A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [105]
“Carl Jurgens,” he said, holding out his hand. “Apex Car Rentals.”
“I’m Mrs. Singer,” the woman said. “How can I help you?”
“Well, a few days ago we rented a car to two fellows. A red Oldsmobile, brand-new. When they picked it up at Tampa Airport, they wrote on the rental agreement that they’d be staying here at your place. I’ve got a copy of the rental papers in the car.”
Mrs. Singer nodded. Stratton could tell that she was curious.
“Anyway,” he said, “they stiffed us. Dumped the car at a Grand Union over on Dale Mabrey.”
“I still don’t see how I can possibly help.”
“Simple, Mrs. Singer. Just tell me if they were here, and maybe let me have a look at the registration cards—to see if they left an address, or a phone number. The ones they gave our people were phony, of course. Maybe they paid you with a credit card. Now that would be great.”
Mrs. Singer stood up and smoothed her dress. “How much did they get you for?”
“A hundred and ninety-four,” Stratton replied. “It’s not Fort Knox or anything, I know …”
Mrs. Singer smiled. “It’s a lot of money. I understand, believe me. We’ve been burned a few times ourselves.” She pulled a Rolodex wheel across the counter and thumbed through the cards. “What were their names?”
“One was an Oriental name, a Chinese. His name is Wang. W-A-N-G. Like the computers.”
Mrs. Singer nodded vigorously. “Yes, I remember him. Here.” She unfastened a three-by-four card from the Rolodex.
“They stayed one night. Room forty-one, no phone calls. Paid with a Mastercard. Here’s a copy of the charge slip.”
Stratton read the name: Harold Broom.
Broom … Broom? Then he had it: the overbearing art broker he had met at the consular office in Peking. What was it he had said: This is new territory, and I don’t know whose back needs scratching. Maybe we could help each other out. Hey, pal, wanna buy some artifacts?—it was almost that blatant. Broom was a soulless cretin, the perfect confederate for the deputy minister of art and culture.
“Are these the men?” Mrs. Singer inquired.
“Yes. This is very good.”
“But they weren’t driving an Oldsmobile, Mr. Jurgens. They drove a white van—like a U-Haul, only white. Mr. Broom did all the driving.”
A van, of course. Prosaic but practical—a modern hearse for an eternal warrior.
Mrs. Singer asked, “Do you rent vans like that?”
“No, only cars. Perhaps they got the van after they ditched our Oldsmobile. Well, the important thing is that these are the fellows I’m looking for.”
She gave Stratton a coy look. “I might be able to help. Mr. Broom asked to borrow a phone book—we don’t keep them in the rooms anymore. They just get stolen. Anyway, I let him borrow the telephone book. Then he walked over to that pay phone and called Delta Airlines. He made reservations for today to New York. La Guardia, I think.”
Stratton wanted to hug her.
He drove to a Holiday Inn on the other side of St. Petersburg and checked in. It was almost dusk. He turned on every light in his room, slipped out of his shoes and sat down at a wobbly desk. From another pocket in his suit jacket, Stratton took the piece of paper that Jim McCarthy had delivered to him in Hong Kong. The list was typed under the letterhead of the Boston Globe. It said:
U.S. citizens deaths May—August 1983:
Steinway, Sarah 5-10-83 Canton St. Petersburg, Fl.
Mitchell, Kevin P. 6-22-83 Xian Baltimore, Md.
Bertecelli, John 7-4-83 Xian Queens, N.Y.
Friedman, Molly 8-14-83 Peking Fort Lauderdale, Fl.
Wang, David 8-16-83 Peking Pittsville, Ohio
With a blue felt-tip pen, Stratton circled the name of John Bertecelli, who had died on the Fourth of July in Xian. Bertecelli’s body now lay somewhere in New York. Probably Broom and Wang Bin were already there, and maybe already at work.
Stratton thought: I ought to leave right now. There is no time to do what I had planned. Catching them will not be easy, even with the right grave.
The right grave.
Stratton contemplated his macabre odyssey. Chasing the coffins was a shell game. Five caskets, three Chinese soldiers.