys, you’ve got yourself a solid ball of gold. On the streets of Macau and Hong Kong, this is Chuk Kam. Exact gold. 24 karats.” Pushing his glasses back on his head, he looked at the two of us, “Okay, now spill it. Where’d it come from?” He wrapped the ball in a piece of cotton cloth, hefted it and kept his eyes focused on the sphere as he handed it to me.

For the past half hour, Bo had been unlike himself. Or at least his public self. Professional, quiet, analytical, focused and sane. Sal and I exchanged glances.

“Who are you, really?” Sal asked. “And what did you do with Bo?”

The small man laughed. “This is who I am. The guy you see on the street is the one that keeps people away from this place. In all the years I’ve been here, have either of you ever dropped in for a cup of coffee?”

We shook our heads.

“See? And that’s what I want. I have some pretty high profile clients who need confidential analysis of their property, especially newly acquired precious metals. I’m the best there is and don’t mind saying so.”

He swept an arm around the tidy room. “There’s maybe a couple of million bucks worth of equipment in here. Latest and greatest. It gets replaced as soon as something better comes along. I can’t afford to wait for something to wear out before replacing it. And I know how to use every piece, sometimes more efficiently and better than the manufacturers themselves.”

“So if someone came in here with, say, a gold artifact from some Egyptian temple, you’d be able to…”

“Been there. Done that. Look, I’m not about ready to break any confidences. Not about them and certainly not about what you’ve got in your hand. So tell me. Where’d it come from? The Tree Man?”

“Yes. It was contained in a clay egg that must have been hanging around the guy’s neck or wrist.”

“That’s an amazingly well done piece. The smelting and refining is top notch especially for a hundred or so years ago. And the polished finish is flawless. I couldn’t find a single remnant of the polishing process. Not even the most miniscule scratch or mark. Phenomenal.” He lowered his glassed so they rested on his nose again. “As gold, it’s worth a fair piece. What Sal figured, around $65,000. To a gold antiquities collector, someone who enjoys fine jewelry and artifacts, it’s priceless.”

Bo stood up and walked toward the door. Session over. We entered his front office, a plain-jane reception area with nice, but unexceptional furnishing and light gray berber carpet. He twisted the handle on the office door and opened it to let us out.

“What do we owe you, Bo?” I asked.

“On the house, Nick. Consider it repayment for finding the ‘bird.” He extended his hand which I gladly took. And then the other Bo was back, voice rising in intensity, becoming loud and rapid fire. “I don’t know, Nick! I don’t know! I think in a fair fight, you’d beat that Reacher guy. Really do!” looking down and shaking his head.

I laughed, “Yeah, but…”

“But Reacher, hey, he don’t fight fair, Nick. You’d have to watch your back! Mean right hook, Nick. Really mean!”

Bo winked and closed the door.

Settling into the Vic, “What do we do with this thing, Nick?”

“Safe deposit box would be my guess.”

Turning the key, the Vic rumbled awake. We headed toward city center. Never got there.

A white Honda tailed us out of town, onto 101. Learned a long time ago to watch the rear view mirror and something sparked in my brain. Gray hair and a hoodie behind the wheel of the Civic. A little tickle in the pit of my stomach.

“Sal, I think we got company.”

The big man turned in his seat, peered out the rear window. “Lose him or confront him? Whatcha think?”

“Let’s see how serious he is, first.” I pressed the accelerator and the Vic lurched forward, side exhaust grumbling in pleasure. The Honda was hard pressed to keep up, but the driver tried, his grille maybe 40 feet off my rear bumper.

Through the light where the four-lane turned to two and a couple of miscellaneous cars in front. No sweat. I pressed down harder and the Vic kicked down two gears. I crossed the yellow line to pass the first car ahead and stayed in the oncoming lane til I’d passed the second. No oncoming traffic so the Honda followed, even though it was falling behind.

“Get a license number.”

Sal turned, squinted and twisted back to forward muttering letters and numbers to himself.

