Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 03/01/11 Page 2

“That seems little enough for such a beauty—you’re bleeding, Mr. Falk. Do you have a first-aid kit?”

  “At the end of the counter, miss, but you needn’t—”

  “Let me see to it. You’re bleeding all over that hull.”

  Popping open the metal box, she quickly found disinfectant and gauze. “Give me your hand, please.” Reluctantly, Luke offered his wounded paw. She frowned, eyeing the new gash and a dozen more scars surrounding it.

  “Sorry,” he said, “it’s been awhile since my last manicure.”

  “You’ve never had a manicure in your life,” she said briskly, swabbing down the cut with disinfectant. “You needn’t apologize for using your hands to create beauty. I do business with manicured men every day. The planet would be a better place if most of them were stood against the nearest wall and shot. Hold still, please.”

  Taking off her sunglasses, she expertly constructed a butterfly bandage from surgical tape and a bit of gauze and applied it to the gash. Luke scarcely noticed. Minus the glasses, her eyes were utterly magnetic, dark as deep water. And just as unreadable. Sensing his eyes on her, Aliana glanced up, meeting Luke’s gaze, and holding it. Taking his measure. Then she returned to her work. But she didn’t replace her sunglasses.

  “That should do it,” she said briskly, pressing the bandage in place. “As for the boat, I’ll take her, but not at sixty. She’s worth seventy to me, so let’s make that the price.”

  “A penny for the boatman?” Luke asked coldly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s a poem, miss. Every kid in the north country knows it.

  Her sails may be tattered, her seams caulk’d and old,

  but the river is the glacier’s daughter.

  Spare a penny for the boatman, you’ve no use for gold

  If ye drown in her deep green water.”

  “It’s not a very . . . cheerful verse, is it?” She smiled.

  “The point is, boating on the Great Lakes is serious business. Life and death, sometimes. Ask the crew of the Edmund Fitzgerald. But I’m not a ferryman, Miss Markovic, or a bellhop. You don’t have to tip me.”

  “I wasn’t trying to insult you, Mr. Falk, I’m only saying sixty thousand for that craft isn’t nearly enough. How many hours did you work on her?”

  “I’m—not exactly sure.”

  “Why am I not surprised? Look at this place! You’re a marvelous artist, Mr. Falk, but no serious businessman could work here. It’s a freaking shambles.”

  “I know exactly where everything is.”

  “I don’t doubt that, but—”

  Deacon poked his head in. “Is there a problem?”

  “We’re haggling!” Aliana snapped. “Get out!”

  Deacon got.

  “I’m not talented, Mr. Falk, I can’t create beauty, but in my business I appraise merchandise and price it fairly every day. I won’t cheapen your work by paying you less than I know its true value to be. Trust me, I can afford it.”

  “That’s not the point. I’m not a charity case.”

  “I didn’t say you were,” Aliana said, exasperated. “Look, do you want to sell the damned boat or not?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “Fine! We’ll split the difference. The price is sixty-five thousand, or you can burn her at the dock for all I care!”

  Luke almost told her where to stick her sixty-five. He took a deep breath instead. “You drive a hard bargain, miss,” he said. And they both burst out laughing.

  “Done deal.” Aliana nodded. “I’d like her delivered to New York at—”

  “Whoa, slow down, miss,” Luke interrupted. “Your boat isn’t ready for delivery. She has to be properly fitted to you. I’ll need to make some adjustments, then you’ll have to come back to be sure they’re right.”

  “That’s simply not possible. My schedule—”

  “I create custom crafts for a select clientele, Miss Markovic. They’re not toys or decorations, they’re meant to be used. If you haven’t time for a proper fitting, you’ll never be one with your boat, and I won’t sell her to you.”

  “Dear God! Please don’t take offense, Mr. Falk, but I deal with a great many merchants. You are the rock-bottom worst salesman I have ever met.”

  “I’m not a salesman at all, miss, I’m a boatman. And what is it you do?”

  “I . . . deal in surplus commodities.”

  “That’s awfully vague.”

  Her taut smile was equally vague. “My business is my business, Mr. Falk. But I do want the craft, so I suppose I’ll just have to free up some time. What adjustments have to be made?”

