by J. P. Lane
“That’s nice of you to say,” Lauren replied with a deadpan face as she attacked her omelet. “This is good,” she remarked after the first mouthful. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a chef.”
“You’re not the only one full of surprises,” he retorted taking a bite.
“Oh? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“For one thing, your rather disconcerting passion for opera. But never mind that, you’re forgiven. I wish you could stay longer.”
Lauren stared at him in confusion. The weekend was almost at an end and he had yet to even attempt to hold her hand. She was sure something had gelled at the opera, but they had simply gone for dinner after, returned to the apartment, and then he had bid her a rather aloof goodnight. At one point, it had crossed her mind he might be gay, though somehow that didn’t fit.
“Think you could fly back Monday morning instead?” he asked to her further surprise.
“I can’t, Logan,” she stammered. “I have deadlines.”
“I understand,” he said unconvincingly.
“No, I really do understand,” he hastened to say on seeing her doubtful look. “But that leaves us with just a few hours. Is there anything you’d like to do today?”
“No, nothing really. I’m enjoying just hanging out here. Unless there’s something in particular you want to do.”
“No, there’s nothing in particular I want to do,” he replied with a peculiar glance. “We can just relax here. Order in Chinese or something if we get peckish.”
“Sounds like a plan,” she agreed, wondering what was really on his mind.
They had no sooner finished breakfast than he jumped up and began to clear the table. Lauren scurried behind him to the kitchen with the rest of the breakfast things. Puzzled as to what the rush was, she passed him the plates as, seemingly preoccupied with his thoughts, he stacked the dishwasher. “Lauren, I can only take being a gentleman so far,” he suddenly said.
“What do you mean?” she asked, his meaning not quite dawning.
“Do I have to spell it out? I’m a healthy, normal man and you’re a desirable woman.” He put the last plate in the dishwasher and turned around. “We made a deal. No casual trysts. But it’s been tough having you around.”
A flush covered Lauren’s face as she looked at him looking at her. She wanted him almost beyond endurance. Lying in his guestroom sleeplessly each night, she had fantasized about being in that bed down the hall that seemed too large for one person; making love, waking up with him in the morning and making love again. Now she could see her desire for him reflected in his eyes and the little restraint that was left gave way as he came closer.
She melted into his kiss, her knees weakening as the need for him surged through her, awakening every part of her. Then disconcerted by the intensity of her feelings, she pulled away. “Logan, we’re going too fast,” she murmured barely audibly.
He pulled her back to him, his voice husky with desire. “What do you mean we’re going too fast?” Without waiting for an answer, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her until she clung to him. He let her go.
“Do you really think this is too fast?” he asked, his hazel eyes on fire as they locked with hers. “Lauren,” he pleaded softly, “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but this isn’t exactly a fling, not for me anyway. I’ve realized a few things this weekend. One of them is I’ve been looking for you all my life.”
Tears came to her eyes as she realized it couldn’t work, no matter how much she wanted it. “Logan, it’s too complicated,” she explained weakly. “Our lives are different. We don’t even live in the same country. Besides, there are things…”
He tilted her face upward and looked at her. She seemed fragile, fearful of the thing he knew could come between them if they allowed it to. He held her close for a long time, understanding the reason for her reservation, yet unable to say so.
“Let’s not throw this away, Lauren,” he said at last. “Maybe there are things we’ll never be able to share, but that’s all right as long as there’s trust between us. As for not living in the same country, we can work that out. Just please give it a chance. I don’t want to lose you now I’ve found you.”
THIRTY-TWO
Lunch hour was in full swing at a restaurant near the capital building as the downtown professionals poured in, a few having to wait for tables that were rapidly filling. Already seated and served, Tony Martin played with the food on his plate thinking about the task at hand. Now and then he came back to the present and observed the other patrons with interest. From the snatches of conversation he could overhear, they appeared, by and large, to be professionals. Martin checked his watch. It was just short of one, the end of lunchtime for some, the middle for others. He assumed the majority of the lunch crowd would be back in their offices by two. He would wait and see how busy the streets were at that time. He made a mental note to ask Smith if the session of the Legislature was likely to have media coverage.
The temperature had peaked by the time Martin finished lunch and headed towards the capital building. His shirt was already clinging to his back from the quarter-mile walk when he arrived at the square where the old Colonial building with its red brick façade had stood for more than two hundred years. Martin paused at the bottom of the steps leading up to the arched entrance, noting the two men standing smartly on either side. They were meticulously uniformed in the colors of the island’s police force. Martin climbed the steps and introduced himself. He explained his reason for wanting to see the inside of the building. He was a university professor writing a book. His specialty was old Colonial architecture. Martin repressed a smirk as he spun his yarn. He had gone to great lengths to dress the part – flop hat, dark glasses – Indiana Jones right down to the khakis. Enough of his face was hidden to make it unidentifiable, should the men happen to remember his visit.