“Glove box,” I said.

Sal popped it open, pulled out a pen and wrote the license designation on his hand. The Honda continued to fall behind. The Vic hit 90. Easy as pie.

“Got it.”

“Then hang on.” Pushed the pedal to the floor. The Vic topped 130 in an eye blink. Edged up to 140. Nothing ahead, only the Honda behind and falling back fast. I kept the CV hovering at that speed until we reached the side road to the Bandon airport. Slammed on the brakes, spun the wheel, released the brakes and was quickly facing the opposite direction. Jamming the pedal back to the floor, I raced toward the Honda. Speedo topping 130 once again. The Honda’s grille suddenly pointed to the pavement. The driver slamming on the brakes, rubber burning, when seeing the flames coming toward him. Side window skittered down and an arm thrust out. Silver semi-auto gripped tightly. I reached behind my back, pulled the Magnum from its holster, slammed the window-down button and shoved my hand into the onrushing wind.

Three shots from the silver semi, none causing damage. Like knights in a joust, we were aimed at each other, arms extended through our respective windows. Guns instead of lances. The Magnum roared five times. The Honda’s windshield shattered on the passenger side. In less than a few seconds, the two cars passed each other in opposite directions. I slammed the shift lever into third. Vickies’s engine spinning up. Tach hitting 5500 rpms, but the car slowed quickly to 80. A quick stab at the brakes, wheel cranked to the left, perfect sliding U turn with the rear end slewing, nose once again aimed south.

The Honda was a good half mile ahead, but the CV closed the distance quickly, again burying the speedo past 140. The white Civic swerved around a slow moving truck, barreling at 100-plus into the oncoming traffic, missing a motorhome by inches before returning to the southbound lane. I smashed my hand onto the switch for the under-carriage lights. The grille of the CV started glowing blue then flashed on and off in a quick sequence. Illegal, but so cool at night.

Seeing the blue lights, traffic moved to the side as the Vic roared past, exhaust rattling house windows as we passed. The Honda was in sight and getting closer. Fast.

Until a girl on a scooter decided to cross 101.

Slamming on the brakes, the Vic shuddered. Smoke from locked up tires billowed through my open window. We stopped 10 feet in front of her. She never knew how close she’d come to being road-kill crow bait.

Sal and I watched the Honda disappear over a crest in the highway. The girl on the scooter smiled sweetly and waved as she crossed the highway.

Sal, who had been leaning against the door, feet planted on the floor, turned to look at me. “Well, that was exciting. Care for some sky diving without a parachute?”

“I’ve told you to wear your seat belt, haven’t I?”

“You don’t.”

“touché.”

My cell phone buzzed in my pocket.

Flipping it open, “Drago.”

It was Forte. He was talking fast. “Holy samoli, Nick. Was that you who blasted through town at 100 miles an hour? Don’t deny it. Everyone knows your car.”

“130. Maybe a bit more.”

I hit the speaker button.

“What the hell are you doing? You scared the living crap out of the mayor, and the guys at the Quick Lube thought they were under jet fighter attack! That damn side exhaust…”

“Got lots to tell you, Chief. We’ll stop by in a minute.”

“Christ, Nick, don’t make it a minute. Make it 15. That way I’ll know you rolled into town at the speed limit.”

“That’s what I’m doing right now,” I said, looking down the speedometer and lifting my foot to let the needle wind down from 80.

Forte let out a long breath. “FYI, the mayor was in the pickup you passed at 130 plus a bit. She’s already read me the riot act. Can’t wait to hear what she has to say to you.”

“She’s a nice lady. Good upbringing. Great personality. Not a mean bone in her body.”

“Ha.” Forte disconnected.

By the time Sal and I stopped at the bank, put the gold ball in my deposit box and made a quick run through the coffee kiosk, Forte was calmer. When we entered his office, he pointed at a couple of chairs. Sal and I each slumped into one and I put my feet on his desk.

“Hi Chief,” Sal said.

