Murder Island (A Rogan Bricks Thriller Book 3)

by Steve Richer

  Oliver drank the entire bubbly and was a bit embarrassed when he realized no one else had swallowed theirs. When Paul returned, he took some champagne from one of the stewards, Clifford by their side, and the stewards left.

  The ship’s captain—his nametag read Nemec—also dressed in white from head to toe, including the traditional hat, came along to greet everyone aboard. He had Slavic features which made him look dour, but he compensated by constantly smiling. He mentioned that there was a fourth crewmember, the engineer, but he couldn’t come upstairs at the moment.

  Paul thanked the captain and waited until he’d left before addressing the crowd.

  “Welcome again, everyone,” the older man said. “It won’t be long until we reach the island, but first a toast. Thank you all for coming.”

  They raised their glasses and took a sip. Oliver sheepishly pretended to drink as well, but he was reminded that it was bad luck to toast with an empty glass. The last thing he needed when going to a place called Murder Island was bad luck.

  “Again, I’m Paul Bloom and I represent a very important client.”

  “You’re a lawyer?” the fat man said with equal measures of surprise and joy.

  “That’s correct. It’s my firm that contacted you.”

  “Who’s your client?” Oliver asked.

  “This will be revealed soon enough. For now, I wanted to tell you a little more about why you are here.” He drank more champagne and paced a little, as if to make sure he had everyone’s attention. It was like he was holding court. “We’re only an hour from the island. Obviously, the helicopter could have dropped you off there, but my boss likes to make an impression.”

  “What kind of impression?”

  It was the third man. His voice was deep and rough. It was the first time he’d seemed interested in what was going on.

  Paul smiled graciously. “My client wants to make sure you understand that he is very wealthy, that he’s serious about this weekend. And, frankly, he likes to showboat. I have your checks for fifty thousand dollars, as promised.”

  Clifford practically snapped to attention. He put down his champagne and pulled out envelopes from inside his jacket. He started distributing them to the four guests. Oliver fought the urge to look inside to see if this was real.

  “What wasn’t mentioned before is that Sunday night, when you leave the island and go back home, you’ll be given a second envelope, another fifty thousand dollars.”

  At that, Oliver stiffened. His first reaction was to pump his fist in victory. This was twice the amount he’d been expecting and every penny counted. This said, it sounded alarm bells in his head. If it was too good to be true…

  “What do we have to do for this money?”

  As the fat man inspected his check and whistled with approval, Paul grinned and resumed pacing.

  “Oliver Graves, originally from Muncie, Indiana. You attended Northwestern University and got your MBA from Duke, thanks to partial scholarships. I believe you still owe fifty-three thousand dollars.”

  “What? What is this?”

  Oliver looked around and he didn’t like the fact that all eyes were focused on him.

  “With your degree in hand, you went to work at a relatively small Wall Street firm, Viland Lambert Investments. You were there until two years ago, when Viland Lambert was purchased by Goldman Sachs. You weren’t invited to come along. You got divorced two months after you were let go.”

  Stiffening, Oliver waited for the guy to tell everyone about why he had lost his job. He didn’t want him to and he was trying to figure out what he would do if the truth was revealed. He couldn’t just leave the ship, could he?

  But Paul didn’t say anything else. Instead, he turned toward the fat man.

  “Bill Swank, from San Diego. You’re a graduate of the UCSD School of Law. You were on a fast track to become a partner at Young Royce and Associates when… your career in corporate law was sidetracked.”

  Bill swallowed audibly. Like Oliver, he seemed relieved that nothing else was said and that Paul spun toward the woman.

  “Gina Maldonado, CPA. You were at Deloitte for five years and were briefly considered to head the auditing department of the Berlin office. Unfortunately, your candidacy was–”

  “You don’t have to play games,” she said, cutting him off. “I’m an alcoholic. I lost my career, drank it all the way. Now I work at a small accounting firm in Nashville. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol in almost two years and seven months.”