As Smith had said, getting into the capital building when no legislative sessions were running was no major feat. The policemen were more than happy to oblige him with a look around. Led by one, Martin stepped into the subdued lighting of the main assembly hall where members of the island’s Senate and House of Representatives were soon to meet. Despite the lack of air conditioning and the now stilled ceiling fans, it was considerably cooler than outside. Martin looked around. It was a stately old building, and beautifully preserved. At the end of a carpeted aisle running the length of the hall was the Speaker’s podium. Behind the podium hung a gallery of portraits. The illustrious assembly of faces staring back at Martin included the governor of the island, the head of state and former heads of state. A u-shaped railing of highly polished dark mahogany framed a balcony overlooking the hall. “What’s upstairs?” Martin asked looking upward.
“Nothing but rooms that used to be offices in the old days,” the policeman explained.
“So there’s never anyone here except when the Houses are in session?”
“No, sir. Only security.”
Martin asked permission to go upstairs and take a look.
His footsteps echoed throughout the building as Martin climbed the old wood stairs and walked the length of the balcony to the area directly above the Speaker’s podium. From where he stood, he faced the main entrance through which the Prime Minister would arrive. It seemed like a perfect shot, but on closer observation, Martin knew it was impossible. He would be using a silencer, but the second Freeman fell, the entire assembly would look around, then upwards. Martin viewed the closed doors on either side of the balcony. They held the possibility of a hiding place within. But, Martin decided, he would be spotted before he could run for the cover of any of the rooms.
He retraced his steps, stopping at the last door. “Is it okay if I take a look inside here?” he called down to the guard. The guard waved his consent and Martin entered the room. A musty smell bore evidence it was seldom, if ever, used. He noticed there was only one window. It faced east. The main entrance was on the north side of the building, so the window w
ould serve no purpose. Martin stroked his chin evaluating the obstacles. Disappointed, he went back down to the main hall, thanked the policeman, and left.
He was descending the steps to the square deep in thought when a building across the street caught his eye. He wondered why he had failed to notice it before. His eyes quickly swept the five-story edifice, stopping at a small window at the center of the fifth floor. Martin studied the window. Remarkably, it offered a direct shot – from a distance of approximately two hundred yards. Curiously his eyes traveled downward from the window to a brass plaque by the front door. He crossed the street for a closer look. The plaque read Foster & Foster, Attorneys at Law. Martin surmised getting into the building through the back entrance would probably be the safest bet, thought that could not be done during the day, he knew. Furtively he glanced behind him to see if the guards over at the capital building were observing him. Engrossed in conversation, they were oblivious as he continued down the street for a few paces and turned into an alley separating the law offices from the building on its left.
The alley was narrow and shadowed by the buildings on either side. He quickly took off down it, figuring it had to lead to the back entrance of the Foster & Foster building. It did, as he discovered on reaching the parking lot at the end. Martin’s eyes roved around the lot taking in the cars. There were around twenty altogether, five of them luxury cars, including a Jaguar, a Benz and a Lexus, all parked under the shade of a canopy. Another entrance to the lot led into a lane behind the building, which was barely wide enough for two cars to pass. Seeing no one in sight, Martin went to the far end of the lot and studied the back of the building. There was only one back entrance, and no access to the roof from the outside as far as he could tell. His eyes lingered on the door. There were two locks, dead bolts in his estimation. Cautiously, he made his way towards the door.
The locks were indeed dead bolts. Easy enough to pick, Martin thought with satisfaction. He turned to leave and froze.
The security guard eyed Martin quizzically. “Can I help you?” he asked.
Martin thought fast. With the speed of a chameleon, he adopted the posture of an absent-minded professor. “I seem to have come to the wrong building,” he flustered with a confused look. “It doesn’t look familiar. I thought…I thought…”
“What address are you looking for, sir? Maybe I can help you.”
“I can’t remember the name now,” Martin said hurriedly fumbling in his shirt pockets. “I left the business card with the name in the car. I’ll have to go get it, but thanks for your help anyway.” Without waiting for a response, Martin beat a hasty retreat, leaving the guard staring after him.
It was just after 2:00 a.m. when Martin pulled into the lane behind the Foster & Foster building with his headlights extinguished. He parked a safe distance from the lot and made sure there was no one around. All was quiet. Silently, Martin closed the car door and proceeded stealthily toward the Foster & Foster parking lot, on the lookout for night security. He stood motionless as he reached the lot, ears alert for any sign of movement. Satisfied he was alone, he moved swiftly toward his goal, the back door. Martin slipped on his gloves. Deftly, he worked the first lock until it yielded. Then he went to work on the other until he felt it release. He glanced behind him, checking the parking lot one last time. As he stepped inside the building, the alarm began its warning beeps. Quickly switching on his flashlight, Martin furiously began unscrewing the alarm casing. The incessant beeping of the alarm persisted, signaling time was running out at a second a beep. Martin removed the alarm casing and put it aside. He examined the wiring, his breath ragged from the intensity of his concentration. Beads of sweat started forming on his forehead. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand while he quickly pulled another screwdriver from his pocket. Now working against time, Martin moved faster, deafening his ears to the maddening beeps. Just a few seconds more, he breathed. He gave the screwdriver a final turn and there was deafening silence. Martin slumped against the wall and took a deep breath.
