by J. P. Lane
“What makes you say they were going fishing?” Doran asked.
“Calvin guh wit dem,” the man shrugged.
“You’re telling me there was someone else on the boat?” Doran said skeptically.
Mi know wha mi talk bout,” the man insisted. “Calvin deh pon di boat. Mi did see im on the boat when dem did tek off.”
“Are you sure?” Doran asked.
“Yes, mi sure im was pon di boat. Mi wouldn tell yuh dat if mi wasn sure.”
Doran remained skeptical. “What was Calvin doing on the boat?”
“Im is di boat boy whe Mr. McGuire tek wit im when dem going after marlin. Im always wit dem during di tournaments dem. Mr. McGuire seh Calvin is im lucky charm. Is not luck. Calvin im young, but im know bout marlin. Dem man in a dem big boat don’t know nuttin bout marlin fishing. Dem jus a play.”
Doran was now beginning to wonder if there was any truth to what the man was telling him. He also realized if the man’s claim was true, the boy was likely a witness to the murders.
“Where can I find Calvin?” he asked.
“Im live jus down di road on di beach. Guh to di fork and tek a lef turn. Is di second house by di beach. Yuh might catch im now if yuh hurry.”
With mounting excitement, Doran rushed to his jeep. There had been six people on the McGuire boat, not five! He tore down the coast road and came to a screeching stop in front of a windowless fisherman’s shack, its slatted wood walls bleached by the salt and sun. He jumped out of the jeep and walked around to the side facing the beach. A young teenage boy poked his head out of the dark interior curiously.
“Yuh name Calvin?” Doran asked walking up to the door.
The boy eyed Doran suspiciously.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Is wha you want, sah?”
Doran flashed his badge. “My name is Detective Doran. I’m with the C.I.D. I just want to find out if you know something.”
Calvin immediately became guarded. “Wha yuh wan know, sah?”
“I was wondering if you know anything about what happened with the McGuire boat,” Doran said casually. “Did you see anything suspicious that day?”
“Mi don’t know nuttin bout no boat,” Calvin replied averting his eyes.
Doran took a deep breath. He didn’t want to come down too hard on the boy, but he had to find a way to get him to talk.
“Can we sit down and talk?” Doran asked, indicating a nearby bench that had seen better days.
Calvin looked around nervously.
Doran sat and rested his elbows on his knees. He hung his head ponderously. “I don’t want to frighten you, but I have to tell you somebody at the marina saw you on the boat.”
“Is who tell yuh dat?” Calvin asked with open alarm.
Doran made as if the name was of no significance. “Look,” he explained, “We can’t catch the murderer if nobody wants to talk, my man. There’s a murderer running free out there because nobody will talk. You want that? You want whoever killed those people to murder somebody else?”
Calvin shifted on his feet uncomfortably.
“Okay,” Doran said standing to leave. “If you don’t want to talk, I can’t force you.” He started towards his jeep.
“It wasn’t jus one man who kill dem people,” he heard Calvin say in a low voice.
When the boy at last spoke, it was as if a floodgate had opened. He told Doran how the boat trip to Fisherman’s Key had started off for him with baiting the lines with lures. When he had finished with the lines, he went down to the head to use the bathroom. That’s when he heard the plane, he told Doran. He hadn’t been in the head but what seemed like a few seconds before the boat did a rapid about turn. It was such a sudden turn, he’d had to grab on to the wall to steady himself and not miss the toilet bowl. By the time he got out of the head, everybody was up on deck. Something told him to stay put.
“Someting did tell me to stay down dere an keep quiet, sah. When mi did look out and si di fast boat come up, mi realize mi was right.”
“What brought you to that conclusion?”
Calvin met Doran’s gaze somberly. “Mi did see dem tree man before. Mi hear bad tings bout dem. Mi father is a fisherman. Him know everyting ah g’wan. Everybody know wha dem man do. Dem run drugs.”
“What kind of boat were they in?” Doran asked, hardly able to contain his excitement.
