"I couldn't tell because of the bandages," Barron said.
Graves nodded. "I did him second. He had no clue what was happening."
"Was he unconscious?" Barron asked.
"Oh, no. Blind. She gouged out his eyes."
Barron shook his head, a grin of admiration on his face. "I can't wait to meet this bitch. But about Thompson ... he had no clue?"
"Don't worry. I told him; I knew you wanted them to know. Tommy and Dickie knew because it was me, but I told them, too."
"Good." Barron nodded.
Graves swiped the screen again, revealing a shot of a man with a big gauze pad on the side of his head, his eyes wide with terror as the blood welled from the gaping wound across his throat. "And Dickie," Barron said. "I hate having to tell my sister."
The man erased the three images and pocketed his phone. "He can't have been much of a man," he said, "to let the Berger woman do that to him."
Barron shook his head. "No, but he was kind to her, just the same. She's already missing him, bitching because I wouldn't let her go to the hospital."
"I can imagine," the man said.
"Have a seat, Selwyn. You want a shot of rum? St. James Reserve."
"No, thanks, boss."
"I admire your restraint," Barron said, pouring two fingers of the golden brown liquid into a crystal tumbler.
Selwyn Graves held Barron's gaze, the expression on his face cold. Barron knew that Graves thought less of men who drank alcohol. It was his rigid, Mormon upbringing. Even Barron didn't have the nerve to tease Graves about it. He'd seen what had happened to the one man who made that mistake, and he'd immediately taken the quiet, sober, non-descript man on as his bodyguard. Graves was of average size, with a medium-dark complexion, and short hair, but he was vicious enough to scare men twice his size.
"How did you avoid getting blood all over yourself?"
"I didn't. I was wearing hospital scrubs, with booties and a mask, like I'd just come from the operating room."
"For Tommy, too?"
Graves nodded. "I changed into clean scrubs before I left the hospital. I skipped the mask for him, though. Thought it might attract too much attention on the street."
"But the scrubs didn't?"
"Lots of people from the hospital staff wearing them in that neighborhood."
"Did you leave the bloody ones there at the hospital?"
"Yes. They're disposable — some kind of reinforced paper stuff, I guess."
"But what about forensics? You could have left hair or — "
"Burned."
"What?"
"I put them in the burn bag for biological waste."
"Clever. Now bring me Berger."
"I'm working on it, boss."
"Any word on her yet?"
"No, but the police are looking. Lucas thinks she slipped away when her partner left on the yacht, but she didn't."
"How are you so sure?"
"Lanjwani's brother-in-law was waiting on the yacht when Chirac boarded. She sailed out of Rodney Bay with no one else on deck."
"Where did she go? Did she realize he was on board?"
"I don't know. I imagine Gorshani killed her and scuttled the yacht, like he did with that fisherman. You want me to check?"
Barron thought for a moment and shook his head. "No. It doesn't matter. Concentrate on finding Berger." An evil grin split Barron's smooth face. "She owes me; she cost me three men."
****
It was shortly after sunrise when they found Vengeance. The two men in the fishing boat had been searching since their leader got Lanjwani's call. They had started in the marina late last night, walking the docks. Most of the yachts were moored stern-to, their names not visible from the water. Not finding Vengeance there, they boarded their boat and scouted the anchorages, pretending to fish. They started close to the marina and worked their way out, finally spotting their quarry anchored off the village of Ste. Anne.
To avoid notice, they continued to troll until they passed the last of the anchored yachts, retrieving their lines when they reached the deep water a few minutes later. The man at the tiller turned the boat toward the entrance channel to Cul-de-Sac Marin and eased the throttle open, bringing the boat up on a plane. His partner made the call on his cellphone. Their mission was accomplished. Some of their compatriots would be dispatched on land to Ste. Anne to keep an eye on the boat, watching for the woman.
When the man with the phone disconnected the call, he turned to his partner. "He said to get some rest. He's sending Abdullah to Ste. Anne to keep a lookout until noon. We're supposed to take over the watch then."