  “The bench will be custom carved to your size and the winches moved within easy reach. And she’ll need to be named, of course. What will you call her?”

  “I . . . hadn’t given that much thought.”

  “Why not the Aliana? It means morning star, doesn’t it?”

  He could almost hear her defensive shields clicking into place. “How would you know that?” she asked suspiciously

  “I read a lot, miss. Call her whatever you like. I’m just saying Aliana’s a pretty name.”

  “It’s tempting,” she said wryly. “I doubt anyone else will name a boat after me. But no. She should have a name of her own. What was that poem you recited?”

  “ ‘A Penny for the Boatman’?”

  “Right. Since we had so much trouble over her price, we’ll call her the Penny.”

  It was a day for visitors. Barely half an hour after Deacon and Aliana roared off in the twin Navigators, an unmarked blue Chevy Blazer rumbled into the boatyard. Two men in summer-weight suits climbed out, looking around warily. The older man was balding, fortyish, and pudgy, with dark rings under his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a decade. The younger was bullet-headed, wide as a linebacker, with fiery red hair and an attitude to match.

  “Federal agents, ATF,” he announced, flashing a badge in Luke’s general direction. “I’m Agent Gordon Larkin, he’s Ridley. Are you Lucas Falk?”

  “Guilty,” Luke said. “But I’m a bit behind on my federal alphabet. What’s ATF?”

  “Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, Mr. Falk. Why was the Markovic woman here?”

  “She was shopping for a boat, why?”

  “Just answer the questions. How many men in her crew?”

  “I didn’t count.”

  “A woman shows up in the middle of nowhere with a small army and you didn’t notice?” Larkin snorted.

  “She had an entourage, sport, so does Madonna. What is all this?”

  “I talked to the tall one,” Gus offered, coming around from the deck carrying his fishing pole. “Said his name was Deacon. Seemed like a nice fella.”

  “Butt out of this, pops, I’m talking to Mr. Falk.”

  “We’re both Mr. Falks,” Gus said mildly, “I’m Luke’s grandfather. Taught the boy everything he knows. Most folks call me Gus, not Mr. Falk. But nobody calls me pops, sonny. It’s disrespectful.”

  “No offense intended, Mr. Falk,” the older agent put in. “But we’re dealing with a matter of national security here, so—”

  “Which nation?” Gus interrupted. “We got a slew of ’em up here. The U.S. of A., Canada across the lake, France, England, the Cree Nation, Ojibwa and Odawa tribes have all claimed this ground, one time or another. Fought for it, too. Which nation do you boys work for?”

  “The United States of America, grandpa,” Larkin said, flushing dangerously, “and you’d best show a little respect—”

  “Lighten up, mister,” Luke said, cutting him off. “He’s jerking your chain. Grandfather, give me some space with these guys, okay? The sooner I figure out what they want, the sooner they’ll be gone.”

  “Not soon enough,” Gus grumbled. “That redhead’s got no manners—yeah, yeah, I’m going,” he added, before Larkin could react. “Me and Razzy will be out back fishin’. If you need help bouncin’ these two, you just whistle, Grandson. I’ll be happy to o
blige. C’mon, girl.” Gus and the old dog disappeared around the back of the shed, with Gus muttering to himself all the way.

  “That old man—” Larkin began.

  “Is a full-blooded Cree chief,” Luke finished. “He won the Silver Star in Korea before you were born, and he’s right, you’ve got lousy manners. Now tell me what you want, or take a hike.”

  “You don’t talk to a federal agent like that,” Larkin blustered.

  “Will everybody just calm down,” Ridley said, waving off his partner. “We’re all Americans here, Mr. Falk. The Markovic woman is a witness of interest in an ATF investigation. Would you be kind enough to tell us why she was here? Please.”

  “She bought a boat,” Luke said reluctantly.

  “What kind of a boat?”

  “A custom sailboat, the only kind I build.”

  “When will she take delivery?”

  “Not for a few weeks. I have to make some modifications, then she’ll test sail it again.”

  “Perfect,” Larkin said, nodding at his partner. “While you’re at it, you can install a device for us.”

  “What kind of a device?” Luke asked. “You mean a bug?”