“Mr. Rand. So nice to see you. And the asshole you’re with is…?”

I leaned across the desk and put my hand out. “Drago. Nick Drago.”

Forte bump fisted me and leaned back grinning. “You guys are a menace. Whatcha got?”

We filled the Chief in on the assay, the Honda and my putting the gold in the bank. He listened closely, “Two and a half pounds? That’d keep me in Swiss cheese and salami for a year. And the Honda driver was the same shooter, you’re sure?”

“Like the gold, 99 percent,” I said. “Caught a glimpse of a silver semi-auto, gray hair and a hoodie.”

‘License number?”

Sal stretched out his hand where he’d written the letters and digits. Forte copied them down, buzzed Lucy to his office and gave her the slip of paper. “Run that, wouldya Luce?” She nodded and left.

“We need to talk to old man Wilson and take a look at the Madrone on his property,” I pointed out.

“Thinking the same thing. I’ll bring Billy along. Wilson’s a foul-mouth curmudgeon. The more uniforms, the better.”

Lucy returned. “The car’s a rental. Thrifty up in Coos Bay,” she said. “Rented to a Sarah Cavanaugh eight days ago.”

“The lady who told us about the Tree Man?” Sal asked. I nodded.

“You think she’s the one who shot at us?”

I shrugged. “Crazy world, Sal. If she knew about the gold ball, wouldn’t surprise me.”

Forte interrupted. “Good idea if we talked to her, don’t cha think?” He turned to Lucy and instructed her to put out an all-points for the Honda and Cavanaugh. “Also tell the Coos Bay and North Bend police we’re looking for her urgently.” Lucy nodded and left.

“We need to get up to Wilson’s,” Forte said. “If she’s the shooter, she already knows we found the ball and could be looking for the original Tree Man to see if there’s another one.”

“Whoa, amigo,” I said. “My guess is she already knew about the ball because she found one as a kid. The discovery of a second Bandon Dunes Tree Man would lead her to assuming there was a second ball of gold in that Madrone and once we found it, she wanted it.”

“To Wilson’s?” Sal said.

The three of us stood and exited the Chief’s office. On the way out he told Lucy to have Billy meet us at the Wilson farm.

A quick left out of the parking lot, falling behind Forte’s cruiser, and south on Highway 101. We were joined by a new Chevy Tahoe police SUV driven by Billy Jenkins, a big kid who I once coached in the high school baseball program. Sweet swing, could hit anything, but a disaster on defense. More errors than all the Washington National players combined.

“Do you really think that Cavanaugh lady is the shooter?”

“Sal, nothing surprises me much. Small gun, purse size. Cheap. Good for close in defense or waving at a mugger. A lady’s weapon.”

Sal nodded. “Fits.”

We reached the Wilson spread in less than 10 minutes, pulled into rutted gravel and dirt driveway parking in front of a weathered tan and green double-wide. The front door opened and a woman in her mid to late 50s came out on the porch.

“Can I help you?” she asked, wiping her hands on a flowered apron that covered a pair of dark-blue jeans and a red denim shirt.

“Mrs. Wilson, we’re looking for your husband,” Forte said. “He around?”

Smiling, “Sure is, Chief. He’s out in the field somewhere. Want me to call him?”

“If you don’t mind.”

She dug deep into the pocket of the apron and pulled out a small Motorola walkie-talkie, pressed the call button and said, “Gabby, the police are here wantin’ to talk to you.”

A crackle over her handset, “Tell ‘em to stuff it. I’m busy.”

Forte walked to the porch and took the walkie from Mrs. Wilson. “Not gonna happen, Gabby.”

Crackle, “Chief, is that you? What the hell do you want?”

“Need to talk to you, right now.”

“Got a warrant?”

“Right now, Gabby.”

“Shinola on a stick. Man can’t go a day without being bothered. Okay. Come on down to the north pasture. You’ll see my Jeep.”