"And do what, when we see her?"
"He wants her; we're to watch her until we have an opportunity to capture her. If she doesn't show up by dark, we're to board the boat. She may have a man with her."
"Is he a threat?"
"It is not clear. His name is Samir Gorshani. He was supposed to question her and dispose of her — and the yacht. But he's a ladies' man, and she is very attractive. It is possible that Gorshani is playing some game of his own. Perhaps she has turned his head with her womanly wiles, or perhaps he is merely amusing himself with her. The Sheik thinks he is probably holding her on the yacht. He does not think we will see her without him. But anything is possible."
"And if we find him, this Gorshani? Then what?"
"We are to hold them both and the Sheik will join us to question them."
The man at the tiller grinned. "Maybe we will question her a little bit before we call him, yes?"
"Do not be a fool. Gorshani is a killer. We don't know what the woman is, but if she's still alive, she may be more dangerous than Gorshani. We are to trust neither of them. Those are the Sheik's orders."
****
Hamid Lanjwani was shaken by the phone call. He had assumed that something had happened to Samir Gorshani, but he had not realized that the fool had been carrying the passports. Now, Lanjwani's ability to perform the service expected of him was in jeopardy.
Further, the woman — she had to be Chirac — had connected him to Berger. Her demand for him to produce Berger was a problem: she must have figured out that he had a hand in Watson's death. He paid the police to look the other way when it came to his smuggling, but he knew they would be unlikely to shelter a murderer. The fact that he had not personally inflicted the fatal wound would be irrelevant.
Then the matter of the passports registered with him. At first, her possession of the documents had irritated him because it meant he couldn't send his six guests on their way to attack the Great Satan. But what would happen if the authorities learned about the passports chilled him to the core of his being.
The police on his payroll overlooked his trade in human flesh. After all, selling young women into prostitution was a time-honored trade. If they knew that he was now trafficking in young men, especially foreign young men, they probably wouldn't care. He had explored the possibility with his working contact in the police hierarchy, and the man had agreed that the same fee per head should apply, regardless of gender. He had, however, cautioned Lanjwani that the men must be kept out of sight and must not be allowed to 'ply their trade,' as he had put it, on the island of St. Lucia.
He knew his police contact thought less of him for trading in "queers," as the man had called them. The locals were conservative when it came to their views on sex. Still, the men were foreign, and they were merely passing through St. Lucia. The authorities wouldn't judge him too harshly for trafficking in male flesh, as long as they were paid.
The passports, however, were a different matter. If Chirac exposed them, there would be questions, and if the documents themselves were subjected to scrutiny by outside officials, the western paranoia about radical Islam could bring them all down. The police would know that the young men he was smuggling were something other than "queers." Reluctant though he was to admit his mistakes, he must warn the others and enlist their help.
He picked up his cellphone and entered a
number from memory, one that he would never trust to the phone's internal directory. When the call went to voicemail, he pressed "1" and disconnected. He checked the time; he had five minutes before they would next check the voicemail drop.
Unlocking the top center drawer of his desk, he put his cellphone there and picked up the encrypted satellite phone. He locked the drawer and went out the back door, climbing the outside staircase to the second floor, where he unlocked a steel door that opened into a janitor's closet. He locked the door behind him and mounted the ladder that led to a small, square hatch that provided roof access.
Once he was on the roof, he took the satellite phone from his pocket and powered it on, watching the clock on the screen as the phone searched for a satellite signal. When the phone came to life, he had 30 seconds to spare. He watched the display count down, working up the courage to face their outrage. A few seconds later, the phone vibrated in his hand. He pressed the 'accept' button and prayed to Allah.
Chapter 16
"Do you have an appointment, detective?" Selwyn Graves asked, the contempt in his voice matched by the curl of his upper lip.
"I'm sure he'll want to see me."
"I'm not," Graves said. "What's this about?"
"That's between me and Barron."
"Mr. Barron, to you," Graves said, his mouth forming a smile that stopped below his eyes.
