Murder on Naked Beach: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 1)

by J. J. Henderson

  "Let's go outside. There's a bar around the corner. Lot of Americans hang there. It'll be safe."

  "Fine," she said, snapping into control. "You lead the way." He did, into the Conch Cafe, two doors down, where Jimmy Buffett's Margaritaville blasted from the juke box, and a whole lot of tourists watched each other, waiting for something to happen. Harry led her to a booth in the back, and they sat opposite each other. "So what the..." He held up a hand, and she shut up as the waitress approached.

  "Two beers," Harry said.

  "One beer," Lucy said. "For him. I'll have a double...you have any Stolichnaya?"

  "Absolut, Ma'am," said the waitress.

  "Fine. A double. On ice." She leaned back and looked across the table at the man she was in love with fifteen minutes earlier. His eyes pleaded. She felt hard, betrayed. "So, Harry Ipswich, what's your fucking story?" she snapped, unable to contain the bitterness in her voice.

  "My "fucking story" is I love you, Lucy," he said. "So why don't you let me tell the rest before you make your mind up that you hate me because you feel it's your...duty...to hate cops."

  "So you are a cop then?"

  He swallowed. "I can't lie to you. DEA. Special Agent."

  "DEA. You're a narc? I can't believe it, I'm fucking a narc?"

  "Jesus, Lucy, do you have to be so crude? I'm still the same person you..."

  "No you're not, Harry. That person wasn't a liar, or a narc, or...Christ I don't know what you are, or..."

  "Lucy, what's with you? Are you some kind of legal drug crusader? This isn't the Sixties, babe. Wise up. It ain't fun stuff any more. You know that. I didn't exactly see you sucking up the reefer the way some of the writers do."

  The waitress arrived with their drinks. Lucy paid for hers, Harry for his. She insisted. She took a big hit, and put it down. She felt hostile, aggressive. "So what's your story, huh? What's your excuse?"

  "Excuse?" Now he was angry too. "I don't have to make any excuse. My older brother died of an overdose of heroin nine years ago, Lucy. I was strung out with him, and I got high with him one night. I was so loaded I didn't even know what was happening, and I left him there, nice and high I thought, and went out to a nightclub. I didn't even know he was dead until the next day. That was my last shot, see? So after that I went through a rehab program, and I wrote a piece about the whole thing for NEW YORK MAGAZINE. Then these DEA guys approached me, and I signed up. Weird way of recruiting, but it sure worked on me. Guess I was trying to...atone for the sin of that night Terry died, and...I don't know, but I thought I'd be chasing heroin dealers. Instead they put me on the Caribbean beat since I was established as a travel writer. What the hell, these days the Kingston pot dealers are just as bad as the Colombian coke dealers and the Chinese heroin dealers, let me tell you, Lucy..." he stopped, and reached for her hands. She pulled them off the table, and took another sip of vodka. The ice had half-melted, it was cold and clear and good going down, sharpening her sense of herself, at least for the moment.

  "That's a fine story, Harry, and I'm sure every word is true. I guess if you wanna be a cop that's no business of mine. But what...but why...did you decide to involve...Christ, what am I doing here with you? You've been using me, Harry, for God's sake! I thought I was making choices, but you've been directing the whole show. Sleeping with me, whispering this romantic shit in my ears, Jesus, I haven't felt like this about anybody in years, and now I find out that..."

  "Hey, wait a minute Lucy! I didn't arrange for you to stumble across the body of Angus Wilson. Nor did I plan for you to get obsessed with his death. And I didn't plan to..." He stared at the tabletop..."to fall in love with you." He looked up at her. "Which I have done, and its made the last couple days the happiest I've had in years." He leaned forward, and lowered his voice. "Now—let me tell you what's going on here. Then you can decide...if you want to hate me, or...whatever."

  She leaned back, folded her arms across, and watched him talk. She knew he was telling the truth, but she didn't know if that mattered anymore.

