His attention snagged on my door. I grinned and gave myself a mental pat on the back. He shifted one hand to his hip and gave a slight lean. I wasn’t sure whether I should let him see me in my ratty painting outfit, but figured that could be explained by the wet door. A spooge of cantaloupe paint dominated the center of my gray t-shirt. I eased the door open a couple more feet.
“Help you?” I asked. “You look lost.”
“Nice door.” He pointed at his forehead and swirled his finger around. “You got some.”
He was college-aged and his face was sunburned, as were his arms. He wore a Hawaiian shirt and khaki pants, a classic tourist outfit.
He continued to stand in the same spot, squinting and considering the sheet of paper. I returned to my inner office, needing another sip of water and the breeze from the fan. Out my open doorway, I could barely make out the top of his Caesar-style haircut.
“You should get a hat!” I hollered out.
His head rose up from the paper and he pushed up on tip-toes so I could see his eyes. “The sun’s doing a number on you,” I said. “Want a drink of water?”
He stared at me a while with a strange stillness, like he was in no hurry as he weighed every option. This boy was a local, and he would pull me into events that would rock one of the largest industries in the Virgin Islands.
“Do you have Perrier?”
Chapter 2
“D on’t touch the paint ,” I said, tapping the door farther open to give him room to enter.
While he shook my hand, his wide eyes wandered around my spartan office. “You just move in, Mr. Montague?” I liked the way my name sounded in his mild Southern accent. The “ta” wasn’t so harsh.
“Yes.”
His eyes stopped on the black and white photo of Evelyn propped on my desk. “Nice lookin’ lady. She your babe?”
“She was,” I said.
On my desk next to Evelyn’s photograph sat a green sheet of paper listing Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. Dana had left it there after my last drunken debacle. I dropped it in the waste basket.
“Some broad left that there,” I muttered as nonchalantly as I could.
He nodded, then something dawned on his face. “Oh, hey, man. I’m sorry, my name’s Herbie but folks call me Junior, on account of being named after my daddy. I been goin’ off to boarding school in Georgia these last years.” He slurped down the glass of water in a single gulp.
“Sorry it’s not Perrier,” I said. “I’m not really a sparkling water kind of guy.”
“Thank you kindly, Mr. Montague. Water’s good too, but to my mind Perrier improved it. Heat’s hot here, even if you’re coming from Georgia.”
“You can call me Boise,” I said. “How old are you, Junior?”
“Eighteen, sir.”
“Are you lost?” I asked.
“Sir?”
“Are you lost? Maybe I can help as you don’t really look like you know where you are or where you’re going.”
At this Junior took another drink. “Well, sir ... ”
“Boise,” I repeated.
“Sir Boise, right. I’m lookin’ to speak to someone at The Daily News I think. I’m sorta from around here and I’m back.”
That sounded all too familiar. A stranger in his own land. At least I was a little darker. His milk-white skin made him out to be a classic tourist with greenbacks in his pocket and wide-eyed naivete on his face.
The Daily News was the pride of St. Thomas. The primary source for news in the three U.S. Virgin Islands and the British island of Tortola. The newspaper’s editorial and staff offices were housed on the second floor.
I leaned on the corner of my rutted desk. “Are you placing a classified ad or something? You can go online to do that.”
“No, sir. Ain’t about classified ads. It’s concerning my grandma.” He kicked at the floor like a kid in a Mark Twain novel. “On account of she hasn’t been in touch with me in a while and it isn’t like her.”
“Maybe her cell phone died or something. Is she over sixty?”
He nodded.
“The elderly can be confused by technology,” I said.
“Sir, I appreciate the water, but it’s all right, I’m gonna go on up and speak with that reporter. I’m supposed to go talk with him about her ... I think.”
“You think?”
“It’s been a little confusing. I mean, what’s happening around lately.”
I dragged one of the two chairs I had for clients away from the wall and parked it in front of my desk. I refilled his water glass and held it out.
