By ten o'clock the next morning, the seventh and next-to-last Bismarck is in the ground. The party is scheduled for tomorrow evening and we've got one palm to go. Things are looking good.
There's no doubt that there will be a party. Aunt Trula has rebounded in fine fashion. If anything, she seems even more driven to perfection for her big to-do. She's overseeing a small army of landscapers who are edging and clipping and planting and trimming, making sure everything is just so.
"She steadfastly refuses to discuss the subject of Teddy," Barbara says as we watch her from the terrace. "But if that's her way of dealing with it, then so be it."
"Any word from the attorney?"
"Not yet. Mr. Denton instructed Teddy to ask the police if Titi could visit for just a few minutes this afternoon. We'll see what happens. In the meantime, how do you rate your chances of coming up with something that will put Sir Teddy in the clear?"
"The odds are decent enough, I suppose. Depending on the police department's willingness to go after Papi Ferreira."
"And it's up to you to give them a reason for doing that?"
"Yep. And sooner or later, between Fiona and me, we'll get something. I just can't promise it will be in time for Teddy to attend the party tomorrow night."
"Something tells me he won't complain about missing a silly little birthday bash if it ultimately leads to his exoneration."
"Better watch out," I say. "If Aunt Trula hears you calling her gala event a silly little birthday bash she might disown you."
"I don't care. I am ready for this whole thing to be over. I'm exhausted, just worn out. I could crawl back into bed right now I'm so tired," says Barbara. She drapes her arms around my neck, leans her head against my chest. "Care to crawl back into bed with me?"
"Save that thought," I say, kissing the top of her head, pulling away. "I've got some errands to run."
"What kind of errands?"
"The kind that I'm making up as I go along."
She looks at me.
"Be careful," she says.
66.
It has been a couple of days since I checked in on Brewster Trimmingham, so I swing by King Edward Hospital to see how he's getting along.
I'm hoping that Trimmingham's doctor is close to giving him his walking papers. Because I could use Trimmingham's help. My idea is to put him to work-contacting clients, making cold calls, yanking people off the street, doing whatever it takes to sell the six units at Governor's Pointe.
I'm even willing to throw a commission his way. At this point, I don't even mind absorbing a loss just to clean the table of the whole affair.
When I get to Trimmingham's room it's empty. The bed is neatly made. It doesn't look as if anyone has been in it for a while.
I stop a young nurse's assistant in the hall.
"I'm here to visit Brewster Trimmingham," I tell her. "Is he still in this room? Or has he been transferred again?"
"Let me check, sir. Be right back."
I wait in the hallway. I watch an orderly mop up something on the floor. The face he's making tells me I don't want to know what the something is. I watch an old woman being wheeled past me on a stretcher, her eyes already fixed on the great beyond. I watch busy nurses with clipboards and weary doctors with charts and anxious family members huddled in the waiting room across the hall.
I watch the young nurse's assistant heading my way, a stern-faced older woman with her.
"This is the gentleman," the nurse's assistant says and then steps away.
"You were inquiring about Mr. Trimmingham?" the stern-faced woman says.
"I was. I'd like to see him if that's possible."
"Are you a family member?"
"No, a business associate," I say. "Where's Trimmingham?"
The woman takes a breath.
"I'm afraid we don't know where he is."
I don't say anything.
The woman says, "According to the night nurse, he was in bed at eleven P.M. and received his medication. But when she stopped in at two A.M. he was gone. No one has seen him since."
67.
I go to Trimmingham's office. It looks the same as when Boggy and I left it a couple days earlier.
I open a filing cabinet, find the folder I'm looking for, the one with Trimmingham's personal information in it. Flip through papers-old VISA statements, bills for the ex-wife in Charlottesville, membership dues for the Somerset Yacht Club. Find a recent utilities bill-2200 Water Avenue, Apt. A-2.
As I'm leaving, the door opens across the hall. The man inside the office pokes his head out.
"Your friends were just here," he says.
"Friends?"
"The three who were here the other day."
"Oh, you mean the day you called the cops?"
He doesn't respond to that.
"How long ago did they leave?" I ask him.
"I don't know. Fifteen minutes maybe."
I say, "Have you seen Trimmingham?"
He shakes his head.
"I heard he was in the hospital."
"You heard right."
"Is he going to be all right?"
"Too soon to tell," I say.
68.
I find Water Avenue and follow it to 2200-a quadruplex squeezed between two other quadruplexes. I park the Morris Minor on the street out front.
A-2 is first floor on the right. I knock on the door. No answer. I knock again. No answer again.
There's a window. I look through it. Nothing much to see-crummy furniture in the front room, the kind you buy at the thrift store. Darkness beyond that.
I consider breaking the window, kicking in the door. Don't really have the motivation. Not yet, anyway. Maybe later, if it comes to that.
I turn to go, see the gray van parked behind the Morris Minor.
Paul Andrade gets out of the passenger side. I can see two other guys in the van-Barros behind the wheel, Moraes in the back seat.
I walk up to the van. Andrade slides open the side door, nods me to get inside.
"Papi wants to see you," he says.
"That's nice," I say.
"Get in."
I don't move.
"Where's Brewster Trimmingham?"
Andrade shrugs.
"Get in the van," he says.
I'm standing three steps away from Andrade. For a small, wiry guy you'd think he might have quick reflexes. Turns out, they aren't quick enough. Either that or I'm getting faster in my old age. Doubtful.
I knee Andrade in the nuts. He doubles over and I flip him around, get him in a headlock. I squeeze, lean back. His feet leave the ground. He kicks, grabs at my arm, coughing, fighting for air.
Barros sits frozen in the driver's seat, but Moraes makes a move, lunging through the open door.
I drag Andrade back with me, one arm locked around his throat. I wrap the other arm around the top of his head, get a grip just under his jaw, twist.
"One more step, I break his neck," I say.
Sounds bad-ass anyway.
Moraes stops.
"Get back in the van," I say.
He does it.
"Now close the door."
He does that, too.
I remove my arm from the top of Andrade's head, reach behind his back. The pistol is stuck in his waistband. I pull it out, hold it up for Barros and Moraes to see.
"You're going to drive. I'm going to follow," I say.
"What about him?" Barros says, nodding at Andrade.
"He's riding with me," I say. "Don't do anything stupid."
I let go of Andrade, point him to the Morris Minor. We get in and follow the gray van. I keep his pistol on my lap.
"Now let me ask you again," I say to Andrade. "Where's Brewster Trimmingham?"
He glares at me.
"How the fuck should I know? Papi says he wants to see the both of you. We go looking for Trimmingham, we find you. That's all I know."