  "You have no idea how tangled up the politics, the money, and the dope smuggling is on this island, but you walked right into the whole mess when you began sniffing around the death of Wilson. I'm not sure about all the players, but I can tell you this much. Joey Ruskin is...was...successfully setting up a new network up here on the north coast, and it seems that he had recruited some writers to mule for him. I came on this trip pretty much to see what was shaking with his deal, see who he was using, and so on. My instructions were not to make a bust this time, but see if I could trail the stuff back from him. Obviously, the death of Angus Wilson complicated matters for me as well as Joey, his cronies, the hotel people—and you, of course. But besides all that, some of the Kingston posses weren't at all happy with the competition—or so it would seem from the appearance of our two friends tonight."

  "So tell me something I don't know," Lucy said. "Like how you could let me play along with these people for so long, when you knew what..."

  "Play along! It was your idea to take the dope, remember? And it seemed like a good one at the time. I didn't think they'd go after you, Lucy. I really didn't. Ruskin was...an amateur. He just knew some people who knew some growers, and thought he'd go into business. He had no idea how dangerous these people can be. I was actually planning to bust him, as a matter of fact—or rather, have Prudence bust him..."

  "She's Jamaican police?"

  "A local Fed. Undercover. When you suggested we take the pot it seemed like a perfect way to bring Ruskin's suppliers out of the woods. I admit that I...used you...as a smokescreen, to some extent...but I had no idea you'd take matters further in your own hands the way you did. Really."

  "Why was Prudence searching my room?"

  "I had to make sure you were clean, Lucy. It was hard enough, falling for you. If you'd had any drugs, or maybe had joined that idiot Nack in Joey's little conspiracy, I would have been in a terrible position."

  "You asshole. You had me checked out to make sure I made the grade, so you could sleep with me? Man, you must be..."

  "Come on, Lucy, look at it from my angle. I would have hated to have to bust you."

  They sat for a moment without speaking. Lucy killed her drink. "Christ," she finally said. "Jesus Christ."

  "Look, now Ruskin's dead, and it's starting to look like the hotel people might be involved, at least in the Wilson cover-up. I think things are gonna get nasty in the next few days. Maybe you should think about..."

  "The next few days? What about today? I almost get killed by a lunatic in a boat, we almost get mugged on the street, and you turn out to be a cop. That's enough nasty for me, Harry."

  "Come on, stop with the cop talk, Lucy. You've been playing cop yourself all week. Why fight me?"

  "Don't you get it, Harry? It's not that you're a cop, it's that you're not who you pretended to be. You lied! Our whole tiny, fragile little three days’ worth of relationship is built on a foundation of lies."

  "Don't be such a moralist, girl. I am who I am, for God's sake. That's not a lie."

  She finished her drink, and stood up. "Maybe so. I don't know. Let's get out of here." He followed her out the door. They found a cab and headed back to the hotel without speaking again. He tried a few times, and each time she shushed him. They separated in the lobby with a formal "Good night." His face was anguished. Lucy went to her room, locked herself in, looked in the mirror for a moment, and checked the clock. It was nearly midnight. She called Mickey's room.

  "Mick?"

  "What? Who's this, it's nearly..."

  "Lucy. So did you know?"

  "Know what? What are you talking about?"

  "About Harold."

  "What?"

  "He's a cop."

  "What!!?"

  "DEA. A narc. Our own little Harry. Listen. We need to talk. Can I come up?"

  "To my room? God, it's a...sure, why not? Should I call for cocktail delivery?"

  "No, nothing for me. My nerves are f
ried, Mick, but I don't dare drink anymore. I don't know what the hell I'm doing right now. I thought Harry...I...shit, I feel like..."

  "Comon up Luce. Right now. Harry a narc! Criminy!"

  Half an hour later, Lucy felt calmer, and Harry was forgiven, more or less. As Mickey pointed out, reinforcing what Harry'd said, he hadn't planned to use her, or to fall in love with her. She'd pushed herself into the drug scam because of Angus Wilson; she'd fallen in love with Harry because of who he was, and that hadn't changed. "Besides, romance ain't easy to find these days, honey, so take it when it comes," Mickey added.

