The Caribbean Job

by Vince Milam

  But I held an ace in the hole. Jules. She’d fill the empty spaces. Produce connectivity, expose a trail. Meanwhile, I held a sliver of hope the Nassau greeting committee remained related to Bettencourt’s estate and lifestyle and nothing else. Lots of room for killing motivation there. Otherwise, events moved to a larger stage.

  “Did your husband discuss Central America business interests?”

  “No. Or not that I’d remember. We seldom discussed such things.” She floated about the room, straightening a painting and adjusting the spines of leather-bound books.

  “Did he mention any names? With regard to business dealings?”

  “Only the usual. We do tend to conduct business with known acquaintances. Our tribe, as it were.”

  She replied over her shoulder, arms crossed and wearing a casual expression.

  “So no nefarious third world dictators? Pirates of the Caribbean? Asiatic opium merchants?”

  We both laughed.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “May I take this map?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t. At the moment, Geoffrey is gone and I’m contemplating new adventures. Meanwhile, you strike me as the type of man who stirs things up. So please leave the map and leave suspicions and conspiracies tucked away.”

  She approached, eyes filled with possibilities. Another blouse button was now released, performed no doubt while viewing the hard-bound books.

  “I shall toss you a bite, a nibble. And no more,” she said. “There is something else I wish to show you.”

  This would be interesting. Both the nibble and the something else.

  “He complained once or twice about a Pettis. Geoffrey simply referred to him as Pettis. No first name. He was new money, a Californian as I recall. A bit on the aggressive side apparently. A nouveau riche attitude, one might say. An individual not to Geoffrey’s taste.”

  She took my hands and eased well into my personal space.

  “Okay. Pettis. Good. Thank you.”

  “Was there anything else, Jack? I do fatigue of this.”

  “The Bettencourts. Did the two of you associate with them?”

  “A bit. We brushed against them at functions. A shame that Joe also passed.” She edged a few inches closer. “I believe Geoffrey got along well with Joe Bettencourt. Elizabeth was, well, not to my taste.”

  “So, here, the city, and AVI. How much time did the two of you spend at each place?”

  “Ugg.” She released one hand and tugged the other, headed for the study’s door. “You are persistent to the point of distraction.”

  “Well?”

  “Mostly the city. We’d spend summers here. During winter’s cold, a Virgin Islands respite. And we did not always travel together. Now enough. Come with me.”

  A right turn out the study door, another wide hallway—white again—and seventy feet later we stopped at a wide door. During our little stroll, she’d used her free hand and unbuttoned more of the blouse, evidenced by lace-lifted décolletage when she turned and addressed me at the mystery entrance.

  “I recently acquired a new duvet for my bed. Would you like to see my duvet, Jack?” She took both hands again and pulled herself closer. She smelled of jasmine body wash and Chanel.

  The stovetop cranked up and the flame hissed. And I tried, tried to maintain a grip on the mission.

  “I do have a concern, Melinda.”

  “What might that be?” She pressed against me.

  “A serious concern your blouse is defective,” I said, false worry and real humor plastered thick. “The buttons keep coming undone.”

  We both laughed. Hers trailed off much faster than mine.

  “Shall we cross the threshold?” she asked, releasing a hand and grasping the brass doorknob.

  A large chunk of me said “Hell yes,” and I didn’t hesitate admitting it. Few, if any, straight males wouldn’t embrace the same emotion. A no-strings offer from a gorgeous woman. An enticing woman filled with fun and class and a slice of what’s-behind-the-door mystery. But a smaller chunk, weighty, constituted a firm anchor in my makeup. I’d never gone for the quick liaisons, the frantic clutching and spent relief. I was an emotional sucker, with emotional ties part and parcel of the whole deal. Yeah, I could have fallen—big time—for Melinda Whitmore. But a Case and Melinda relationship didn’t have a chance in hell, and Melinda would have been the first to press the acknowledgement.

  “Can’t. Mercy, I want to. You are nothing short of fine beyond description. Hot fodder for long drive musings. And I may regret it the rest of my life. But I can’t.”