“One a dem Cigarette boats, sah. Mi did see di boat when it come up alongside, but di man in a di boat never see mi. Even before mi did hear di first shot, mi run back in a di head an hide. Mi did feel it in mi bones someting bad was going happen.”
“So you were hiding in the head when they killed everybody?” Doran asked in amazement.
“Yes, sah. Dem never know mi in dere. Dem never look in a di head. But mi could hear everyting wha g’wan. When mi come out, di whole place full a blood. Everybody did dead.”
Doran said nothing for a minute or two. “How did you manage to get away?” he eventually asked.
“Dem tow Mr. McGuire boat. Mi sneak out a di head an crouch down watch dem. Dem was looking straight ahead at where dem was going. Mi jus jump off di back a di boat an swim fi mi life. Mi mus a did swim more dan one mile before one fisherman pick mi up.
That the boy had escaped was nothing short of a miracle. Doran wondered how many people might know he was on the boat. “Did you tell anyone else about this?” he asked.
“Only mi fadda. Im tell mi nuh fi say nuttin to nuhbody.”
“Has your father come in yet?”
“Yes, im come in bout ten dis morning. Im did tek some fish down a di shop guh sell.”
It was a long shot, but Doran nevertheless asked, “You think your father will talk to me?”
“I don’t know, sah. Im nuh talk to police. Di people dem fraid fi talk to police.”
Doran came to a quick decision. He would have to take the boy in. He couldn’t risk the only witness to the McGuire boat murders vanishing for fear of being seen talking to the police. “Calvin,” he said, “I’m going to have to take you in.” “Look,” he explained on seeing the panic in the boy’s eyes, “I’m not arresting you. There are some bad men out there. We’ll find you somewhere safe to stay. Get some clothes and let’s go find your father. I need to let him know you’re coming into town with me.”
The boy returned holding a plastic grocery bag with clothes in one hand and a brand new pair of sneakers in the other. “Let’s go,” Doran said patting him on the shoulder. “You’re doing a good thing, Calvin. Thanks.”
The minute they took off, Doran pulled his mobile from his pocket. “Put me on to Chief Inspector, please. It’s Doran. It’s urgent.”
Palmer took the call immediately.
“We have a witness, chief.”
“You have a what? What case are you talking about here?”
“The McGuire case, sir. We have a witness who was on the Bertram at the time the murders were committed. He can identify the men who did it. He can possibly also identify the boat they used. He’s a minor, so I’m trying to locate his father. After, I’m bringing the boy in. We should be back at headquarters within three hours.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Lauren could scarcely hide her exultation as she sat across Peter Landsdale’s desk from him. “Think this is the headline we’ve been waiting for,” she grinned gleefully. “They got their man – men to be precise. There were three of them. A guy named Emile Jackson and two others. The other two are claiming innocence, but three different types of bullets were found during the coroner’s examinations.” Lauren gave Peter a pointed look as she announced, “Are you ready for this? There were six people on that boat, not five. The sixth person witnessed the whole thing.”
“Somebody lived to tell the tale?” Peter asked astonished. “Who on earth was it?”
“The C.I.D. wouldn’t release the name. But the important thing is whoever it was identified Jackson and company in a line-up. Jackson claims the whole thing
was staged by the C.I.D,” she added with amusement.
“I wonder why they won’t release the name,” Peter thought out loud.
“My guess is Palmer is keeping the witness’ identification under wraps intentionally,” Lauren surmised. “But the Public Prosecutor can’t just pull them out of the bag at the trial. The defense has got to know who it is. I tried calling Jackson’s attorney, but he wouldn’t take my call. And my source at the C.I.D. is keeping mum on this one. Anyway, not having a name doesn’t take away from the story much. We still have the names of the suspects.” She stopped for breath at last. “What’s my budget on this one?”
“We’ll see when you get the story to me,” Peter told her with a hint of a smile. “Get Art on it now though. See if they can dig up everything they can get their hands on. So far we’ve only run that picture of the McGuires on their boat during a marlin tournament. It’s getting old. We need art for the marina and Fisherman’s Key, and Adrienne Cooper and company. Pity about the witness. That the person escaped at all is a story in itself.”