  Not too much later, Lucy went back to her room relatively calm, utterly weary, and ready to forgive him. She locked herself in and called his room. She let it ring many times, and while it rang, she wondered about Jackson Hababi, Adrian Kensington, Rackstraw Barnes, and a cook with a high-pitched voice. Who were all these people? There was no answer, and she finally hung up. She contemplated searching the hotel for him, but instead she took off her dress, brushed her teeth, and went to bed.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  IN THE MOUNTAINS SHE FINDS THE TRUTH

  Lucy woke to a flurry of conflicting emotions. First, as she reached for him in her half-sleep, an almost infantile sense of well-being and security washed over her, simply from knowing there was a body beside her; then, she felt a visceral wave of sadness and loss as her arm swept across the bed, discovering the emptiness; and this was followed by fury as she recalled the course of the night before; last came a sense of relief: after all, she had forgiven him, even if he didn't know it yet.

  All this in ten seconds, after just three days! Damn. Shaking her head, she climbed out of bed remembering why she hadn't had a real, serious lover in what was it, three years now? It was complicated, much more than a hump and a hand to hold.

  Instead of calling Harold to find out where they stood, she put him out of mind and went to work. She dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, sunscreened her face and arms, gathered her notebook, tape recorder, and pens in a bag, put on her flojos and shades, and headed off to La Terrazzo Grande for her interview with Jefferson Hababi. It had been scheduled two weeks earlier by Susie Adams. Lucy had confirmed with Jefferson yesterday in the midst of her exploding boat aftermath to-do with the Coast Guard. She'd caught Jefferson by surprise, bringing up the interview at that stressful moment, as they stood on the little island surrounded by smoldering wreckage—and he had obliged her with a flustered agreement to meet over breakfast. The subject was to be Grand Strand food operations as they related to space planning. No problem. As she'd figured, in spite of the tense circumstances Jefferson was flattered by the attention.

  She paused by the bar overlooking the terrace. Guests had been trickling in for a few days, and the open air pavilion was half-full. She liked the look of the place with more bodies, clothes, and color. The human element brought William Evans' architecture to life, as should happen in a public dining area. She spotted Jefferson, casual in short sleeves, sitting with Miles Russell at a table near the long service counters. Lucy strolled down and picked her way through the tables to the line. She snagged a plate, loaded it with papaya and cantaloupe slices and a wedge of lime, then went to join them. "Miss Ripley," Jefferson Hababi said, nearly knocking his chair over as he leaped to his feet. "Good morning, and how are you?" He offered a hand. "I hope you're feeling better after yesterday's..."

  "Ripken, Jefferson. The name is Ripken," she said with a disarming grin as she shook his hand. "I'm fine. Considering. Good morning, Mr. Russell. How are you?" She asked Miles Russell, who'd risen to acknowledge her. She liked what she'd seen of this quiet, competent man, dressed now, as always, in a suit and tie.

  "Very well, Miss Ripken, and please, call me Miles," he answered. "Won't you have a seat? I'm going to have to run in a very few moments, but I wanted to be here in case you had any operations-related questions that Jefferson might not..."

  "Miles is the hands-on guy, Lucy," Jefferson said. "He knows where..."

  "Where the bodies are buried, eh?" said Lucy with a laugh, taking a seat and squirting lime juice over her papaya. "Just kidding," she added. "Thanks for your time, Miles. And yours as well, Jefferson, since I know you have a lot to do around here. Looks like business is picking up."

  "Yes, we're 63 per cent booked for March," said Jefferson. "We hadn't projected numbers like that until next Christmas. Things are off to a wonderful start."

  "Except for Angus and Joey—and your ski boat of course."

  "The insurance will take care of the boat," said Jefferson.

  "Can you imagine? Two accidental deaths in a week," said Miles. "What a terrible coincidence. I've never seen anything like it in thirty years in the hotel business."

  "No kidding," said Lucy. "Oh, and that reminds me," she added. "What was Joey doing racing around in the hotel boat anyway? It's not like he works for you guys. Who gave him the keys? Won't your insurance people want to know why he..."

  "Are we here to discuss Joey or the hotel?" said Jefferson, a note of exasperation entering his voice. "I already went over all that stuff with..."

  "He would have gotten the keys from Jefferson," said Russell. "I know he didn't ask for my set, and there are only the two...”

  "I'm sure he didn't take mine," Jefferson interrupted him. "But the policy covered him. He used the boat all the time, took groups of travel agents out and that sort of thing. That was his job, and it's part of my job to help him do his, you see?"