"Look, you can tell Mr. Barron I'm here, or I'll have you arrested for interfering with an investigation."
"Ooh, a threat!" Graves grinned at Lucas.
The stalemate had been broken when the intercom line on Graves's desktop phone buzzed. Pressing the blinking button, he picked up the handset and turned away from Lucas.
"Yes, Mr. Barron?" Graves asked, and then was silent for a moment. "Of course, Mr. Barron," he said, hanging up the phone.
"Mr. Barron will see you now," Graves said, standing and turning to open the heavy door that was just to the right of his desk.
"Good morning, detective," Barron said, as Lucas strode into his office. "I apologize for Selwyn's behavior."
Lucas nodded slightly. A reflection in the large aquarium on the credenza behind Barron's desk caught his eye. The angle was such that he could see the monitor on Barron's desk, although its back was toward him. The image of the lobby where Graves had kept him waiting was clear; Barron had been watching the show. He'd meant for Lucas to see that Graves had been toying with him.
After a moment, Barron tapped a key on the computer keyboard and the screen went blank. "Have a seat, Detective Lucas. What brings you here?"
Lucas extracted his new notebook from his pocket and sat in the leather armchair across the desk from Theodore Barron. Fidgeting with his notebook, he considered how to answer. Barron had played with him; he had no doubt that his arrival had been announced in time for Barron to give Graves instructions. The message was subtle, but effective; Lucas might be a detective constable, but Barron was the one in control.
Lucas had three dead bodies that he suspected were a testament to Barron's power. Although he knew that his hands were tied because of the number of senior officials who were beholden to Barron, Lucas was compelled to put forth an effort, futile though it would be. "I need a little information on Brian Thompson, Dickie Jones, and Tommy Dennison."
Barron held his gaze for several seconds. "And you're asking me?"
"It's common knowledge that they work for you."
"They've done odd jobs for me on occasion; that's true. But I wouldn't say they work for me. They're more like independent contractors."
"When did you last see Tommy Dennison?"
"I don't remember; it's been a few days, I think. He comes into the club sometimes. Probably been here in the last week. Why? He done something wrong?"
"Possibly," Lucas said. "At least someone thought so. What about Thompson and Jones?"
"When did I last see them?"
"Right. That's the question. Do you remember?"
"No, I don't. I think they're still in the hospital."
"In the hospital?"
"Come on, detective, cut the crap. You know the three of them were doing a favor for you and a certain woman. I'm the one who should be asking you questions, after what happened."
"They were murdered yesterday," Lucas said. "All three of them. Where do you think I should start looking for the killer?"
"You're asking me?" Barron raised his eyebrows. He opened his desk drawer and took out a cigar, offering it to Lucas.
Lucas shook his head.
"You sure? It's Cuban; just came in by plane last night. Rolled on the thigh of a virgin in old Havana yesterday."
Lucas shook his head again. Barron passed the cigar under his nose, inhaling ostentatiously. He clipped the end off with a gold cigar cutter. Putting the cigar in his mouth, he struck an old-fashioned wooden match. Holding the match some distance from the tip and drawing the flame toward it by inhaling, he lit the cigar. He puffed it a few times, enveloping himself in a cloud of smoke, and then removed it from his mouth. Holding it 18 inches in front of his face, he rotated it in his fingers, studying the glowing ash and nodding.
"Why would I know? You should ask the woman," he said, still studying the ash on the cigar.
"Woman?" Lucas asked.
"Don't try to play me, Lucas. She killed Watkins, didn't she? Stands to reason she'd have killed the three men who were transporting her for you."
"I ... what are you — "
"We have some common interests here, Lucas. Don't you think it's best if we both just keep quiet? If she was good for one murder, why not three more?"
"But there's no plausible motive. Look at the timing; I — "
"Women are strange creatures, Lucas. Why they do what they do is beyond us. Those three are no great loss. They let one small woman get the best of them, just like Watson. I'd be looking for her, if I had your job. But be careful; she might be dangerous." He stared at Lucas for a moment and then picked up the phone. "Selwyn? Please show Detective Lucas out."
