The new inmate plopped onto the bench on the other side of the dividing wall. With a wave and conviviality better suited to a cocktail party than a holding cell, he said, “Hey there. Name’s Clem Clemmensen.”
Charlie wondered if he was in the midst of an illogical dream. “John Parker,” he said, sticking with the name on the forged license in case Clemmensen was in league with Bream.
“They got me in for an expired fishing license, even though I wasn’t fishing,” Clemmensen said. His indignation quickly gave way to a smile.
You’d be hard-pressed to make this guy unhappy, Charlie thought.
“Were you even on a boat when they picked you up?” he asked Clemmensen.
“Yeah, I just came in from Martinique. French island, you know it?”
“I’ve heard of it.” Charlie raced to connect Clemmensen to Bream. Could Bream have tricked the flight simulator software millionaire into transporting the washing machine to the United States? Or put a gun to Clemmensen’s head and forced him to ferry the bomb here? “So what happened? One of your friends was fishing?”
“It was just me on the boat.” Clemmensen sighed. “The young lady I was trying to lure aboard was spending way too much time with her scuba instructor.”
Charlie grunted sympathetically. “So you just motored on home?”
“Not until she went to the disco with him.” Clemmensen sat straight up, seemingly spurred by epiphany. “Know what I think’s going on?”
“What?”
“The dang G-20. There’s all kinds of screening being done by various local law enforcement agencies. Now me, I never done much worse in my life than drive over the speed limit. But on election days, I pull the Democratic lever, which sometimes doesn’t go over well in these parts. It’s just my luck that I get hauled in by the cops while the Campodonico bastard in the next slip rolls in tonight from a tropical rum binge and heads right out on a pub crawl. Rule is, you’re supposed to stay on your boat until Customs green-lights you.”
Charlie recalled the name Campodonico. Captain Glenny had been anticipating the Campodonicos’ return from their latest adventure in the Caribbean or South America. But they were elderly. Or was that cover?
“Campodonico, the university dean?” Charlie asked.
“That’s Anthony Campodonico,” Clemmensen said. “I’m talking about Tom, the nephew-in this case, the acorn fell awful far from that family tree.”
Charlie smelled blood. “I might know Tom, come to think of it. About thirty-nine or forty?”
Clemmensen chuckled. “ ‘South of forty’ is all he ever admits to.”
Charlie recalled Bream using similar phrasing. “North of thirty,” he’d said when telling of his hoped for transition from Lockheed’s Skunk Works to corporate jets.
What were the odds?
The door hissed open.
Clemmensen leaped to his feet at the sight of the duty officer.
“Sorry, sir, not just yet, Mr. Clemmensen,” the kindly cop said. He turned to Charlie. “Your lawyer’s here to see you.”