“You want to sit down, Junior? I’ve got a few minutes to speak if you’d like to run your concerns by me before you go spilling your guts to a reporter. They’re great at what they do, but they tend to do things in a very public manner and you sound like you might not be ready for that quite yet.”
That stillness came over him again as he studied me. He took the glass and began running his finger over the condensation. He remained standing like a singer on stage waiting for the music to start. This kid kneaded things before he baked them.
He sat.
“Maybe it’d do to talk with you a spell. What’s your line?”
“Do you mean my work?”
“Yessir, your line of business.” He made a lazy circle with his glass of water. “In this here office? Whatever it is, it appears you’ve only begun.”
This had somehow started to feel like a job interview. Junior was studying my every move, waiting for me to do something he didn’t like, something disingenuous.
“I’m a private investigator. This,” I spread my hands grandly, “is my place of business.”
He picked a business card out of the brand-new wood holder I’d purchased from a vendor on the Waterfront last week.
“These business cards are a bit flimsy, don’t ya think?”
“Uh, no, just economical.”
“You mean you printed them at home?”
“No, I printed them at a friend’s home. I don’t have a printer ... yet.”
Great, an eighteen-year-old had me scrambling to explain my marketing materials. I debated exaggerating my experience, but something told me he’d sniff it out and leave without another word if I didn’t tell the whole thing straight. My wallet was so thin I had to pat my pocket to make sure it was still there.
“I’ve had two cases with positive resolutions. Right now, I’ve got nothing going on, so I have time to listen to lost kids tell me about grandmothers. I don’t have the extra money for gold wrapped or foil-printed or glossy raised indigo twenty-pound stock business cards.”
A stinging sensation shot up my arm and I slapped a savage mosquito dead. Outside, a car crunched over a bit of loose gravel before the engine died, followed by a cruise ship horn’s sad blare.
“All right. I’m gonna tell you about my grandma. This is confidential, right?”
“Yes.”
“And I don’t have to hire you.”
I chuckled, but his face remained impassive. Missing grandma, no sense of humor. Check.
“No. I’m offering to hear you out, that’s all. If you want my help, we’ll talk about that later. Are you going to college?”
This made him sit straighter and his countenance brightened. “I’m fresh-meat at Georgia Tech. Go Yellow Jackets!” He cleared his throat and lowered his raised fist.
“What are you doing here in early October? Don’t you have classes?” Objection, leading the witness, I thought. This boy must be very concerned about his grandmother to come down here in the middle of the semester from a life he clearly adored.
After another sip of water, he muttered, “My Grandma sent me this weird handwritten letter to come see a reporter. It appeared in my actual mailbox. Must have been hand-delivered.”
I stared at him. “You mean someone physically in the state of Georgi
a dropped a letter into your mailbox?”
He nodded. “You believe that? No stamps or nothing. I tried calling her about it, but her phone goes right to voicemail and the mailbox as of yesterday was full, probably from all my calls. Text and email also got me nowhere. I tried locating her phone with that Find-My-iPhone App, but the thing must be dead as roadkill if she even set it up. None of my roommates knows squat. Partying and useless most of the time. No one saw anyone drop off the letter. It looked like her handwriting, but man, I didn’t want to just take off from school. Once I heard that full mailbox message, shoot, I had to come, know what I mean?”
“How long since you got the letter?”
“About five days.”
“You want to show it to me? Maybe fresh eyes.”
“It’s been longer. I’m ashamed. More about ten or eleven days.” He fiddled with his empty glass some then rubbed the back of his sunburned neck before he went on. “Guess I’m forgetting things. Been away too long. Sun’s mighty strong here. Mighty.” I waited. “She hasn’t been online in over a month. I’ve called countless times and my texts go unanswered.”
The kid was repeating himself. Fear could do that.
“What do your parents say?”