  Her voice lowered, eyes soft. “An emotional component?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  She dropped the cat on a hot tin roof demeanor and returned to soft and pleasant and appealing on another, less physical level.

  “You are quite the package, Mr. Tilly.”

  She kissed my cheek and released my hands. I stared at the floor and ran fingers through my hair. A barrel-full of desire still tugged and pulled, incredulous at my stupidity. Melinda lifted me from the swirling drain.

  “I really should begin preparations for the Bryce-Coddington event. Would you let yourself out?”

  A groaned sigh and a returned kiss on the cheek. A regretful smile and a nod as I turned. No point unbalancing the clean exit she offered. Oh man.

  Sally eyeballed me in the front entrance hall with a no-nonsense stare and pursed lips.

  “A quick question or two, Sally. Would you mind?”

  A single raised eyebrow was her only response.

  “So I understand you found Mr. Whitmore.”

  “I did. And immediately called 911.”

  “Anything catch your eye about the scene? Anything unusual?”

  “Other than Mr. Whitmore dead in the pool?” She crossed her arms. “Does that constitute unusual, Mr. Tilly?”

  “A terrible scene, I’m sure. But did anything seem strange? Out of place?”

  “Nothing. His pool slippers and robe were at the edge of the back porch, above the steps. His cell phone on a nearby table. A towel draped across a poolside lounge chair.”

  The towel placement was weird. With the light rain, you wouldn’t place your towel where it would get wet. You’d set it alongside your robe and slippers on the porch. But I didn’t know Geoffrey Whitmore, and maybe he didn’t consider such things.

  “Any security alarms for the house?”

  “Yes. But they are turned off when the Whitmores are in residence.”

  “Security cameras?”

  “No. Are we finished Mr. Tilly?”

  Yeah, finished. I didn’t possess great wherewithal for solving crimes. No training in that area, and no idea if a crime was committed. Besides, Sally would have gone over this with the cops.

  “Thanks, Sally. I’ll be on my way after a walk around the per...property.” The perimeter. The operational area. Chill, Jack Tilly. I wrote off the ops jargon slip as the rattled aftermath of Melinda’s duvet-viewing offer.

  Sally returned a tight nod and remained immobile while I exited through the front door. A glorious day, and an opportunity to enjoy the landscaping and stretch my legs. Help clear the Melinda Whitmore regret music sounding as a Gregorian chant inside my head. The single vocal line low, haunting. The chant’s three words stretched, restricted scale. Case. You. Idiot. Rinse, repeat.

  Focus, Lee. Get real, get serious. Pettis. And according to the dread pirate Tig—a guy named Jordan. So I’d Google a Jordan Pettis from California. New money as per the gorgeous woman I’d just turned down. Jordan Pettis. A name, maybe. And two dead rich guys with maps of Costa Rica. One with stick pins, the other hand-drawn red ink. A clear tie there. But no assurance murder was another tie. I held no assumption Geoffrey Whitmore was whacked as well.

  So I walked the perimeter and considered far-fetched possibilities. No dog, a sliver of moon hidden behind summer shower clouds, and no one else around the night he died. It was possible a professional hitter took t
he situational opportunity for a stroll to the swimming pool while Whitmore did laps, stripped and eased into the pool on the dark rainy night, and pulled the old guy under.

  Done right, a hitter could tug the guy from below, with no indicators or signs of struggle. No body marks, abrasions, bruises. The autopsy report would state drowning. Then exit the property. The light rain would mask any wet footprints on the concrete around the pool. Still, a bit of a stretch.

  Each landscape island held a theme, a different tone and texture. Pretty stunning stuff and manicured to an extreme. A collection of fine gardeners traveled with the riding lawn mower fleet. I paced the outer property line, delineated with intermittent tall boxwood hedges and small stretches of low brick and wrought iron fencing. A little-used gravel two-track road ran along the east side of the property between the Whitmore estate and their neighbor’s similar layout. A vehicle maintenance path, seldom used.

  A delivery truck rumbled down the road past the entrances for this series of Hampton estates. Someone’s kids or grandkids called from farther down the beach. A trio of gulls passed overhead, their flight silent and synced. I considered removing the light sport coat, but the Glock precluded such action. Residents would freak at the sight of an armed man wandering around.