****
Holding the horn down, Lucas swerved to the right to miss the old man walking along the shoulder of the road. Lucas ran a hand over his face, took a deep breath, and shrugged his shoulders several times. The tension in his muscles matched his anger; he was still frustrated from this morning's encounter with Theodore Barron. He focused on calming himself, sobered by his near miss with the pedestrian. Then his cell phone rang. He thought about letting it go to voice mail, but he stole a glance at the caller i.d. screen. The hospital switchboard — he remembered that he had asked his sergeant to have hospital security call him.
"Detective Constable Lucas," he said, taking the call.
"Pete Wilson here, detective. I'm the security manager at the hospital. Your sergeant asked me to give you a call."
"Yes, thanks," Lucas said. "I was hoping that you could help me with some information about a man who was seen wearing hospital scrubs near where a body was found yesterday."
"The sergeant told me. Sorry to be slow getting back to you, but I had to track down who was working yesterday. This man, he was slight, medium height, dark skin. That right?"
"Yes. Could you check and see if anyone recognized him?"
"Already done. Several people saw somebody like that, but nobody recognized him. Problem is, we got a new bunch of them foreign medical students just come in, so everybody thought he was one of them, especially with the mask and gloves."
"Mask and gloves?"
"Yeah. Like for surgery. Tha's why nobody t'ink anyt'ing 'bout the blood."
"Blood?" Lucas asked.
"He was covered in blood — all over the front of the scrubs. People thought he'd come from the operating room, on his way to the locker room."
"Locker room? Did he change clothes?"
"Uh-huh. A nurse saw him leaving in fresh scrubs."
"Any chance those bloody ones are still there?"
"We checked. No sign of them. They're disposable; probably been incinerat
ed by now, if he put them in the hazardous medical waste bag."
"Thanks," Lucas said. "Anything else?"
"No, but I'll call if anything turns up. Good luck catching him."
"Thanks." Lucas disconnected the call.
As he drove on to Marigot, he kept returning to the thought that the description of the man in the scrubs matched Selwyn Graves. Everyone had heard the rumors that Graves handled rough work for Theodore Barron. By Lucas's reckoning, Barron was capable of having his own men killed. The question of motive puzzled him, though. Barron was a businessman; he wouldn't have ordered the killings unless he had a good reason. His arrival in Marigot interrupted his thoughts.
He knocked on the front door of Mitchum's shack, surprised that it swung open so quickly. "Good afternoon, detective. Please don' be tellin' me nothin' bad 'bout Derek."
"No ma'am. I just have a few more questions."
"Okay, anyt'ing. Jus' please find my mon."
"I'm doing my best. Did he ever mention a man named Herbert Watson?" He watched her eyes, but there was no flicker of recognition as she shook her head, her brow wrinkled.
"Uh-uh. Never heard of no Herbert Watson. Who he?"
"A ladies' man, stayed up around Rodney Bay."
She continued to shake her head. "What he got to do wit' Derek?"
"That's what I need to know. They seem to be connected, somehow. If I can find the connection, it may help me find Derek."
She looked up at him, worry in her big, dark eyes as she chewed on her lower lip. She nodded tentatively, "Okay."
"I need to ask you a few questions that may be uncomfortable for you, but I need honest answers if you want me to find Derek."
She nodded. "I tell you whatever I know."
"Did you or Derek ever stray from your marriage?"
"Stray?" She frowned, her eyes locked on his.
"Did Derek ever mess round with other women, Mrs. Mitchum?"
She shook her head, a tear rolling down her cheek. "Lord, no. My Derek a deacon of the church. He don' have no interest in chasin' women. Anybody done tol' you different, they was bearin' false witness."
"And how about you, Mrs. Mitchum?"
She frowned, shaking her head. "How 'bout me what?"
Bluewater Jailbird: The Tenth Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Bluewater Thrillers Book 10) Page 12
