Bermuda Heat

by P. A. Brown

  Their next question gave him the answer.

  “Is it true you’re an LAPD homicide detective? Why would you kill your father? Did he find out you were gay? Did the local authorities know you were gay? Is it true you married your lover?

  What did your father think about that?”

  134 P.A. Brown

  David silently urged Lindstrom to get him out of the inquisitive eye of the reporters and out of sight, but the constable seemed to take a perverse pleasure in playing to the media.

  He jerked on David’s arm, sending sharp pains down to his shackled wrists. “Come on, these are your fans. You don’t want to disappoint them, do you?”

  Tension rippled across David’s back. His shoulders, held at an awkward angle by the cuffs, began to ache under the strain. He was glad to enter the prison compound. Lindstrom left him with a blue-shirted prison official, who signed him in and processed the paperwork that would see him a ward of Bermuda. Inside he was patted down, then divested of all his personal items: his watch, his wallet, his belt, the St. Michael’s medal Chris had given him last year, his LAPD class ring as well as the plain gold band Chris had put on his finger last year at their wedding. They also took his silk tie as though they were afraid he would despair and take his own life. His clothes were replaced with drab prison garb, which barely fit his large frame, and he was given a pair of scuffed slippers. Finally, they handed him a thin pillow and even thinner blanket, and took him down a dimly lit hallway that smelled of bleach, human sweat and boiled noodles.

  He was led down the dank hall to a small cell that barely had room for the concrete slab and lidless toilet it contained. At least he was getting a single cell and wouldn’t have to face another inmate. That was SOP for any incarcerated law enforcement officer, whether or not it was necessary.

  He didn’t turn when the guard shut the door behind him.

  Footsteps echoed down the hall, until finally they faded away and David was left alone. He spread the blanket over the stone slab and dropped the pillow at the head of the “bed.” Then he sank down and stared up at the ceiling, stained with things he didn’t want to identify.

  A distant voice rose in fury, shouting incomprehensible curses. Somewhere a heavy door banged shut. Then a silence more deafening than any noise fell.

  ChAPteR FiFteen

  Wednesday 5:40am Aunt Nea’s, Nea’s Alley, St. George’s Parish, Bermuda

  Chris climbed out of bed and stared balefully around the room. He glanced at the bedside clock, then at the phone. He remembered all too clearly Imani’s warning not to telephone. He had to wait until she called him, praying she wouldn’t regret her decision to help and leave him alone, without hope.

  He got up and paced. He passed through the kitchen, but knew he couldn’t possibly eat. He pulled out the coffee pot and got out the coffee they had bought at the market their first day.

  He drank two mugs before the phone rang.

  He snatched it up. It was Imani.

  “How are you holding up?” he asked her.

  “I’m okay,” she said. “Wishing this was all a bad dream.”

  “Trust me, I know what you mean. Thank you for believing me, for believing in David, Imani. You gotta believe this is a nightmare for both of us.”

  “I know,” she said. “At least I think I do. Maybe I’m just a dumb, naive kid, but I can’t see David doing those horrible things. Did you hear from him?”

  Chris rubbed his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to ease a growing headache. “Yes,” he whispered. “He called last night.”

  “How’s he holding up?”

  “About as well as can be expected. He really needs a lawyer…”

  “I think I can help. I talked to a friend of mine and she recommended a litigation attorney, Aidan Pitt.” She lowered her voice. “She didn’t think I should help you. They all think David k-killed my father… Oh, God Chris, what am I going to do?”

  136 P.A. Brown

  “Help me, Imani. If they think David did it, what must the police think? It means they won’t look for the real killer.

  Everyone loses, and the killer gets off… Please, please, give me his number.”

  She rattled off a phone number. “He should be in the office in about an hour if you want to call then. He’s supposed to be one of the best.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I miss my dad.” Imani’s voice broke. “I want him back, but that’s not going to happen. I don’t want anyone else’s life to be ruined too.”

