Read Online Doc Ford 19 - Chasing Midnight by Randy Wayne White - Free Book Online

that.
    Armanie had been holding court when I stopped to say hello. His face had a sandstone angularity that dated to the Persian Empire. Heavy black eyebrows, dense mustache and the cold, insolent eyes of a man whose wealth had neutralized most legal boundaries so that he recognized few boundaries of his own.
    Armanie had been suspicious of me during the first of two conversations we’d had that afternoon. I’d sat with him on the outdoor patio, near the pool, asking questions about the Caspian’s sturgeon population while he drank an espresso and smoked expensive Moldavian cigarettes. His answers were empty and patronizing. The man pretended not to know that I knew the truth about how his organization—and most black marketeers—operated. Harvesting sturgeon roe is illegal, and it can’t be done without killing the female. To say the details are unsavory would be an understatement.
    Despite his regal gray hair, Darius Talas, from Turkmenia, looked like a man whose body had been assembled from pumpkins. Huge head, swollen belly and a double-sized butt. He sat at a table near the back of the room with one man and two women—neither wearing a burka, so they weren’t orthodox Muslim. Not while vacationing in Florida, anyway.
    I had spoken with Talas twice that day—the second time when I had surprised him and Armanie arguing about something near the swimming pool. In our first discussion, Talas had shown more interest in what I’d learned from Kazlov than discussing the Caspian Sea. But he had, at least, been charming in the way some fat men are: laughter, and sly references to food and drink and women. When I had entered the dining room, though, stony looks from Talas’s bodyguard told me I wasn’t welcome, so I didn’t bother stopping.
    Only Lien Hai Bohai had bothered to stand as I approached his table. The man resembled a Chinese Colonel Sanders, in his whitelinen suit and billy goat beard, but looked younger for the two women who sat at his side. Maybe his granddaughters or trusted secretaries—or his trusted courtesans. Impossible to know for sure when it comes to aging rich men.
    Both women wore sleek silk dresses, and one was a truly stunning beauty. She had implausibly long legs and a world-class body, which I’d confirmed earlier that day when she was at the pool. By candlelight, in the dining room, I had added tannin skin, breasts of marble and Anglo-Malaysian eyes to the list.
    Bohai’s second escort was also stunning in her way—stunningly plain. Square face framed by black hair; a short, thick body, but a fit-looking woman who had the shoulders of a competitive swimmer. Of the two women, I found her oddly more appealing. More interesting, at least—but then, I prefer female jocks to beauty queens, and I’m always on the hunt for swim partners.
    I had been tempted to linger at the table, hoping for an introduction. Instead, I was dismissed by Bohai after only managing eye contact with the tannin-skinned beauty, so I had continued toward the bar to find Tomlinson.
    The bar was where the strays gathered. They included a woman restaurateur from nearby Captiva Island and her two lady friends—all late thirties, early forties. Smart, successful and attractive women who radiated a confidence that was spiced with an eagerness to make the most of their bachelorette weekend.
    Tomlinson was there, too, but he wasn’t sitting with the ladies from Captiva, as expected. He was with his eco-elitist friends, including Densler, the group leader.
    It had been my first look at the party crashers, although it had taken me a while to confirm they were on the island without Kazlov’s knowledge. Densler was outspoken, loud and a little drunk, whichhad provided me yet another reason to escape the reception in favor of a solitary night dive. When the lights went out, Tomlinson and his new Third Planet friends had probably still been in the bar.
    It was a volatile mix that included a couple of armed bodyguards from