  "I sure do, Jefferson," Lucy said, and pulled out a notebook. Time to shift back to paying work. After all, she did have a story to write. She turned on her tape recorder, uncapped a pen, and said, "So tell me how the building runs, Miles."

  They spent the next twenty minutes talking hotel biz. A few operational facts usually tied into the design side of the story, demonstrating the architect's awareness of back-of-house as well as front-of-house functional requirements. Miles gave her what she needed on how four restaurants and room service operated out of a single huge prep kitchen. Then he took off, leaving her alone with Jefferson.

  She sat back and sighed as the waiter re-filled her coffee cup. The sun sparkled on the turquoise sea, the guests wandered contentedly from breakfast to beach, and the warm air was still and heavy. "Well Jeff," she said. "It's been a great week, in spite of the..."

  "We're so glad you've enjoyed your stay. We're looking forward to the article, Lucy. I hope that..."

  She leaned forward, bearing down a little. "But I still don't understand why Harold's room got torn up the other day. Do you?"

  "Harold's room? Harold who? What are you..."

  "Harold Ipswich, Jefferson. He's part of the press group. The other day when we went on the hike, his room was ransacked. Who did it? What were they looking for?"

  "What are you talking about? I don't know what you're..."

  "I'm talking about a big bag of ganja, Jeff, and a really stupid plan to sneak it into the United States. Come on, Jeff, don't play dumb, I know you know what I'm talking about. I'm sure your father would..."

  "My stepfather has nothing to do with...with whatever it is you're talking about. Just leave him out of it," he said fiercely. "He knows nothing about..." he stopped.

  "About what, Jefferson?" she asked.

  "About...nothing." He stood. "Look, I have to go. I have work to..."

  "Where is your key to the speedboat, Jefferson? Is it on your keyring? Can you show it to me?" she asked. "Or should I ask your fath..."

  "I told you he's not my father. My father is..." he faltered, and sat down again.

  "Yes. Go on. Who is your father?" Lucy asked quietly.

  "He's...he's dead," Jefferson said sadly, angrily. "He died, and my mother married Jackson Hababi three months later. I was twelve years old—and they—he—made me change my name. My name is Adjami Hajjar," he said. "Not Jefferson Hababi." He crossed his arms, and looked out to sea. He sighed. "You're right, I did lend Joey my boat keys yesterday. He told me he was going to ta
ke the video crew out to film the hotel from the bay."

  "And you believed him?"

  "Why shouldn't I? He's been doing it for..."

  "Because you knew damn well about the pot, and what happened to..."

  "I don't know what you're talking about, Lucy," he said.

  "C'mon, Jeff, give it up. I've already heard from Adrian Kensington how..."

  "Adrian Kensington? That...What did he...he doesn't have anything to do with...with..."

  "With the deal? No, of course not. But he did put me onto Mike Nack and Ruskin the other night. I think Kensington and his friends—rivals in the business, I suspect—were trying to stop Joey's little operation before it started."

  "Who told you to talk to Kensington?" he demanded.

  "A little bird," she said. "Look, Jeff, I'm not really interested in your smuggling scam. Although I think it's pretty stupid for someone with the future you've obviously got here"—she gestured at the surroundings—"to fuck it up with some small-time dope deal."

  "Believe me, Lucy," he said vehemently, "I didn't expect any of this...these complications. When Joey first approached me I told him absolutely not, never...but then..." he stopped.

  "What?"

  "Look, you can't tell my fath...my stepfather any of this, understand? If he found out I would be..."

  "Why would I tell him? Don't worry, Jefferson. I just want to know what happened is all. What happened to Angus Wilson."

  "I don't know what happened. I wasn't around that night. The night Wilson died. I had too much wine at dinner...I do that often at the official dinners." He smiled bitterly. "Then I went to my room and fell asleep. Came back when the barman called Miles."

  "The PR dinners are difficult for you?"

  "Hateful. Jackson pretends everything is so rosy, and that he likes everybody so much, but the truth is...this hotel almost went bankrupt before it opened. Jackson is seriously overextended in this deal. We can hardly pay our employees. Not that he gives a bloody damn if anyone ever gets paid."