Intimate Strangers Affair Read online

  “Why?”

  The old man opened his mouth, but no sound came out at first. His larynx bobbed over his collar as he pulled out a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and vigorously mopped his forehead, then the back of his neck. “Because of the money.”

  “My money. It is missing, George. A lot of it. What do you know?”

  “Only that it’s gone. It’s been gone for a while. I don’t know where. I’ve looked for it, but couldn’t find it. I swear, sir. It’s true.” He held his hat in front of him, his fingers turning the rim around and around again.

  Miguel only folded his arms across his chest. He looked stern. “Then why did you run?”

  “I have been framed. Framed, I tell you. The police would not believe me. I did not think you would either. Especially if you knew all about me.”

  “Ah. Your record. Embezzlement at Lloyd’s Bank. Transported to Australia. We met there. Queensland, remember?”

  George’s shoulders slumped forward. He seemed defeated, his voice broken and reedy. “Then…then you already knew.”

  “Of course. I know everything about my employees. Your past, your present, your son Gerald…part of the Sydney Ducks gang. His gambling debts. Is that where you channeled my money?”

  “No, sir. I did not. I could not. I have worked for you since you first took helm of this company. Before you even became the Don. I have seen you grow into the man you are. And I have given you twelve years of good honest hard work. That should count for something. And only one debit. An old one. One mistake a long time ago. And everything else lands on the credit side. It must balance out somehow in the black. Doesn’t it, sir?” George licked his lips.

  Miguel looked implacable. “Twenty-four hours, George. No more. Return the money by then, or I will come after you. It is not the police you should worry about.”

  “But I don’t…”

  “Do you understand?”

  George flinched. “Yes, sir. I understand.” With the look of a doomed man, he shuffled out of the office.

  As soon as the door closed behind him, I popped up, rubbing my knees. “That was nice of you.”

  Miguel looked blank. “Nice?”

  “Sure, yeah. Nice. You could have reported him to the police. Or send Major Moore after him, but you didn’t. You let him go. You believe him. You’re a good man, Miguel.”

  He sighed. “Sometimes I forget how young you are. You don’t understand. No, I do not trust him. He may have done it. I let him go because I want to see what he does next. Xiang will follow him.”

  “But George is telling the truth.”

  “Is he?”

  “Yes, I know he is,” I said with absolute certainly. I walked up to Miguel and thumped my finger against his chest. “You can bet your bottom dollar on it, even the shirt off your back. It’s a sure thing.”

  “How? What facts do you have? Or are you relying on your woman’s intuition?”

  I ignored his sardonic look, and barely kept from thumping him again. “No, it’s not that. It’s my doctor’s intuition, and it never fails me. All day long, I size people up. I know when someone’s faking it, exaggerating, or underplaying it. I’m telling you. George isn’t lying. He really didn’t do it. Anyway, if he did do it, he’d be long gone by now. Probably on some boat to Brazil. Cuba. The Continent. Wherever. Why should he risk everything to come back and talk with you? Wouldn’t that be incredibly stupid?”

  “Or incredibly clever.” Miguel walked to his desk and opened a drawer. He took out a Colt pistol, checked the chambers, then rolled it shut again. It clicked and whirred with the same deadly efficiency as its owner.

  My heart stilled. “What’s that for?”

  One brow arched as if to say “What do you think?” But the rest of his face remained a careful mask. “Come. It’s time.”

  “Me? Are you actually inviting me along this time?”

  He made a little puff of sound. “No, niña. An invitation is for a dance, a dinner, maybe a party. This is none of those things.”

  I followed him to the door. He opened it and gestured for me to go first. I stepped over the threshold into the darkened hallway. “What do you mean?”

  “Would you stay in here if I told you to stay?”

  “Of course, not. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Exacto. You would not listen,” Miguel said grimly. “This is for your own protection.”

  So he was taking me into custody? Fine. He could think that. He was free to think whatever he wanted. But maybe, just maybe, I would be the one protecting him instead.