  “That’s classified—”

  “It’s also stupid,” Luke snapped, exchanging his rasp for a narrow-bladed hand chisel. “Your gimmick would have to be mounted in the cockpit and the woman knows boats. She’d spot anything out of place in a heartbeat. And don’t you guys need a warrant or something?”

  “Leave that to us,” Ridley said. “We’ll install the device ourselves. Just let us know when she’s taking delivery.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “This isn’t a casual request,” Ridley said. “You were a soldier once, Mr. Falk. Your country needs your help again.”

  “Stow the flag, sport, you’re waving it at the wrong guy.”

  “You don’t care about your country?” Larkin asked dangerously. “What kind of American are you?”

  “The kind who served two tours in Iraq,” Luke said. “How about you, Larkin? Ever wear the uniform?”

  “I’m serving my country now,” Larkin said.

  “Wise move,” Luke nodded, carefully shaving down a seam with the chisel. “My time in Iraq didn’t go too well.”

  “Why not?”

  “I was stationed in the boondocks near the Iranian border. Because of suicide bombers, anyone approaching our position out of the desert got a warning shot at fifteen hundred yards. If they didn’t turn back, the next one was in the head. In fifteen months, I dropped eight intruders. One was a boy. Thirteen or fourteen, tops, wheeling a bicycle loaded with enough Semtex to erase half our base. They gave me a medal for capping him.”

  “Then what’s the problem?” Larkin asked. “If he was armed—”

  “Oh, I can live with popping that kid. Bad as it was, he was damn sure trying to kill us. It’s the others that bother me, the poor bastards who were probably lost, looking for water. Nobody gave a damn about them, not their government, certainly not ours. But I remember them. Can’t sleep sometimes, remembering them. So I took a Section Eight discharge and came home to the lake country. There’s plenty of water here. If you’re thirsty, you can drink all you want. But I don’t do government work anymore, guys. I never will again. Have a nice day now, hear?”

  Luke turned to go back to his work, but Larkin grabbed his arm, jerking him around.

  “We asked you politely, mister, but you’d better wise up. Nobody gets a pass from the War on Terror. One word from us and the IRS can shut down your little jerkwater shop and tie you up in court for the next ten years.”

  “That’s a lot of trouble for a bug that won’t hear anything.”

  “Just do as you’re told,” Larkin said, pulling Luke closer, face-to-face, “or you’ll have more trouble than you ever dreamed of.”

  “You don’t know what trouble is, sport,” Luke said softly, flipping the chisel into the air, snatching it by the haft, and pressing the blade lightly against Larkin’s necktie. “Not even when you’re in it.”

  On reflex, Larkin started to reach for his gun.

  “I wouldn’t do that, young fella,” Gus said with a chuckle, stepping around the corner of the building, an old Winchester carbine cradled casually in his arms. “Don’t lose your head.”

  “Everybody stand down!” Agent Ridley snapped, raising his hands. “We came here looking for cooperation, Falk, not trouble. If you won’t serve your country—”

  “I’ve paid my dues, mister. In blood. This is my country now, forty acres and a workshop. And the only orders I take are for boats. Go away. Leave us alone.”

  Ridley read Falk’s eyes, ice blue and just as cold. “Sorry you feel that way, Mr. Falk. If you change your mind, you can reach us at this number.” He laid a business card on the workbench. “Let’s go, Gordie.”

  “You should have backed my play,” Larkin complained. They were in the Blazer, on the road back to Valhalla. “We could have busted them both for assault.”

  “They aren’t suspects, Gordie, they’re citizens. We had no grounds for an arrest.”

  “Lying to a federal agent’s a crime. Falk’s military records didn’t mention anything about sniper school.”

  “The rest of it fits,” Ridley said. “Falk was assigned to an intercept unit near the border, and a Section Eight discharge for mental instability isn’t something a guy would brag about. I’m ninety percent certain everything Mr. Falk told us back there was the flat-ass truth.”

  “That doesn’t mean we can’t lean on him,” Larkin argued. “We can order an IRS audit, have the bank cut off his credit—”

  “There’s no time for that! HQ says the Markovic woman is a ‘significant witness.’ They need dirt on her in a hurry. Falk made head shots on a half-dozen people he wasn’t even mad at. He’s not somebody we can push.”