  She was weeping softly now. Chris felt his own throat close up and he felt like joining her.

  “I’m so sorry, Imani. Maybe if we hadn’t come none of this would have happened and—”

  “Don’t say that! My dad wanted to meet his first born more than anything. He lived with so much regret when he found out David was alive; regret that he couldn’t have been there for him.

  He loved the family he had, but he wanted his family whole again.

  He would not have passed up this chance for anything.”

  “Thank you, then. I’ll let you know what the lawyer says.”

  “I’m going with you,” she said.

  He stared at the phone. “Why?” was all he could ask.

  “I’ll drive. I’ve got a scooter, too.” Her voice grew harder.

  “Besides, if you are trying to pull one over on me, I want to be there when it falls in your face.”

  He couldn’t blame her for distrusting him, but still her words hurt. He didn’t respond. What could he say?

  “Besides,” she went on. “It’ll be quicker than trying to get a cab from your place. Call and make an appointment first thing.

  Tell him it’s an emergency. I’ll get ready and leave right now.”

  Chris stammered he would, then hung up. He rushed through a hot shower, trying to clear his head so he could make sense of BeRMudA heAt 137

  the last twenty-four hours. The he made a fresh pot of coffee and waited until he could call the attorney.

  He got Pitt’s secretary. Chris didn’t give her time to stonewall him. He blurted out, “I have to speak to Mr. Pitt. It’s very urgent.”

  “And what is the nature of your business?”

  “We’re tourists from Los Angeles. My partner is an LAPD

  homicide detective and he’s being accused of murder.”

  Maybe it was the word murder that got her attention. Chris doubted Bermuda was exactly a hot bed for homicides.

  A deep, mellifluous voice came on the phone. He had a British accent that made Chris think of smoking jackets and packs of English foxhounds baying on the moor.

  “Yes? Whom am I speaking to?”

  “Mr. Pitt? My name is Christopher Bellamere. My partner is Detective David Eric Laine of the LAPD. I think he’s about to be charged with the murder of his father.”

  “You’d better start at the beginning,” Pitt said.

  “I’d like to come down and see you. I can pay, whatever you want.”

  “You aren’t much of a bargainer are you, Mr. Bellamere?

  You tell most men you’ll pay anything and that’s what you’ll be charged.”

  “I don’t care,” Chris said. He’d put himself in the poorhouse if it would help David. “Please, will you see me?”

  “Is ten early enough?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Wednesday 9:15am Aunt Nea’s, Nea’s Alley, St. George’s Parish, Bermuda

  Imani’s scooter trundled up the driveway over a half hour before Chris’s appointment. He was dressed in the most 138 P.A. Brown

  conservative suit he had packed, a gray pinstripe Brooks Brothers.

  He met her at the head of the drive. She looked spiffy in a jade blouse and figure hugging culottes. She waved a greeting but didn’t get off the bike. Gingerly he straddled the pillion seat behind her. He’d only ridden a bike once before, during a brief, but incandescent fling he’d had with a guy who owned a Softail.

  He’d kno
wn exactly what to hang onto on that ride. He never heard any complaints either. But this wasn’t Gord.

  He clamped his hands over the vinyl-covered seat and grimaced when she opened the throttle and spun out of the drive onto Nea’s Alley. He was white-knuckled by the time they reached Hamilton. Imani found parking in a bike’s only area near the bus depot. It took him a minute to unclench his muscles and stand straight again.

  Aidan’s office was less than half a block away, across from the Bermuda National Gallery. They climbed a set of plush carpeted stairs to the second story office. The receptionist, a cool-looking black woman, looked up at their entrance.

  Chris gave his name and the receptionist nodded. “I’ll let Mr.

  Pitt know you’re here.” She picked up the phone.