We climbed into the Tahoe and edged around the house toward a small open gate leading to the pasture. Sheep lazily munching the tall grass. People picture sheep as cute white critters, but the reality is they’re usually dirty, grungy from the hips down and smell bad – especially in winter when the rain hits the wool and entire fields smell like wet dirty sweat socks. Worse still, walking through a sheep pasture is, well, that’s the reason boots are called “shit kickers.”

The Jeep was at the north-west corner of the 500 acre pasture. Topless, rusty, hauling a small equally rusty utility trailer, both probably were a dozen years old and unlicensed since neither ever touched tires to a paved street. Pure farm-bound transportation.

Billy pulled the Tahoe behind the Jeep and the four of us climbed out.

Wilson – closer to 60 than 50 -- was leaning against the Jeep, a long-bar chainsaw rested on the hood. Rubber field boots, dirty jeans and a plaid wool shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. His eyes squeezed near-shut as he watched the four of us approach.

“Whatcha need, Chief?”

Billy circled to the right and stood a few paces to the side of Wilson. Standard cop procedure “just in case.”

“We came to take a look at your trees, Gabby.”

“Asked before. Got a warrant?”

Forte reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a sheet of folded 8-1/2 by 11 paper. “Don’t make me give this to you, Gabby. You know how a small town is. I hand this over and it becomes official. Goes into the police reports. Newspaper picks it up. Then everyone starts talking about how Gabby Wilson got busted for dope or worse. Child molesting is the hot topic these days. Tell ‘em you’re cuttin’ down a 100 year old Madrone – I saw the chain saw -- and you’ll be up to your ass in Department of Environmental Quality bureaucrats, Coquille and Confederated Tribes people looking for their ancestors’ sacred burial grounds, dope-smokin’ environmentalists and just plain gawkers. You want that?”

Gabby’s face went pale. “Guess not. Put it away, Chief.”

Sal and I cut a glance at each other.

“The Madrone is back here,” he said, turning and walking into the wooded area bordering the field. We followed.

About 100 feet in through some brambles and pines, where the sun was barely able to cut through the canopy of branches, stood a massive Madrone, its pale bark flaking, thick limbs flared in all directions. The tree was deeply rooted, massive legs spreading out from a core trunk measuring at least 12 feet in diameter. Old, gnarled, looking like something in a sci-fi movie.

About six feet from the ground was an opening maybe a foot wide and the same dimension tall. Wilson pointed.

“Where’s the lid, Gabby?”

He reached around the back of the tree and held up what looked like a large cork plug. “Fits in like this,” he said, pushing the plug into the hole. Once in, unless you were looking for it the trunk appeared unscathed. Take your eyes away from the tree for any length of time and you’d be hard pressed to find the cover at all.

I walked close to the tree, pulled on the edges of the lid. It took a bit but wiggled out. Glancing in the hole it was obvious why Sarah Cavanaugh’s brother was startled. Peering back at me was a skull, the dim light giving the alabaster bone a haunting, menacing stare.

Turning to Billy, “Got a flashlight?”

“Sure do, coach.” He pulled a nine-inch Maglite from his belt and tossed it to me.

Clicking it on, I played the beam into the hole and across the skull.

“What do you see, Sal?” I said, handing him the Maglite. The big man took my place in front of the opening and played the beam.

“Looks like a scrap of leather around the neck.”

Forte was next, bending his head close to the hole, “Sure seems like it.” He reached through the opening, cheek against the smooth bark, fumbling around for a second before pulling his arm out. In his hand a medium-length of tattered thong. Thin, fragile with age, obviously leather.

All of us stood around Forte as he stretched it to its full length – about 10 inches. One end had the remnants of a knot; the other was broken as if someone had tugged at it until it snapped. Considering the condition it was in, not much pressure would have been necessary to fray the leather.

“Think that’s where the clay egg was?” Sal asked.

“My guess,” I said.

“What clay egg?” Wilson was as mesmerized by the leather as were we all.