“Yup,” Lauren concurred. “They say after the murders, he jumped off the stern and swam a mile before a fisherman picked him up.”
Peter’s eyes widened. “Where was he hiding the whole time?”
“In the head of all places.”
“Lucky for him one of those bastards didn’t need to take a leak,” Peter grunted.
Lauren stopped by Art on her way back to her desk to see if they could get something together in time for the four o’ clock newsroom meeting. The story would be going to press by ten, so there wasn’t much time. She hurried back to her office and sat gathering her thoughts. The witness was male, that much had been divulged by the C.I.D. She deduced he wasn’t among the friends who had gone out on the McGuire boat that day. Everybody had been accounted for. He had to have been someone working on the boat; someone nobody would have expected to be on it. Lauren wondered if a trip out to the marina might yield further information, but would publishing the witness’ name be an obstruction to justice? She shrugged. In this case, that was very likely, so it was better left alone. The whole thing would come to light eventually. She was just about to start on her story, when Logan crossed her mind. She was sure he would get a kick out of hearing of the new developments. She grabbed a half full cup of coffee that had already gone cold and dialed. His private line began to ring.
“Anything new on the McGuire case?” she asked as he picked up.
Logan laughed. “Why? Is there something new?”
“This is strictly off the record, okay?”
He put down the analysis he had been looking over and eased back in his chair. “Strictly off the record, Miss Anderson,” he smiled.
“There was a sixth person on the boat.”
She could hear the surprise in his voice as he asked, “There was someone else on that boat? Who?”
“The C.I.D. won’t release his name, but he’s a surprise witness.”
“Well I’ll be darned. So, what have you been up to?”
Lauren felt as if a train that had been running smoothly along had suddenly become derailed. She had chosen to give him the benefit of the doubt, but she had been right all along. He wasn’t in the slightest bit interested in the McGuire case. All those questions, all that pretense of interest had been only a game. Where did his game playing begin and where did it end was the question. Was the invitation to New York also simply a matter of sport?
“I wish I could see you,” he said cutting into her thoughts.
There was a sarcastic edge to her voice as she replied, “Really? Then why don’t you take the time to come and visit me?”
“I wish I could, but I’m off to London tomorrow. I was going to call later and tell you, but you beat me to it.”
Lauren’s stomach twisted into a knot. “What takes you to London?” she forced herself to ask.
“Board of Directors meeting, plus some other business I need to take care of.”
There was a weighted silence before Lauren asked, “How long will you be away?”
“Only for a couple days. I’ll call you from there.”
Lauren put the phone down and sat gazing at it blankly. She tried to erase the picture rushing into her mind, but it would not let her out of its grip. The tousled dark hair, the amber eyes, the danger lurking beneath the handsome exterior. Once again she wondered what his connection was to Logan. An involuntary shiver ran down her spine.
Not far from the Island Daily News offices, Robert Palmer paced the grey-painted cement floor of a room bare of anything except a Formica table and four rusting metal chairs placed around it. The stark glare of fluorescent lighting gave the small windowless interrogation room the appearance of a prison cell. An armed police officer stood on guard outside the door as a handcuffed Emile Jackson sat staring at the Chief Inspector with a surly smile. There was not a hint of remorse on his suntanned face. Palmer fought the urge to beat the crap out of him.
“I’m going to ask you for the last time, where was that seaplane coming from?” Palmer growled.
Jackson shrugged insolently. “You say there was a seaplane, so you tell me. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Palmer regarded Jackson with steely eyes, “Jackson, here’s something to wipe that stupid smile off your face. I’m throwing everything in the book at you – narcotics trading and five counts of homicide. You’ll be begging for the death sentence, my friend, because if a jury doesn’t do you that great favor, you’ll be rotting in jail for the rest of your sorry life.” With that, Palmer stormed off to see how Doran was making out.