  Chris looked around the reception area. It was tastefully decorated with Bermuda memorabilia, including prints from famous Bermudian artists of early settlements and sea-going sailing ships. There was a single photograph of an ornate stone edifice labeled Gates of Oxford. Aidan’s alma mater? Chris’s mental picture of an English country gentleman returned. He envisioned pipes and leather-patched jackets and snorting horses readied for the hunt.

  Imani and Chris sat on an uncomfortable horsehair Victorian sofa, perched uneasily on the edge of their seat. The inner door opened and a tall, impeccably dressed black man stepped into the room. He held out his hand.

  “Christopher Bellamere?”

  Chris stood up. Aidan’s grip was strong. He smelled faintly of something citrusy. Chris was startled by his brilliant green BeRMudA heAt 139

  eyes and again he found himself mesmerized by the man’s subtle British accent.

  Aidan indicated his office. “Please, come in Chris. Would you like coffee?”

  “Yes, please.” Chris glanced back at Imani, who smiled and said, “I guess I’ll just wait here. But I’d love a coffee, too.”

  Aidan returned to his office, emerging moments later with a delicate china cup. He indicated to his receptionist. “Mrs. Cooper will show you where we keep the cream and sugar.”

  Chris followed him into the office. Aidan shut the door. The office was an extension of the reception area. More images of what he assumed were Oxford, plus several signed certificates from various law institutions filled the ecru walls. On Aidan’s desk there was a framed picture of a beautiful black woman and two young children, both in school uniforms. There was also an IBM laptop opened on a web page.

  “Please sit,” Aidan said, gesturing toward a black leather chair facing his desk. “Now, perhaps you could start by filling me in on what’s going on.”

  So Chris recounted everything David had told him, including what he had related to the police. Aidan frowned.

  “David told the police that he had met Mr. Cameron just before the police claim he died?”

  “Yes. Was that wrong?” Chris said even though he knew from his own experience that it was never smart to tell the police more than you absolutely had to.

  “He would have been wiser to wait until he could get counsel with a lawyer. The police are too eager to use such information out of context. It is in their best interests to find a perpetrator quickly. It’s good for their bottom line, as you say in America.”

  Chris knew all too well how overzealous cops could work hard to pin a murder on an innocent person. He’d nearly been railroaded into taking the fall for the notorious Carpet Killer; the case that had brought David into his life. It was only David’s 140 P.A. Brown

  dogged belief that the man he had fallen in love with couldn’t have been the killer that saved him. But it had been close.

  “Will you take our case?”

  Aidan seemed to consider the request. Finally his green eyes met Chris’s. “It would be prudent if you told me everything. Just exactly what is your relationship to Mr. Laine?”

  The moment of truth. Chris raised his chin. “We’re married.”

  “Ah,” said Aidan, not looking at all surprised. “And did Mr.

  Cameron know this?”

  “Yes, he did. Neither David nor I hide the fact. Though we have been ah, discreet since we arrived in Bermuda.”

  “Probably a wise choice. Though Bermudians have never been noted for violence in that regard.”

  “There’s always a first time,” Chris muttered.

  Aidan tapped his desk. “I will take your case. My normal practice is to ask for a seventy-five thousand dollar retainer, billing at six-fifty an hour.”

  Chris tried to swallow, his mouth suddenly dry. He hadn’t expected it to be so much. “I’ll have to make arrangements to have the money wired. Are US funds acceptable?”

  “US dollars are accepted at par.”

  He called his bank on his BlackBerry. It took some finagling, but within half an hour, the money was on its way. “I’m staying at Aunt Nea’s, a guest house in St. George’s. You can reach me there pretty well anytime.” He also gave Aidan his card, which listed his BlackBerry and email address. “I check it regularly.

  What will you do first?”

  “I need to secure a meeting with David if I can. But access to individuals in police detention is at the discretion of the officer investigating the alleged offense—lawyers cannot insist on seeing a client while he’s in custody. I have some friends in the department, I’ll involve them. It might also be in your best interest to contact the American Consulate. I’ll get you a name and number. They can advocate for David.”