  Paul nodded to her. “Thank you for your honesty. And congratulations. This brings us to Mr. Orland Lush.”

  Bill looked at the other man, leaning toward him. “Orland Lush, really? That’s such a cool name!”

  Orland merely glanced at him before turning his attention to the ocean outside the window.

  “Orland Lush, born and raised in Washington, DC. Harvard educated. You’ve spent eleven years shuffling between executive positions at Chase, Citibank, Credit Suisse, and Barclays. And then you disappeared, choosing to open your own consulting firm. It thrived for four years before it abruptly closed. Or should I say that it was shut down?”

  The guy didn’t take the bait, instead choosing to continue staring out the window, putting both hands in his pockets once he had finished his champagne.

  “Are we supposed to be afraid that you know so much about us?” Oliver asked.

  “Afraid? No. Maybe just impressed that I work for somebody very thorough. And if he’s thorough, that means he’s expecting the same from you.”

  Bill raised his hand as if he was in the third grade. “A question?”

  “Go ahead,” Paul said.

  “Is the other fifty grand a performance bonus? What if we do our job and your client says it isn’t good enough? Do we lose that money?”

  “Are you scared that you’re not up to it?”

  “Just trying to get a baseline here, Paul. Just want to know the ground rules, okay?”

  “You will be treated fairly.”

  That was enough of an answer for Bill and he drank silently. For his part, Oliver still wasn’t satisfied. He couldn’t shake the feeling that this shadowy client of Paul’s was showing his strength. It felt like a threat.

  The thing was, Oliver knew that Paul was aware of the dramatic incident in his life. He hadn’t said so, he had stopped just in time, but he was certain that he knew. And if that was anything to go by, if it had any relation to why he had been hired, then the others also had skeletons in their closet.

  “We should get to the island soon. Any other questions, aside from the obvious?”

  “Yes, I have one.” It was Gina. “Is it really called Murder Island?”

  It made Paul smile, as if he was happy to get a softball now and was prepared for it.

  “It is really called Murder Island, yes. It’s a small piece of land, in private hands for almost forty years. Rumor has it that a few hundred years ago, pirates would send their enemies to this island when they wanted them to perish, making them believe that it contained buried treasures. There are reefs and shoals and buried rocks all around. Ships would arrive, run aground, and sink within hours. The name of Murder Island eventually stuck.”

  Oliver gulped. Even though the people around him seemed to enjoy the story, it didn’t make him feel any better.

  Chapter 3

  When they arrived at the island, Oliver was underwhelmed. His mind had creatively filled in the blanks, but what he saw didn’t validate much of it. It was mostly because it was dark now and they couldn’t see much of the island, aside from a dark mass up ahead and some lights here and there.

  From what he could see, and what Clifford would later explain like a dutiful tour guide, the island was roughly a mile long and three hundred yards in width. The living area was on the southern tip while a hill rose to the north, about three hundred yards in height as well.

  The Jersey Devil rounded the island to the south and yet they remained almost half a mile away
. It was because of the numerous reefs and shoals, Paul said. They couldn’t risk coming too close. The yacht eventually dropped anchor a hundred yards from shore.

  “This way, please.”

  They were ushered astern as a sizable tender cut through the choppy waves toward them. It was a nice, little boat, designed to match the sleekness of the yacht. At the helm was a young black man, most likely a native of the Bahamas. All six of them—the four guests as well as Paul and his assistant—went down a gangway and took place in the boat. Before long, they were speeding toward the island.

  “I could really go for a piña colada right now,” Bill said. “And Dramamine. You guys are sure you don’t have any?”

  Gina shook her head while Oliver rolled his eyes.

  “Dude, you didn’t need it on the ship. You’re gonna be fine.”

  “But this is a much smaller boat, okay? It rocks, it wobbles. My stomach is made for solid ground, okay?”

  It was hard to tell if he was genuinely neurotic or if he was putting on airs, giving himself a personality. It oddly made him adorable, harmless. Oliver caught Gina’s grin and saw that she was thinking the same.