He was eighteen, so it didn’t really matter legally. If he hired me, we were good to go, but I doubted he held the purse strings.
“They insist I don’t know her like they do. But that’s the thing, I know her. Yeah, I know they say she used to be flighty, back when they were first born, but that’s long done. She’s a reliable lady as they come.”
As he spoke these last words, his head drooped. He appeared to be looking through the bottom of his glass at my tattered rug, which was bound to make a man even sadder.
He sniffled some and rubbed his nose making me wish I had a box of Kleenex on my desk. It would pair well with Evelyn’s photo.
“So, what makes you think she didn’t run off with some hunk of a man or go on an extended vacation. Does she vacation?”
He shook his bowed head. His fine hair was cut extremely short and a one-inch wide bald spot was already forming on the flat part at the back. He seemed young for hair-loss. I wanted to press him about the letter, but he seemed hesitant to discuss the contents.
“Do you like bikes?” he asked.
“Bikes. Sure, bikes are nice. I don’t ride much, though. Not for pleasure. If I need to get from here to there and don’t have other transport or time for walking, I’d take a bike. Why?”
“I ride. Long distances. In Georgia it’s easy. Long, flat roads that meander for miles. Lot of back country. I guess I’ve become a bit of a Georgia boy. This island feels stiflin’. Too hilly for biking and roads too narrow. But, I’m gonna wind up back here. We all do.”
“What’s your Grandma’s name?”
“Francine Bacon.”
The name sounded familiar. Maybe I’d read it somewhere and it was lodged in my long-term memory. Had I known the family in my youth?
“What’s your mother’s name?”
“Gertrude. But she left long ago. Way long ago. It’s me and my dad here, and his brother and sister. I guess aunt and uncle. And my grandma.”
“Your mother left?” I asked, stuck on that sad fact.
“Yeah, when I was just born. My dad, Herbie, says she just wasn’t meant to be a mom. She couldn’t handle it. I’ve been trying to find her, but no luck. I don’t even know her last name.”
“It’s not Bacon?”
“Don’t know. My dad won’t talk about it. None of them will. He says she’s not worth my breath or thought. He says some women aren’t cut out to be mothers. Is that true?”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s true.”
“I guess in my emotions I spilled a bunch on you. Sorry,” he said. I filled his water and gave it back. He sucked on the edge of the glass, his eyes far away.
“And who were you going to speak to at The Daily News?”
“Me,” came the reply from my doorway. “Herbert, Junior?” A slight man with a thick head of hair slipped in like a shadow and extended his hand in one fluid motion. “I’m Adirondack Kendal, the reporter you were coming to see. I started wondering what was keeping you and heard voices coming out of Mr. Montague’s office.” Kendal turned to face me. “Boise.”
Kendal the Jackal was the name Dana had given this one on account of his propensity to steal stories from other reporters. He didn’t look happy with me.
“Kendal, don’t you knock?” I asked.
He pointed at his nose. “I smelled wet paint and remembered your door wasn’t orange when I walked up the stairs this morning. Besides, it was open.”
“Indeed it was. You should still check to see if you’re welcome before you enter a room.”
At this he offered an academic smirk, then shifted his gaze back to Junior.
What was Kendal up to? According to Dana, although he claimed to be a legitimate journalist, his instincts tended more toward scandal and innuendo than fact. Perhaps he recorded every episode of TMZ and watched it longingly in the dark of his pitiable apartment, the television flashing the Kardashians and Pitts in technicolor. Francine Bacon must have some level of notoriety for Kendal to be this interested.
Before he could address Junior, I interjected. “So, Kendal, what do you want with Junior here? Are you solving missing persons cases now?”
Kendal kept his eyes on Junior. “I’m a reporter, I go where my nose takes me.” Kendal spun around and faced me. “You know what, I don’t have to explain myself to you. Come on Junior, we’re going. We need to talk.” He took a pause for emphasis. “Alone.”