  Tracks, or rather footprints in the mulch led from a set of boxwoods and onto the lawn. Closer inspection showed a few small, broken branches where someone squeezed through. Seven steps farther, footprints back through the hedge. I followed them, brushed aside the flexible foliage, and stood on the gravel two-track. Someone drove down this maintenance road and worked through the hedge, returned, and exited a short distance from the entry point. Signs pointed to a dark nighttime move—ingress and egress close but not exact. Tire tracks were discernible on the two gravel strips, weeds growing between them. An expected thing for a maintenance road. And landscape workers had worked the place recently. But I just didn’t see them pushing through the boxwoods, causing damage, albeit minor. They took too much pride in their craft. Weird. But weak soup and speculation and a big fat what if.

  I circled toward the front, survey complete. A bird-like glass tapping stopped my slide into the rental car. Melinda, fingernails rapping on a window and followed with a sequential finger wave and could-have-been smile. I returned a heartfelt grin and a regretful head shake. Oh man. She’d be remembered.

  The front gates swung open, and I eased to the intersection with the quiet hardtop meandering among this section of Hampton estates. I considered the importance of showing up—both here and the Bahamas. On the ground stuff. Nothing beat on the ground. If I hadn’t visited Abaco and the Hamptons, Central American connectivity wouldn’t have happened.

  A wrap-up blind trail remained. A path toward completing this job. I’d research into the maybe-he-exists Jordan Pettis. Then a final Clubhouse trip and collect whatever pearls of insight Jules offered me—a price attached. Between the Clubhouse and personal excavation of informational dirt perhaps uncover a Central America business connection. I knew Bettencourt was murdered. There was no solid evidence Geoffrey Whitmore received the same treatment. I’d present facts, connectivity, and let the Zurich gnomes sort it out. Soon a Global Resolutions report would be written, encrypted, and submitted on the deep web. And back to Ditch life, job over. Sweet.

  Chapter 9

  The map guy occupying the nondescript sedan had moved. He’d parked farther down the shoulder of the quiet road near the Whitmore’s estate entrance. The map still spread across the steering wheel. Not good.

  A Mercedes convertible approached from the right and zipped past map guy. I turned and followed it, an eye glued to the rear view mirror. Map guy rolled off the shoulder and followed me. Not one little bit good.

  So I punched it, accelerator floored, and swung the wheel hard. A tire-screeching one-eighty. And came to a dead stop, facing the following sedan. He slammed the brakes, stopped, and stared.

  A pro. Not special forces or clandestine spook or undercover law enforcement. A hitter. It was in the eyes. Soulless. I represented a piece of meat, his target. He made no attempt to avert his eyes or present any countenance other than sighting his prey. On the Serengeti, his tail would have twitched.

  But as a professional hitter his style, his modus operandi, was the close kill. A silenced pistol to the back of the head stuff. Seedy bar restrooms, quiet and empty except for his prey. Or sidling up to car windows, a quick bullet to the occupant’s head. Clean. Professional. His usual approach now off the table, the hitter had a decision to make. Would he cruise past my vehicle, driver to driver, and attempt a kill shot? I’d soon remove that option.

  One thing rang clear—Geoffrey Whitmore had been whacked. And a big money player saw me as a loose end that required clipping. A description of Jack Tilly had been forwarded to this little conspiracy’s mastermind. A description, or cell phone photo, provided from an Abaco Island source. And a hit man hired from the NYC area. Melinda Whitmore’s estate was the wait point.

  I turned off the car, windows down. Insects buzzed along the roadside ditch, the sun bright and warm. A hundred feet separated us. He displayed no emotion. Just remorseless, hollow eyes. Doing his job, considering options. The Glock rested in my right hand.

  Whoever ramrodded this operation knew I wasn’t Jack Tilly, insurance examiner. A fake name and occupation provided limited cover. A bit of research and anyone could call BS on my temporary persona. And now the guy in charge wanted me cleaned. Taken out. But the head honcho knew who I wasn’t, and the failure to understand who I was meant bad news for this murder-for-hire dude. As well as for the mastermind, if I ever ran into him. So welcome to the world of Case Lee, former Delta operator. Buckle up, you SOBs. It’s a rough ride.