  Less than a minute later, they reached a long wooden pier and the helmsman did quick work of tying down the boat. Paul was the first one to climb out.

  “Please follow me. Your luggage will be taken care of.”

  “Oh yes, oh yes!” Bill said as he landed on the pier. “I feel much better now.”

  It was difficult for Oliver to understand how such a big man could be so feeble. Bill had to be six foot two, nearly three hundred pounds. And yet, a mosquito would probably send him screaming like a schoolgirl.

  “It’s a shame that it’s dark now. It’s quite a formidable view from this angle. You’ll see it better in the morning, I’m sure. Come this way, cars are waiting to take you to the guesthouse.”

  They did as they were told and there were indeed a couple of Jeep Wranglers up ahead. Two men were standing next to them. Like the kid in the boat, they didn’t have uniforms, just light-colored pants and loose camp shirts, like a couple of guys on vacation. However, these men were white and didn’t seem particularly friendly.

  “These are Johnny and Sal,” Paul said. “They’re never more than a quarter-mile from Mr. Sabatini.”

  Oliver’s head snapped up. “Mr. Sabatini? Is that the guy who owns this place?”

  “That’s right. The island has been in his family for twenty-five years. Climb in. I’m sure you’re all eager to freshen up before dinner.”

  The guy clearly didn’t want to say anything else and Oliver dropped the subject. Much to his dismay, he didn’t get to ride with Gina who he was beginning to find quite attractive. Her dark hair was just long enough to cover her ears and her figure was remarkable, especially in the well-adjusted blouse she was wearing.

  But he was stuck next to Bill as they drove out of what was essentially the island’s marina. The road wasn’t paved and within seconds he had lost his bearings. The amenities had been carved right out of the jungle, making this a tropical paradise.

  The ride was bumpy and he had to hold onto the roll bar above his head. He pictured this was what a safari would be like. The drive wasn’t long, though, and the two cars came to a halt in front of the house, in the bricked, circular driveway.

  “Very nice!” Bill said, looking up at the house.

  Indeed, it was not unlike one of the McMansions Oliver often glimpsed in the suburbs of Cleveland, albeit more exotic in design. It was made from a mixture of concrete, steel, and glass, with two massive columns flanking the front entrance.

  Paul invited them inside and they were each assigned a room. The guesthouse had two floors with six bedrooms arranged symmetrically around a modern kitchen, dining room with long marble table, and a large den.

  Oliver had been invited to a number of the most exclusive homes in and around Manhattan, and this place was among the most elegant he’d seen. With the granite tiles, the tall windows and stylish furniture, it belonged in Architecture Digest. It belonged in the Hamptons.

  And that was just the guesthouse.

  Oliver settled in his room, which of course had its own private bathroom. There was also a big screen TV with hundreds of high definition satellite channels. The bed was a king-size and after spending a moment to try it out—like everyone did whenever they entered a hotel room—he declared it the most comfortable mattress ever conceived.

  He took off his blazer and went to the bathroom to freshen up. He decided against a full-blown shower, but the few moments of solitude were good enough to relax him. When he came out of the bathroom, he found his carry-on as well as laptop case by the bed. These people were efficient.

  Before leaving his bedroom, he pulled out his phone. Sabatini. Paul had finally said that his client was named Sabatini. Oliver sat on the edge of the bed and started to do an Internet search. It wasn’t easy without a first name so he had to use the clues that he had: yacht, helicopter, Caribbean island. He found nothing.

  At last, he left his room, opting not to change. He was wearing khakis, a blue Oxford shirt, and his navy blazer. He found the two other male guests in the central room. They were similarly attired. Bill was milling about the bar, reading the labels.

  “It’s okay if we drink this booze, right?” he said. “I mean, we won’t be charged or anything?”

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” Oliver replied. “In fact, why don’t you pour me some vodka, neat.”

  “Sure thing. I’m angling for this Johnnie Blue myself.”