He deserved an answer. “This piece of leather was used, I figure, to hang a clay ball around the Tree Man’s neck. Don’t know exactly why, but we have an idea of what was in the egg based on what we found in the Madrone at Bandon Dunes.”

“Treasure?” he asked. “It would be mine, I reckon since it’s on my property.”

Shaking his head, Forte answered, “You’re gonna have to discuss that with, I don’t know, somebody. Or a whole lot of somebodies.”

Stepping back in front of the opening I asked, “Anybody got a mirror?”

Billy half jogged to the Tahoe, opened the rear hatch and popped the top on a plastic tub. He rummaged around for a second then returned with small polished metal oval, a hole in one end. “For looking under cars for bombs,” he said. “You need the broom stick that attaches to it?”

My eyebrows raised, “Bombs? Bandon? Expecting terrorists, Billy?”

He gave a shy grin and shrugged.

I tipped the mirror into the hole and simultaneously aimed the flashlight at it, successfully casting the beam down into the hidden darkness of the trunk. Unlike the other Madrone, this one had grown independent of the skeleton leaving a void while the first grew into and against the skeleton. The beam reflected off of the rib cage, pelvis and leg bones. The bottom of the casket-like well had a small piece of cloth, shards of what appeared to be another clay egg and a ripped page from a magazine. Playboy, I’d guess if the Cavanaugh boy used the tree as a hiding place for “boy stuff” as his sister Sarah had suggested.

“Got a chunk of wire in your rig?” I asked Wilson who grunted and tromped back to the Jeep returning with a coil in one hand and what appeared to be a straightened coat hanger in the other.

“What do you see, Nick?” Sal asked.

“Miss October. Maybe June.”

I bent the end of the coat hanger into a hook and wrapped some wire around the other end. Repositioning the mirror and handing the flashlight to Sal who aimed it at the polished metal, I slid the hook into the opening and lowered it with the wire.

Playing the wire one way then another, the tip of the hook finally latched onto the small eyelet that once was the top of the clay egg. I pulled it up, detached it and handed it to Forte who took a quick look and slid it into a jacket pocket.

“And you said you don’t know how to fish,” Sal muttered.

“Can’t hook the smaller pieces. Egg is broken,” I said after trying to snag a few different shards. But I did get hold of one of the magazine pages and yanked it up and through the opening. I glanced at it. Not a quick glance. It was, in fact, a centerfold from an early Playboy. “Miss June, 1957,” I said. It was stained and smudged with God knows what. Boys will be boys.

Billy took possession and grinned.

“Don’t get too excited, Billy, she’s old enough to be your grandmother.”

“Not mine, Nick. Trust me,” eyes glued to the only slightly faded photo.

After again giving Wilson a warning about telling anyone about the tree, we returned to the Chief’s office, passed around the Playboy centerfold – Carrie Radison, a hot red head -- and put the piece of clay into an evidence box, Forte stashing it in a small safe behind his desk.

Sal and I climbed into the Vic and returned to Willow Weep.

“I’m hungry.”

“Sal, are you ever not hungry?”

Smile. “Nope. Think it’s a psychological thing. Something about being shot, being chased by a lunatic in a Honda, that little jousting stunt with the two of you shooting at each other out open windows and Forte bluffing Wilson with that fake subpoena. Makes me hungry.”

“The subpoena thing was pretty smart, actually.”

“Good thing Wilson didn’t push it. Pretty embarrassing if he’d seen the bank’s letter that the Chief was overdrawn on his checking account.”

We pulled into the gravel drive and parked. Both of us climbed out of the Vic and headed for the rear deck which was closest to the kitchen and coffee maker.

At the table, Cookie and Tatiana were hunched over, looking at the two halves of the clay egg.

“Hi ladies,” Sal called. “Whatcha doing?”

I leaned over and kissed Cookie on the top of her head. She had a small LED flashlight and was playing the beam inside the egg.

“This is beautiful, Nick.”

“What is?”

“Inside this clay thing. The map.”