He turned his flashlight off and made his way slowly towards a pool of light spilling through an open door ahead of him. Still listening for the slightest sound, he continued down the passage towards the light. He reached the end and peered into the room. It seemed to be the front foyer, except it was bare of furnishings, the only decoration, old photographs wallpapering the walls. Opposite the front door was an elevator. Martin perused the room. There had to be an emergency staircase somewhere. Finding no sign of one, he returned to the passage. He found what he was looking for after a few paces.
Inside the stairwell, it was pitch black. Martin switched on his flashlight and started climbing, not stopping until he reached the fourth floor. He opened the stairwell door and entered a reception area. The lights were on. Martin took stock: a desk with a computer, a vase of flowers. Facing the desk, plush seating arranged around a coffee table with magazines. Nice art hanging on the walls. There were two closed doors behind the reception desk. Martin walked over to the one on the left and opened it: floor to ceiling bookshelves stacked with law books, a leather chair behind the desk; two in front of it. A window looking like it might face the capital building. He closed the door behind him and went to investigate the other office. It was a clone of the first, just different colors and slightly differently configured furniture. Seeing little else except a restroom serving the two offices, he went back to the stairs and continued his climb to the fifth floor.
Offices were eerily quiet in the night Martin observed as he walked down the deserted corridor painted in generic white. You could have heard a paperclip drop in the silence. He peered into a small employee dining room with a kitchenette at the back. It was of no use. It had no windows. Martin moved on to the next room. The door was closed. He opened it. It was another restroom. Martin halted, trying to get his bearings. It hit him any room facing the capital building would have to be on the opposite side. Directly in front of him was another closed door, most likely another rest room. Thinking about it, he was pretty sure this was the room with the window he had spotted from the street. He went over to it. The door was locked.
Martin continued down the corridor checking the remaining rooms on the chance there might be an empty one with a window facing the street. The first room he came to housed two large copiers and a fax. Stationery boxes were stacked on metal shelves, wastebaskets spilling over. The next room was nothing but wall-to-wall file cabinets on every side. Martin moved on until he reached the end of the hall. That was it. There was little hope of using any of the rooms on this floor. There would be people occupying them, or coming and going, during office hours. He retraced his steps searching the ceiling for any sign of access to the roof. There was none. Finally he returned to the locked door and gazed at it contemplatively. He found it strange that the room was locked. There had been no other inaccessible room on the fifth floor. Martin decided to give the lock another try. He pulled his tool from his pocket and got to work again. A few futile minutes went by before Martin began cursing under his breath. The damn thing wouldn’t budge. What now, he asked himself. He stared at the lock in puzzlement. It was the first that had ever got the better of him. He decided no matter what, he’d have to get the uncooperative thing to yield.
THIRTY-THREE
It was a strong hunch that led Detective Doran back to South Lagoon Marina that day. The employees of the marina had been questioned on more than one occasion after the crime, so it was on pure instinct that Doran made the two-hour drive from the capital to the south coast again.
When the police had previously questioned everyone who had been at the marina the morning the McGuire boat was last seen, nobody had come up with anything that provided the slightest clue as to how the sports fisher with five aboard may have run into trouble. According to all reports, everything had seemed perfectly normal that day. Anne McGuire had ordered sandwiches and snacks for the boating party and stocked up on beer and soft drinks while her husband fuelled the boat.
They were going to Fisherman’s Key for the day, Anne McGuire had said. Adrienne had come to use the restroom before boarding the boat. Ian Ferguson had been seen talking with Ray McGuire while McGuire got the boat fuelled. The two had boarded together before the boat took off. That’s as much as anybody could remember.
Doran arrived at the marina and walked to the fuel pumps at the end of the dock. Shading his eyes from the glare, he squinted in the direction of the Key. It was a peaceful scene. Yet five people had been murdered out on those waters ruffled now only by whitecaps taking their sweet time to get to shore. Doran thought about the interrogation, which had taken place the day before. Jackson, the self-confessed perpetrator, had denied telling anyone anything. He had punctuated his defense of himself with a mouthful of obscenities that had only served to enrage the Chief Inspector. But they’d had little choice but to let Jackson go. The evidence was only hearsay.
Doran turned on his heels and walked back down the dock to the marina. It was long after lunchtime, but there were a few staff still in the restaurant. He found a man mopping the floor and a woman wiping the bar counter. There was laughter coming from the kitchen.
Doran nodded a hello to the man and went directly to the bar. He introduced himself. The woman was more than happy to talk about that day. Everybody was still talking about it, she told Doran as she offered him a beer on the house. But as she recounted the morning of the murders, the story remained the same. The McGuires and their friends were going out to Fisherman’s Key is all anyone knew. Nobody had noticed anything out of the ordinary.
“Tings get suh bad a man can’t even guh fishing widout somebody shoot im,” the man commented as he put down his mop and came over to the bar.