  I popped from the vehicle and sidestepped past the open door, Glock on display. Marker laid—I was ready to party. The move afforded a confirmation of his intent and an assessment of his weaponry. His rapid right shoulder movement told me everything. A quick shoulder lift to open the between-seat console, a dip as he dug the pistol out, and an upper arm movement indicated it now rested across his lap, ready for action.

  So there we stood, two modern day gunslingers, awaiting the next move. Absurd on its face, but split-second death a moment and movement away. The road stood quiet, distant ocean waves broke along the shore. The sun beat down, shimmered the air in the distance. A fat dragonfly buzzed between us, halted in mid-air, and took off, hunting.

  Confirmation of his intent and weapon accomplished, I eased back into the car seat. Our eyes remained locked. We’d do this on my terms, out of sight. The option of losing him flashed and faded. Speed away and maneuver through pedestrian-packed tourist villages. Hope he didn’t pick up my trail farther down the road. Run. That wasn’t happening.

  He was a far cry from the Nassau amateurs. I remained eye-locked with a stone cold killer. A murderer. Whether he personally drowned Whitmore didn’t matter. He was involved. And now I’d situate us in a place, an isolated location, where no remorse and absolute finality ruled. I’d kill him.

  The question remained whether he’d accept the challenge. I backed into an estate entrance and turned toward my original direction. Headed down the quiet road and checked the rear-view mirror. He followed. Challenge accepted. He wouldn’t cut and run. Murder was his job. He’d formulate a plan to work close and take me out. Not to worry, asshole. I’d take care of the plan.

  We entered the Big Strange. Rolled into a nearby village at a sedate fifteen miles an hour, flowed with traffic, the setting Kafkaesque. The hitter remained on my tail or one car back as we navigated through streetlights, stop signs, and pedestrian traffic. Tourists wandered past fresh produce stands, art shops, and coffee houses. Sidewalk cafes where children laughed and parents called and chattered. A riot of flower colors dripped from hanging baskets.

  A glorious Hamptons summer day. With the lone blemish a two car funeral procession. The second vehicle as the hearse, its occupant with a near-term expiration date.
We passed through another village and another. The short stretches between the cluster of antique shops and coffee houses were filled with traffic. Thirty miles per hour along the stretches, a crawl through the villages. Rear view mirror glances returned a man in his late forties, dark hair greased straight back. Windbreaker, casual dress shirt. And cold unblinking eyes, an absolute focus on his job.

  I doubted if this guy ever found himself with this situation during his murderous career. His victim both aware and challenging and taking his sweet-ass time toward the killing floor. I’d never know.

  I took a less-traveled hardtop toward the center of Long Island. The surroundings became more rural with scattered maple and oak and scrub junipers as well as a few farms. The hitter could have made a move, but clearly sensed this little procession would end soon. He stayed thirty yards back, traffic now light.

  An old junkyard showed on the right. A line of Sweetgum and Juniper trees offered a visual barrier for the collected junk. An abandoned wood plank shack—a once-upon-a-time office—now leaned, rusted nails holding it together. The paint long since weather-washed away, it stood inside the tree line. A little-used gravel road led past it and into the collection of rusted hulks scattered around a five acre piece of property. Perfect.

  With a conscious move, I flicked on my blinker. Here’s where we turn, bub. Let’s dance. The tire song changed from an asphalt hum to the crunch of gravel. I goosed it past the shack as tires kicked brown dust and pulled a hard left past a cluster of rusted auto bodies. The hitter eased down the gravel entrance, saw my dust trail, and pulled a hard right. He disappeared among the junk and scrub brush and weeds opposite my position. The curtain rose.

  I popped the trunk and leapt from the vehicle. His vehicle noise ensured he didn’t hear my trunk open. Too bad for him, as it signaled he’d brought a pistol to a rifle fight. The sound of his vehicle shutting down carried across the two hundred yard distance separating us.