  BeRMudA heAt 141

  “If they let you see him what do you do then?”

  “First I let the police know I am on the case and to see what, if anything, they have charged David with.”

  “Will you be able to get him out on bail?” Chris had visions of the courts refusing to release David since he’d be a flight risk.

  “I don’t know,” Aidan admitted. “It will be difficult. The Consulate may help sway them, which is why you need to involve them as early as possible. That may be a moot point,” Aidan said.

  “I warn you it will not be cheap. The police will also wish to confiscate his passport.”

  “We’re not going to run, if that’s what you think.”

  “The courts will only be satisfied with the strongest possible deterrent. I suggest you extend your stay at this guest house, since you may be here a while. I’m afraid you’ll only be able to stay twenty-seven days. After that only a government intersession will allow you to stay longer.” Aidan scribbled some things in a yellow legal pad. He swiveled around to access his laptop. He typed in some commands and wrote something else on his pad. He tore it off and handed it to Chris. “This is the American consulate’s number. Talk to this man.” He tapped a name. “He can help you.”

  Chris scanned the pad. “Randall Harding.”

  “I’ll warn you now, if the case drags on you may need to return overseas, then return at the trial date.”

  Chris felt lightheaded. “Do you really think it will come to a trial?”

  “It may. I won’t try to sugarcoat it. It largely depends on what the police have in the way of evidence, or whether they find a more viable suspect.”

  “I’ll find one for them.”

  Aidan looked alarmed. “Please, Christopher, don’t interfere with this investigation. The police won’t take kindly to a foreigner butting in. You might only make it harder for David.”

  “I’m not going to let them railroad David, either.”

  142 P.A. Brown

  “Leave the legalities to me. I assure you I won’t let David be

  ‘railroaded’ either.”

  As good as the man’s intentions were Chris had no desire to leave it entirely in his hands, but rather than get into an argument neither of them could win, he nodded.

  Aidan seemed relieved. He stood up and extended his hand to Chris, who took it. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Bellamere.

  I will keep you advised of my progress.”

  “Do you think I’ll be allowed to visit David?�
�

  “I’ll try to arrange it. Let me call you once I make the preliminary inquiries.”

  Chris found Imani still sitting in the reception area. She stood when he emerged from the office. He took her arm and led her toward the door.

  “How did it go?”

  “He’s going to take the case,” Chris said. “I have to call the American consulate. After that, we wait.”

  Imani made a face. “Let’s get you home then.”

  “Thanks, Imani.” He wanted to kiss her for her show of support, especially after she had so much trouble believing him.

  “I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”

  “I don’t think you would have let David down no matter what.”

  No, he wouldn’t have, but it was still nice to know there were others in his corner.

  ChAPteR sixteen

  Wednesday, 6:50am Westgate Correctional Facility, Pender Road, Ireland Island, Sandys Parish, Bermuda David lay down, but sleep eluded him. The concrete slab was too small for his six-four frame and his feet dangled over the edge. The blanket smelled musty and started a tickle in his throat. Every sound was magnified; even his own heartbeat was like thunder in his head. His breathing was hoarse and his throat felt like sandpaper when he swallowed. He heard the guard’s footsteps echoing down the corridor as he made his rounds.

  David turned on his side, averting his face.

  Silence fell again, except for the snores and muffled grunts of nearby prisoners. David was surprised at how quiet the place was. In any American prison he’d ever been in, no one was silent.

  Being silent meant you were a pussy, all they knew how to be was violent. This was almost eerie.

  He lay on his back with his eyes closed. Even so he grew aware of the sky lightening beyond the cool walls.

  He wondered if Chris had any luck finding a lawyer. Would anyone even want to take the case? He was a foreigner, an American cop in a land where the local police didn’t even wear guns. He never left the house without his. They were in the same profession, but they were miles apart in sharing common ground.