Junior put his water glass on the edge of my desk and started to follow Kendal.
I was working on my reactionary nature, but couldn’t resist throwing out one final jab at Kendal’s back. “One thing to remember, Junior, everyone wants payment. Just because it isn’t cash, well, there’s other payments. Aren’t there, Kendal?”
Kendal put his hand on the door and leaned into the doorway. He jerked his hand away and cursed. Turning back to me, he held up his cantaloupe palm.
“See what you made me do? Shit Boise, you better...” As I wondered what I’d better do, a faint whiz split the air, then a thunk as an arrow pierced Kendal through the back. An arrowhead grew from his chest, the tip red as a hibiscus flower.
I hauled Junior down as I dove to the floor. Blood spattered Kendal’s smeared handprint on the door. His left hand clawed two long fingermarks into the paint as his arm pinwheeled. A bright red dot oozed down Junior’s pale leg.
Junior’s lips parted in a soundless gasp. Kendal’s knees collapsed. His right eye twitched as his arm slid back down the wet paint, completely ruining the work I’d done. The distant smell of salt air from the harbor was instantly drowned by what smelled like a bag of wet pennies. Kendal’s breath wheezed. In-out, in-out.
I dragged him away from the door, then tried to slam it shut. The damned thing was so light, the air caught at the jam, leaving a crack. No time. Back to the wound. My hands hovered around the arrowhead.
No yanking. The head was too large. The tail had plastic feathers. How would that feel coming through the areola of his lungs? Or was it alveoli? Either way, it seemed like a bad idea. I left it. As for life-saving techniques, they had never covered arrow wounds in my C.P.R. course. Compressions were impossible, so I did the other thing they always tell you to do: call 9-1-1 and put it on speaker.
Junior rocked on the floor, legs pulled to his chest. Peeling off my sweaty, paint-stained shirt, I put pressure on Kendal’s chest at the base of the shaft while commanding him to stay conscious. I yelled the address at the phone, although it was still ringing. His eyes fluttered. They shut. My hands were slick and sticky all at once as I searched for his pulse. Nothing. The penny-smell overpowered.
I crawled to the door and locked it. Inching my head up, I squinted into th
e afternoon for the assailant. It was like opening my eyes underwater without a mask. A black blur that must have been a crow cawed from the rotting tree across the street. It soared into the air. Nothing else moved.
The 9-1-1 operator barked through the speaker, “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
I turned back to the phone, but my hand was stuck to the windowsill. Stuck in drying blood and paint. I tugged my hand away, leaving a red-orange handprint on the white trim.
“I have a man with an arrow in his chest. He’s just expired,” I announced between hitches.
The operator remained calm, as if this happened every day. She asked if I’d confirmed death and was completely sure. I said yes. She said the police and an ambulance were en route after I gave the address I’d been repeating over and over. She told me not to move or touch anything, then asked if anyone else was hurt. I said no, just shocked. I knelt down next to Junior after dropping my phone on the floor.
“Junior?”
Junior mouthed the words: “Is he?” His only sound was a croak.
“Who knew about you coming to meet Kendal?”
His hand jerked at the air. “I don’t know. What do you...no one. I didn’t tell anyone about coming to the newspaper. The letter from Grandma told me to keep it quiet.”
He dabbed at his nose with the crumpled McDonald’s napkin clutched in his hand. Would anyone hire me now that a reporter had been...what was the word for being pierced with an arrow? Arrowed? Run through? No, that’s a sword term.
“And who the fuck uses an arrow?” I murmured.
A film had formed on the blood puddles as they coagulated. Kendal was lucky not to be a hemophiliac. That seemed a miserable life.
Pounding on the door jamb. Ripping pepper spray from my pocket, I sprang up. My knee protested, but I barely registered the familiar pain. Walter Pickering and Robin Givens stood in the doorway, their hands raised in surrender.
Sweet Paradise Page 2