  ***

  Along the wharf, all the shadows had lengthened so that the sky, boats, and buildings had flattened into layers of black on black, blending into the inky bay. The whole place was dark and deserted. It seemed as if God had swept down, scooped up, and disposed of all signs of life, no matter how lowly they were. The tide was low so the old fish guts and trash smelled riper than usual. But the smell didn’t bother me as much as the unnatural quiet did. It was too quiet. Dead quiet except for the rats skittering over the docks and the water splashing against the pilings.

  Grunting low, the sailors lifted the heavy wooden boxes and loaded them one by one across the plank and on to the ship. We watched them from behind a pile of crates by the warehouse.

  Next to me, Miguel murmured, “You should not be here. I must be mad.”

  I placed a finger over his lips. “So? Send me back.”

  His lips pressed tightly together. “Would you go?”

  “No. Are you kidding? And miss everything?”

  “Shhhhh, someone’s coming,” he muttered.

  I heard the click of a watch being closed, and then I saw the silhouettes of a tall skeletal man and a shorter portly one. Gradually, the black shadows took shape, deepened, then turned into Hamilton and Buckner as they emerged from the fog. Hamilton’s ankle was wrapped up, and he was leaning heavily on his cane. But the pain from his gout didn’t affect his overly jolly expression. His partner Buckner pocketed his watch. Maybe he’d timed their walk here. Thirty feet behind them stood four massive bodyguards, whose necks were thicker than their heads. Their arms looked like tree trunks, their fingers like boughs.

  Miguel pushed me gently to one side so that I remained hidden behind the crates. I moved deeper into the shadows.

  He quietly stepped into the middle of the dock. His hands hung by his side, fingers loose, relaxed, ready for anything. “Gentlemen.”

  “Don Cabrillo,” Hamilton held out his hand, smiling genially. It hung like a plump starfish momentarily tossed into the air.

  Miguel did not take it. He only inclined his head, his eyes still on the guards. “My payment?”

  Buckner snapped his fingers, and one of the guards stepped forward with a satchel. He handed it to Miguel, who lifted it up and down as if testing its weight.

  “Where’s the rest?” he asked quietly.

  “It’s the price we agreed upon. All of it. But it’s not exactly gold, Don Cabrillo.”

  “Then what is it exactly?”

  “Greenbacks. We didn’t think…”

  “I would mind? Or I would notice? I am no fool.” Miguel tossed the bag on the ground. “I don’t want this. Paper dollars? Near worthless. The price is doubled.”

  “Outrageous,” Buckner fumed, his bony fists clenched until his knuckles turned white. He stamped his foot once, twice. “Completely outrageous and ungentlemanly. We had your word, sir. Your word!”

  “As I had yours. Apparently, you have changed your minds. So I change mine. No deal,” Miguel replied coolly as if they were discussing something inconsequential like the weather. He turned and started to walk away from the men. When he passed me, his hand moved an infinitesimal fraction as if he was urging me to follow him. Got it. I slipped behind the crates, my back pressed against the warehouse wall.

  “Wait!” Buckner called out.

  Miguel walked another foot before he paused. He looked over his shoulder. “Yes?”

>   “Now just hang on a minute,” Hamilton negotiated with his usual grin. “Don’t be so all-fired hasty. You’re rushing away like a damn Yankee.”

  “It does not take long to reach the right decision,” Miguel replied.

  “No, you’re right,” Buckner admitted. “If you’re the one making the decision. Only we’re not. This isn’t our decision to make. We need to talk it over with—”

  “Horace! Mind your manners,” Hamilton interrupted, one fat hand tugging on the lapel of his coat. His face still beamed with universal, inappropriate bonhomie, but when he chuckled, it sounded about as pleasant as fingernails across a slate board.

  “I see. You have a boss. Then there has been a mistake. I don’t speak with middlemen,” Miguel said softly. “Take me to him.”

  Buckner made vague popping sounds deep in his throat like an agitated frog. The bodyguards advanced slowly and menacingly, but Hamilton held up his hand. The men froze, outflanking Miguel, who seemed strangely unaffected by the whole maneuver. He acted as if this were a Sunday stroll, and the bodyguards mere passerbys enjoying the same park. He looked almost bored.