  Bill prepared a glass of Grey Goose, followed by the high-end scotch for himself, and he was handing a glass to Oliver when Gina glided down the stairs.

  Oliver was frozen as he watched her. Hell, he noticed that she had this effect on all three of them. She was wearing a white dress that was clearly meant to be casual, with its plastic buttons, loose skirt, and wide belt around her small waist, but on her it looked downright elegant.

  Recognizing the need to seize the opportunity, Oliver headed to the bar, essentially shoving Bill away, and prepared a gin and tonic. He cursed silently when he didn’t find any lime. Still, it would have to do, plus he had prepared it in record time which should count for something. He went to Gina and handed her the drink.

  “Here you go,” he said.

  “I’m an alcoholic, remember? I said so less than an hour ago.”

  “Shit. I’m sorry.” He was such a fucking idiot, he thought. “I can get you something else. They have cranberry juice.”

  She squinted and shook her head. “I only drink that for medicinal purposes.”

  She walked past him and wandered through the living room, more to get away from him than to really explore the premises. Bill was amused and made a jerk-off motion with his hand. Even Orland had trouble suppressing a smile.

  Christ, was he that rusty? Oliver wondered if that was the reason why he hadn’t been with a woman in so long. Or maybe it was the opposite, that he acted foolishly exactly because he hadn’t been with a woman in months. So that the others wouldn’t linger on this, he pounced on the second thing that was nagging him.

  “Guys, tell me I’m not the only one who’s wondering who this Sabatini person is.” He drank some vodka, satisfied that everyone was looking at him now, and not just to mock him. “I tried googling him, but couldn’t find squat.”

  “Same,” Bill said before closing his eyes to savor his expensive scotch. “I even made a call to my brother, thinking that my cheap phone was the problem, but he’s got nothing either.”

  Oliver turned to Gina, hoping to salvage an inkling of dignity. “And you? Find out anything?”

  “No. I searched, just like you two, but couldn’t find anything relevant.”

  “Damn. I used to work on Wall Street, I know—or know of—hundreds of billionaires. And still I have no idea who this Sabatini person is. Never heard of him.”

  “Let me tell you,” Bill began, “if I’m ever rich enough to hav
e my own island, people will know about it. Believe me, I’m taking out an ad in the goddamn New York Times and letting everybody know that Bill Swank owns an island.”

  There were a few chuckles, which Oliver welcomed. It was weird being in close quarters with strangers for a weekend, like the first day of summer camp. It was nice to become friendly. He sipped his vodka.

  “I think I know who Sabatini is.”

  The voice belonged to Orland and they all spun toward him.

  “Who is he?” Oliver asked eagerly.

  “I would wager that…”

  He was interrupted by the front door opening. Paul walked in, all smiles.

  “So how is everybody doing? Settling in okay?” There was no reply. “Good! Follow me to the main house. It’s time to meet the boss.”

  Chapter 4

  Outside, Oliver didn’t try to follow Gina into her Jeep. He had to give her enough time to forget about him and his blunder. Instead, he found himself sitting next to Orland. The guy named Sal was driving and Clifford sat in the passenger seat.

  They took off and again Oliver had no idea where he was. There were low lampposts every twenty feet on each side of the road, but it did little more than illuminate the path and some of the vegetation around. Nevertheless, he twisted his neck to get a sense of where he was.

  “Say, what’s that?” Oliver asked, pointing behind him at a slowly blinking red light on top of the hill.

  “That’s a communication tower,” Clifford replied. “Used to be anyway. Back when the island belonged to the government, they had some sort of park ranger station and it acted as a relay for transmissions. Totally useless today. Now the house is linked through satellites for the Internet, TV, phones and all that. Crazy how technology changes, uh?”

  Without prompting, Clifford then launched into an explanation about how the house was powered by massive generators which, not only worked on diesel, but also on a technology that used the tides and waves. It was all extremely cutting-edge. That was Mr. Sabatini, he said. Nothing but the best for him.