Doran glanced at the chief fleetingly as Palmer entered the sweltering room. “Let me put it this way,” Doran told the suspect, “If you cooperate you might get off with accessory to murder. That’s a lot better than hanging, friend. Hanging is no fun. Ever seen a man hang?” Doran placed his hands together like a preacher and painted the graphic picture with a twisted smile. “If you haven’t, I can tell you what it’s like. Your neck snaps and you crap the shit out of yourself. That’s the fun part. Before that you dangle at the end of a rope gasping for breath until you turn blue.” He looked at the man. His hair was as wet as if he’d just got out of the shower. “I’m going to get some water,” Doran said, “I’ll be right back. In the meantime, maybe thirst will force you change your mind and talk.”
Doran returned with a glass of iced water. He placed it on the table between himself and the suspect. “Thirsty?” he asked sitting.
The man quickly averted his eyes from the glass of water.
“Dying of thirst is almost as pleasant as hanging,” Doran taunted as he took a pointed sip from the glass.
Still the man remained silent.
Doran pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. It was as hot as hell. He took another sip of water. The man stared at the glass thirstily then stopped at Doran’s scrutiny.
Palmer spoke at last. “I have enough detectives to keep you company here in this heat for as long as it takes for you to tell us what we want to know. Who are you protecting anyway? Are they paying your bail?”
The man started to say something then stopped himself.
Palmer cracked his knuckles, slowly, one by one as he eyed the suspect. He knew the man was reaching the end of his endurance. “Tell you what,” he said calmly, “It appears you don’t mind the heat, so we’ll just go outside and cool off while you enjoy your sauna.” Followed by Doran, he got up and went to the door.
“No, no, wait! I’ll tell you what you want to know!” the man cried in desperation.
After four long hours of interrogation, the man who took Adrienne Cooper’s life broke. His voice was little more than a croak as he confessed to what had happened. The seaplane had radioed to confirm the pick-up had been made. It was headed back to Fisherman’s Key when the pilot spotted the McGuire boat coming towards the Key. The pilot warned them a boat was approaching. Jackson had been in two minds about what to do
. They kept an eye on the boat until it became obvious it was the Key it was headed for. Then Jackson made the decision.
“Where did the seaplane make the pick-up?” Palmer asked.
“A ship not too far out.”
“You know anything about the ship?”
The man hesitated. Doran took another deliberate sip of water.
“Yes. I’ve seen the ship, once,” the man admitted hurriedly. “A beaten up old freighter that looked like it could sink any minute. It was carrying a shipment of coke out of Colombia. I don’t know how Jackson found out. What I mean is, I don’t know how the connection was made with whoever was running the ship.”
“Did you happen to notice the name of the ship?” Palmer asked with a casualness that belied his interest.
“I think the name was the Marianna or some Spanish name like that.”
THIRTY-FIVE
An Immigration officer looked up from a passport with minimum interest in the man standing in front of him and asked as a matter of course, “What’s the nature of your visit?”
“Business,” the impeccably dressed man answered crisply.
“And where will you be staying?”
“The Park Plaza City Centre,” the man again complied, slightly irritated by what he deemed to be redundant questions. He had completed and signed the Immigration and Customs form. Patiently, the amber eyes watched unperturbed as the government official took his time browsing through the passport. It was a masterpiece of forgery, complete with documentation of visits to other Caribbean islands and the United States. Even an expert eye would not have been able to tell the U.K. passport was not authentic. The Immigration officer finally looked up, his monotone accompanied by the finality of the island’s stamp of entry. “Have a pleasant stay,” he said with a facial expression as bland as his voice.
Pavel Popescu, traveling under the name of Philip Duncan for purposes of his business on the island, stepped out of the airport terminal into brilliant mid-afternoon sunshine and unaccustomed warmth hitting him in the face. He immediately donned his sunglasses and looked around. There was a sizeable crowd waiting for passengers, among them, taxi drivers vying with each other for his business. In a matter of a minute, Pavel was following one of the hustlers to a cab parked at the curb.