  “You must be joking. It’s impossible.” Hamilton shrugged aggravated. “You might as well ask for the moon itself. No one sees our superior. No one.”

  The dock fell silent again, except for the sounds of the sailors moving the crates and the creaking boats. Somewhere in the distance, a buoy clanged its lonely song in regular clear intervals like a reminder that time and tide waited for no one at all. The wind sighed, pushing threads of fog around the men.

  Miguel’s disinterested eyes flicked over Hamilton, then Buckner who could barely contain his agitation. At last, he shrugged. “Fine. The ship is only partially loaded. It will not take long to empty the hold again.” Turning to the ship, he lifted a hand.

  In an instant, the sailors paused. The ones on the gangplank didn’t even exchange a look before they started to walk back to the dock. Without another word, they dropped the box, a hundred pounds of solid avarice falling heavily to the ground. A second box dropped on top of that one. Then another.

  “No! No! Stop!” Squawking like a chicken, Buckner ran to the crates. He grabbed one, heaved, grunted, but he couldn’t budge it. He called for the bodyguards.

  Hamilton watched his partner’s antics, his smile never wavering as he leaned on his cane. “Well,” he said, as several more boxes were unloaded. “Your reputation is well-deserved, Don Cabrillo. You drive a hard bargain. We are in a devil of a predicament, being here with the job only half-started. Like being caught with our pants down, shall we say. I’m afraid we shall have to do as you ask.”

  “Good.” Miguel raised his hand, and the sailors stopped again.

  “With one small modification. One that you, as a sensible man, will surely agree to. We cannot leave such a valuable cargo unattended. Anything could happen. So I propose that you guard it. Buckner will stay here with you while I get the authorization from our superior. And if anything unpleasant happens, then you may discuss it with my partner here. Isn’t that right, Horace?”

  Buckner’s mouth pinched, but he managed to nod.

  “I am sure we can reach a mutually satisfactory arrangement. My superior is a reasonable person. Quite reasonable, indeed.” Hamilton gestured to the bodyguards. “You don’t mind if some of the boys stay with Buckner? Horace gets a trifle lonely from time to time.”

  Miguel’s lips thinned. For a long moment, he stood there, silent and still as the night around us. “Be my guest,” he said finally, gesturing toward the ship. “Gentlemen, this way.”

  This wasn’t what he wanted. I could tell by the formal set of his shoulders as he escorted the men up the gangplank and on to the ship. He didn’t spare me a second glance. He couldn’t. Otherwise, the men would know that someone else was still there, hiding, watching, knowing. Where was Xiang? My heart pounded as I searched through the fog for the silent giant. I didn’t see any sign of him. Maybe he was already tailing George, who seemed less important all of a sudden. What a waste of time. Now we had a real chance to find out the kingpin of the operation. And even with my inexperience, I knew that a chance like this didn’t happen twice. We needed to follow Hamilton, but Xiang wasn’t available. It was all up to me.

  Me? I was a doctor, not a bully. What did I know about this kind of thing? Inside I quivered like the first time I pierced a needle through someone’s living flesh and pulled through a suture. Don’t think. Just do it. Determination gripped my guts and I sped on.

  Hamilton’s carriage was easy to find on the empty waterfront. Slipping between the boxes and buildings, I ran ahead, thankful for my split skirt and sensible boots that didn’t slip in the mud or puddles of rancid oil. I inched around a pile of rope, some spars, a fresh trash heap until I was close to the carriage. The horses were hitched. The driver sat half-asleep, huddled in his cloak. One hand barely held a tin flask, lid flipped off. No one else was around.

  One more look, and then I quickly climbed into the boot just before the men arrived. The old leather sides easily gave around me, swallowing me whole. The dust made my eyes water, and I could feel that vague itch inside my nose as if a sneeze was coming. But I was determined to bear it, even if it meant rubbing my nose off my face. I shoved aside an old harness that poked me in my kidneys, then worked my legs around so that I wasn’t stuck in a fetal position any longer. Carefully, I peeked out of the top.