  “Then we go at him another way.”

  “How?”

  “He said the Markovic woman would test the boat. If she’s on the water alone, and we find drugs on board, it’s open and shut. If Falk’s with her, all the better. We collar him, too.”

  “You mean plant dope on board?” Ridley said, staring at this partner. “Our instructions are to plant a bug.”

  “You’re the one who says HQ wants her in a hurry.”

  “Jesus, you’re crazier than I thought. Didn’t you learn anything from that cocked-up shooting in Detroit? You wounded two civilians trying to bust a trucker smuggling cigarettes, Gordie. You’d be in jail yourself if your uncle wasn’t a deputy commander at Quantico.”

  “But he is,” Larkin said flatly. “And if the bureau dumped a screw-up like me up here, what does that make you, Ridley? What’s your great sin?”

  “I . . . have a . . . bit of a drinking problem,” Ridley admitted.

  “So now we’re both stuck here in Siberia. Look, all the bureau cares about is results. My uncle still jokes about framing mob guys back in the day, and the War on Terror’s a bigger threat than the Mafia ever was. This Markovic broad is our ticket back to the world.”

  “I’m only saying we have to be careful,” Ridley cautioned. “Another foul-up and we’ll both be unemployed, no matter who your uncle is.”

  “Then help me do it right! Cover for me on our other cases, I’ll stake out Falk’s place. The first time he leaves, I’ll plant . . . whatever needs planting. When Markovic tests the boat, we’ll take her down, and be on the first plane out of here. Just leave it to me.”

  Ridley eyed his young partner doubtfully, chewing his lip. Larkin had powerful family connections in the Justice Department. He was also a hothead.

  But he was dead right about one thing. The Bureau didn’t transfer agents up to the big lake country to further their careers. Professionally speaking, they were both marooned. And Ridley had already been stuck up here for two years.

  “All right,” Ridley nodded, swallowing his misgivings. “I’ll fake the paperwork on our other cases to cover you. The hills
across from Falk’s cove are all state forest. Set up your observation post there. Do your binoculars have a built-in range finder?”

  “Sure, why?” Larkin asked.

  “Because if I were you, partner, I’d make damn sure I didn’t get any closer than fifteen hundred yards.”

  For the next five days, Luke worked on the Penny, full-time, personalizing the rigging to match Aliana’s slight stature, artfully painting the name and a gleaming coin logo on her stern and both outriggers. Ordinarily, he found his work totally satisfying. After Iraq, he’d been so glad to get home to the lake country, he was sure he’d never leave.

  But now, standing on the back deck with his morning coffee as the sun rose over the bay, he felt uneasy. Haunted. And not by the kills he’d made in a faraway desert.

  He kept seeing flashes of the sloe-eyed woman, her raven hair riffling in the lake breeze, the concern in her eyes as she bandaged his hand. He felt oddly diminished by her absence, as though greeting a sunrise without her was unnatural now.

  Maybe he’d been living alone in the boondocks with Gus for too long. Or maybe the army was right to give him that nut-job Section 8 discharge.

  Or maybe it was the golden weather. In the lake country, July is more the end of spring than the onset of summer. In the shadowed forests, lingering traces of snow were still melting, trickling off to join the freshet streams wending their way home to the rocky shores of the Great Lakes. A final act of renewal in a season of change.

  Aliana Markovic returned with her entourage a week later, rolling into the boatyard in the twin Navigators. Her bodyguards were every bit as thorough on their second visit, prowling the grounds like bloodhounds sniffing for prey.

  Only Deacon seemed more courteous. Instead of rummaging through the shop, he simply escorted Aliana in. She was wearing a simple capri sunsuit, with an aqua headscarf, and Luke felt his breathing go shallow at the sight of her. He looked away, and realized Deacon was eyeing him curiously.

  “Is anything wrong, mister?” the African asked.

  “You tell me,” Luke said. Then told them about the two ATF agents.

  “What did they want?” Deacon asked.

  “Information about Miss Markovic.”

  “And what did you tell them?” Aliana asked.