  Miguel stood on the prow of his ship. He turned slowly as if he were checking the tide, then scanning the ships in the harbor. When his gaze finally reached the carriage, his hands gripped the rails. His body straightened suddenly as if he’d seen me, but before he had a chance to do anything, the first mate approached.

  “Capitán?”

  “Si.” Miguel turned away, absorbed in his business again. He pointed aft.

  I wanted to call out, wave, somehow send some signal that I’d be all right and he needn’t worry. But I couldn’t. And perhaps it didn’t matter whether I could or not. Miguel would worry anyhow. He took his responsibilities so seriously. He was the Don, after all.

  The metal rivets pressed into my skin, and I wished that I were at least two feet shorter. I was debating about climbing out, when I heard the Confederates returning.

  “A bad turn, sir,” one of the bodyguards said.

  “Not at all. I do not share your pessimism,” Hamilton returned as they approached. Hastily I ducked back down again. The carriage dipped and bounced when the men heaved Hamilton into it, then boarded themselves. The horses snorted. We rolled backwards for a second, then pitched forward. We picked up speed, driving down the Broadway pier toward the mud and planks of Market Street. The wheels churned up big clods that pelted me through the leather like fists.

  For a man with an important meeting, Hamilton didn’t seem to be in any great rush. We zigzagged across the Barbary Coast, making several stops along the way. How many saloons did we need to see? Were we ever going to get there? My feet had already turned numb. I was beginning to worry, when we finally settled into the steady swaying rhythm of a journey.

  Gradually, the air smelled a little cleaner and sweeter, less like open sewage and more like where the streets were swept and garden flowers grew. Probably a different neighborhood now. We must be headed south where all the nobles lived.

  ***

  The bigger the house, the more ways to sneak in. Papa had always said that, and to my extreme satisfaction, it appeared to be true. Under its Gothic spires and witch-hat towers, the Calhoun mansion had hundreds of gabled full-sized windows, large enough to accommodate any adult. There, behind the rose bushes near the side of the house. That one looked secluded enough. I ran forward on the soft giving lawn to the house, peered through the pane, then carefully eased up the top sash. I climbed in easily, thanks to my long legs.

  Well, how about that? My father had been right about cracking a house, but he had never said anything about how creepy it was to sneak through a sleeping one. The walls s
eemed to sigh, and the floorboards creaked underneath me. Every now and then, branches would scrip-scrape against the glass panes. I froze and instinctively pressed myself against the wall, as if somehow a six-foot woman dressed in black could blend into bronze damask. Sweat collected on the back of my neck and trickled down my spine while I waited and listened. No one. Absolutely no one at all. Just my over-stimulated imagination. Thank goodness.

  “How very, very inconsiderate. It is not to be believed,” a woman said, her voice steamy as a Southern summer night. It was the voice of Margaret LaRue Calhoun.

  The door was slightly ajar, so that golden candlelight spilled from the room into the hallway. I could smell a sumptuous dinner, sweet beeswax, and even sweeter honeysuckle. Sweet enough to choke. She laughed throatily, as if pleased or pleasured.

  A man murmured, quiet and low. My ears perked, focusing harder. He sounded familiar. Terribly familiar. No. It couldn’t be him. Worrying, I crept closer to the door.

  “Oh, forgive me, darling. I didn’t mean you, of course. I didn’t mean you at all. You are always welcome. Day and night. Especially night. Only we must be careful, Christopher mustn’t know. No one must. It wouldn’t be wise, would it?” Margaret was standing by a fireplace. The flickering light made her look younger and slimmer, glinting here and there along the folds of her gown, which was parted down the back. Her hair was down. She turned her back to the man. “It’s a nuisance, I know, but would you mind?”

  A tall, lean figure in black walked toward her. I couldn’t see his face, but I could see how the candlelight brought out the russet in his brown hair. I knew every strand. I had seen the same colors night after night in our bed when I’d held him, then watched him, sleeping in my arms. And now I watched him button up Margaret’s gown with the same deftness that he had unbuttoned mine. Those quick, clever Cabrillo hands. Clever, all right. He had deceived me. Totally deceived me. I felt sick inside. Maybe I was as young as he’d always said. Young, naive, and totally gullible. An easy mark. How I must have amused him.